Part 6 (1/2)

”Is this Kelly likely to be less parsimonious with the rights to his kind of steelmaking?”

”Doesn't have 'em. Not anymore. Good people, the Kelly brothers, but foolish about business. Went bankrupt. Sold their patent to Bessemer. Who says he had anyways invented the same thing over across the ocean.” Tickle shrugged. ”Don't matter now. You want to know how to blow carbon out of pig iron using something that looks like this . . .” Tickle pulled another treasure out of the drawer of the desk, a drawing of a kind of furnace, an elongated oval on legs, ”you got to pay Bessemer.”

”Unless,” Josh said, ”you already know how to do it.”

Trickle smiled.

The appeal of embroidered roses outlined with faux pearls had faded. Fas.h.i.+on had changed, and the years on the Ladies' Mile had refined Mollie's taste. Something a bit simpler she thought. Depending for its charm on cut and fabric.

Given that she was no longer a working woman but once more living with Auntie Eileen, Mollie had plenty of time to consider the matter of her wedding dress. She was aided in those deliberations by her aunt and Rosie O'Toole, who came frequently to discuss the matter. It was Rosie who produced a copy of Harper's Bazaar for the first week in June. The magazine had three pages of ill.u.s.trations of the latest bridal fas.h.i.+ons from France. ”Something like this would be lovely on you.” Rosie pointed to a dress described as being ”. . . of fine white Swiss muslin, trimmed with pleated ruffles of the same, and folds and bows of white silk.”

Eileen particularly approved of the silk ribbons around the waist-Mollie's was barely seventeen inches when she was laced into a good tight corset-and of the frock's modest V-neck accented with a wide bertha collar. ”You're not going to bubble up over a plunging decolletage no matter how much push-up the corset applies,” she said. ”So this would definitely suit you.” Her niece's deficiencies of bosom had been one of Eileen's minor worries these many years.

”Worn with,” Mollie leaned over the copy of Harper's Bazaar-published every Sat.u.r.day, ten cents a copy or four dollars a year in advance-and read aloud, ”a long blond veil held in place with a wreath of orange blossoms, with long sprays falling over the back.”

”Mrs. Jackson can make that veil and headpiece for you in no time,” Rosie said. Mrs. Jackson was Macy's head milliner.

”Will Mollie need to visit the store?” Eileen asked. As she'd predicted, Mrs. Getch.e.l.l had fired Mollie the day after a sketch of her niece appeared in Frank Leslie's Ill.u.s.trated Newspaper, and Mollie was identified as having gone to the Tombs to help arrange the release of the notorious Mrs. Brannigan.

”That hardly matters, Auntie Eileen. I'm let go from my job, not banished from shopping at Macy's.”

”No one,” Rosie said, ”is banished from shopping at Macy's. The old man would be apoplectic if Getch.e.l.l suggested such a thing. But I shall make your wedding gown on my own time, Mollie darling. I'll copy this one exactly and start as soon as you get the material. No charge for my labor, of course.” Leaning over to pinch the younger woman's cheek. ”Made your first party dress when you were four. This one will be my present on the occasion of your marriage.”

”Very kind,” Eileen said. ”But don't go thinking Mollie will name her firstborn after you if it's a girl. The first daughter's going to be Eileen, isn't she?”

What if she was too old to get pregnant? Spinsters who somehow managed to find a husband late in life seldom became mothers.

”Late in life as in their forties,” Eileen said on the single occasion when she and her niece discussed the subject. ”Women marrying elderly widowers who want a housekeeper without having to pay a wage. Nothing to do with you, Mollie.”

”But you always said I'd be a spinster after twenty.”

”Seen as such. Not actually dried up and past your prime. For heaven's sake, Mollie. Use the brains G.o.d gave you. You're twenty-two. How many women stop having babies at that age? Most go on adding to their broods until they're over thirty. Otherwise Brannigan's might not have been such a success.” This last with a sigh for things that had been and were now lost.

A number of things, however, remained as once they were. Eileen, for example, still refused to say anything more about Teddy Paisley and his grudge. A spurned lover, Mollie thought. Probably someone she'd tossed aside to marry Brian Brannigan. Though Mr. Paisley had certainly taken it hard if he was seeking vengeance after all these years. As for Eileen's keeping her own counsel in the matter, that was less of a surprise than her continued refusal to have anything but open fires and to burn only the finest applewood. Mollie suggested it might be sensible to consider installing a coal furnace, which would prove cheaper in the long run. ”It could be put in over the summer when no heat's needed, Auntie Eileen. And centrally heating the whole house involves so much less effort and mess it's bound to pay for itself in no time. You won't need a maid living in. Just one to come and clean a few days a week perhaps. Hatty can see to things between times.”

”I can't abide heat from radiators. They dry out the air and that's bad for the complexion. I shall economize, of course. Just not in that way.”

Her aunt had negotiated a lower monthly payment to Tammany Hall; Mollie noted it when she did the books. And certainly the payments to the butcher and the grocer and such like were less with six fewer mouths to feed. But other than the fact that the clients were gone along with the wh.o.r.es, little changed in Eileen Brannigan's life. Tiffany's even delivered the sapphire bracelet she'd ordered on the fateful visit to the grand opening of their Union Square store. ”I've already paid for it,” Eileen said, waving away her niece's offer to take the piece back to the jeweler. ”And it's a lovely bracelet, don't you agree?”

”It's beautiful, Auntie Eileen. I just thought . . .”

”I know what you thought, dear child. But you needn't think it. Nor worry about the expense of your wedding. And don't look like that. I'm not considering a return to dipping. All those years, Mollie. All those remarkable men coming here over and over . . . I had no lack of investment advice, and I was not shy about taking it. Now, have you decided about where this marriage is to take place?”

It was a worrying question. Both the O'Hallorans and the Brannigans were Catholics, but neither family had ever taken the matter as seriously as some among the Irish. Mollie had inherited no religious fervor. Nonetheless, Josh suggested she might like to be married in St. Ann's Catholic Church over on Eighth Street. ”All the same to me,” he said, ”as long as you're my wife at the end of it.”

The pastor was not so sanguine. Mollie went to see him and produced her certificate of baptism, but it seemed there were more doc.u.ments required and she had none of them. Proof of First Holy Communion for one, and Confirmation for another. And a note from some religious authority attesting to her regular attendance at Holy Ma.s.s. ”And since you insist on marrying a non-Catholic,” the priest said, ”we can't of course allow the ceremony to take place in the church itself. Unless your husband-to-be would like to convert. Have you suggested that, Miss Brannigan?”

Mollie didn't mind the thought of catching up on the rituals she'd missed, but she refused to tell Josh he wasn't considered good enough as he was. So a Catholic church was apparently not an option.

Suns.h.i.+ne Hill, the remote home of Josh's parents, was. Carolina Turner made the suggestion when Josh brought Mollie to meet his parents. ”Nick and I were married in the rose garden on that bluff over there,” she said, pointing to a spot on a cliff overlooking the East River. ”If you and Josh would like to have your wedding in the same spot it would be our pleasure.”

Two days later Carolina took to her bed with what Dr. Turner p.r.o.nounced a weakness of the heart, something he explained that likely had been coming on for many years and had nothing to do with Josh's upcoming marriage. The notion of a wedding at Suns.h.i.+ne Hill, however, had to be dropped.

”There's always City Hall,” Josh said cheerfully. ”Or any Protestant church as takes your fancy.”

Mollie could not imagine arriving in City Hall wearing her lovely blush-pink, ruffled-and-bowed wedding dress, and her veil trimmed with orange blossoms. But she didn't think it likely any Protestant church would welcome Eileen Brannigan's now infamous niece as the bride, or Auntie Eileen herself as an honored guest.

”You're not allowing for the influence of my brother Zac,” Josh said. ”Would Grace Church over on Broadway do?”

Which is how it happened that on the third day of August in the year of Our Lord 1871, Mollie Brannigan became Mrs. Joshua Turner in perhaps the most fas.h.i.+onable Episcopalian church in New York.

They went directly from the ceremony and reception to what was to be their first home together, Zachary Devrey's s.p.a.cious, if no longer fas.h.i.+onable, brownstone on Grand Street. Zac had kept the house because it was easy walking distance to what everyone called the Devrey Building on Broadway and Ca.n.a.l, a marble palace celebrating the accomplishments of better than two centuries of the city's mightiest merchant fleet. These days, after the fearsome pounding American commercial s.h.i.+pping took in the war, Zac spent much time in England, seeking new alliances, and ways to win back lost business. He was off to Liverpool immediately after the wedding for what promised to be an extended stay. ”Have the house, Josh, for as long as you need. I travel so much the place gets little use. When I'm home I've everything I require at the Devrey Building. I won't be in the least inconvenienced.”

”Your brother never married?” Mollie asked as Josh closed the front door behind them.

”Never. There was talk of his having met a woman he cared for in England years ago, but she was promised to someone with a t.i.tle and a fortune, and he was apparently the underbidder.”

He was behind her, helping her out of the dove gray capelet that was part of the elegant traveling costume she'd changed into after the wedding. She felt a touch on her neck as he spoke and thought at first it was his hand, then became aware of the warmth of his breath and judged the gentle caress to have been delivered with his mouth. An opinion confirmed when he dropped his hands to her waist and turned her toward him and kissed her. He'd done so a number of times in the two months since they became betrothed. But not like this. This kiss was not in any way restrained. It asked something of her, rather than merely making a promise, like those before. Mollie sensed the question, but had no idea of the reply. She stiffened.

Josh lifted his head. ”Kiss me back,” he said. ”You did for a moment once a few weeks ago. In your aunt's sitting room,” he added.

She did not need reminding. She had on that occasion been nearly overcome with her feelings for him and gone limp in his arms. Only the sound of Auntie Eileen returning with the picture she'd gone to fetch-a sketch of Mollie at age five-had brought her back to her proper senses. But such senses were no longer appropriate; she was Mrs. Joshua Turner and her husband had rights and she duties. But it was not duty making bubbles seem to rise from her toes, as if she'd downed an entire bottle of champagne and it was fizzing inside her. Mollie turned her head to look over her shoulder. ”The servants . . .”

”There are none. Zac has a woman who comes to clean a few days each week, but she's not here now. You will have to see about a cook, but not tonight, my sweet Mollie. Tonight we're entirely alone. Please kiss me the way you did.”

She did not need to summon limpness in any conscious way. The bubbles bursting inside took care of it. And when she felt the demands his lips were making, hers opened almost of their own accord. ”So soft,” Josh said when he at last lifted his head. He traced her mouth with his finger, taking its measure as if it was a gateway to all the rest of her. Not just her body, Mollie realized. Her new husband was seeking that interior she had revealed to no one. Her secret self. It was a demand she had not expected, at least not consciously, and she trembled.

”Look,” he said, aware that for all the extraordinary truths of her background, and her being, at least in years, not a girl but a woman, he was making her afraid, which was certainly not his intention, ”as I said, there's no cook, but I believe some provisions have been laid in. Are you hungry? We can probably find some supper.”

”I'm not in the least hungry,” Mollie said. ”But if you are . . .”

Josh shook his head.

”Then,” she said, ”perhaps we should go upstairs. At least,” not able to prevent a fierce blush, ”I presume the-” She could not make herself say bedroom, though that was what she meant, and having just promised before G.o.d to love, honor, and obey Joshua Turner, he was her master and she belonged in his bedroom whenever he wished her to be there. But he hadn't made the suggestion, she had. She blushed a second time, more fiercely than before.

”Yes,” Josh said. ”We should go upstairs.”

She had become so accustomed to his injury she barely thought about it. Now she was acutely aware of the tapping of his wooden leg, and the asymmetric sound he made climbing behind her up the stairs to their bridal bed. Did he sleep with the peg? And how was it involved in this activity, which after all was neither pa.s.sive nor, she imagined, particularly restful?

Mollie paused at the top of the stairs, not knowing which way to go. ”Right,” Josh said, pa.s.sing in front of her to lead the way. ”In here.” He opened the door to a large bedchamber overlooking the street. The bed, a four-poster with tied-back, dark, and heavy velvet curtains, dominated the room. Her cases, she saw, had already been brought upstairs, delivered no doubt during the interval of what they called the wedding breakfast, though it had been an elaborate luncheon served at three in the afternoon in the elegant Metropolitan Hotel on Broadway and Prince Street. ”I'll leave you for a moment, shall I?” Josh said.

Mollie nodded and he started to go, then turned back to her. ”Look . . . It's been a mad sort of day for you. All the excitement . . . I can sleep down the hall if you like. We've plenty of time, Mollie.”

”No, Josh.” All those years and all those men who came to Brannigan's because their wives were unavailable. She meant to begin as she would go on, not establish a pattern of behavior that would drive him to seek elsewhere for what she did not give. ”Allow me fifteen minutes, then come to sleep in here.”

”Right,” he said and let himself out, closing the door softly behind him.