Chapter Fourteen
Cockerill was looking over the layout for the afternoon edition when Nellie walked in.
“Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Bly,” he said without looking up. “I trust that all went well with your personal business at home?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She stood there waiting while he continued to read. Things were still cool between them since he had declined to publish the story about DeKay and Barker.
“Do you need something?” he asked.
“I have something for you.”
He looked up and saw her holding an envelope.
“Set it down, if you would. I’ll have a look later on.”
“I think you might want to see it now.”
He caught the imperative in her voice and began reading the letter. It did not take him long to grasp its import.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
“From Henry Hilton.”
“How did you come to see Henry Hilton?!”
“I went to his office and asked to see him, and he agreed.”
Cockerill was not easily taken by surprise. “Why did you want to see Henry Hilton?”
“I had information that he may have been involved in Miss Lazarus’s death.”
Cockerill knew full well Hilton’s attitude toward the press, especially the World. “What exactly did you say to Henry Hilton that he agreed to see you?”
“I told his secretary that I wanted to write a story on the gardens at Woodlawn Park, and Hilton invited me up the next day.”
He grunted in admiration. “And the letter?”
“His condition for talking to me.”
“Well, I need to learn more. This could affect the entire election—”
“I suggest you check with the British Ambassador. They can most likely attest to its authenticity.”
She turned to walk away. Her utter lack of interest perplexed him. “Miss Bly. Don’t you realize what you have here?”
“I do.”
She walked away, leaving him shaking his head.
Ingram and Nellie avoided meeting in his office whenever possible. Although the setting was comfortable and intimate, Mrs. Fairley, the receptionist, could make trouble if her suspicions were aroused. The Harlem room where Nellie stayed with her mother was out of the question for a variety of reasons, including a rule prohibiting gentlemen callers from setting foot in any of the sleeping rooms. Many unmarried couples were in a similar predicament, of course, and the free market system had come up with its natural solution. On Forty-Fourth Street in Manhattan, between Broadway and Sixth Avenue, hotels sprang up that rented rooms by the hour. Unlike the seedy rooms for streetwalkers and their johns on Canal Street, the inns on Forty-Fourth Street catered to a decidedly upscale clientele. A man or woman would arrive separately, be shown discreetly to their rooms, then depart by separate entrances. Nellie and Ingram had a particular hotel, The Hudson, that they visited at least once a week, usually on Thursdays around four, after Ingram had finished seeing patients. They became acquainted with the desk clerk, and Thursday afternoons he always set aside the same room, with flowers freshly cut that morning.
They hadn’t been together since Nellie left for the trial outside of Pittsburg. She had missed him terribly and wished for his companionship and to make love and lie nestled in his arms. She was so eager to see him, she arrived fifteen minutes early. She paced the room, straightened the flowers, undid the bed, and checked herself in the mirror. She decided to remove her underskirts so they could begin making love more quickly. She considered undressing altogether to be lying in bed under the blanket when he walked in. That would definitely surprise him, but Ingram was too earnest for that, she thought, at least now. She would make him playful soon enough.
A key slipped into the lock, the door opened, and Ingram walked in. She rushed to him and practically jumped into his arms. He held her tight, both of them too happy even to speak. It felt wonderful to embrace him, even more than she had imagined.
“I missed you so much,” whispered Nellie. She surprised herself at her boldness.
She was so happy to be with him. He sensed her trust, her exquisite vulnerability, and touched her head gently, kissed her hair. She could feel his love. His breathing was even faster than usual. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“So many times I wanted to ride the train to see you,” he said.
“I’m glad you were spared my humiliation.”
“I wish I had been there to comfort you.” She felt such desire for him. She could feel dampness between her legs. She took his hand to lead him over to the bed.
“I have some news for you,” he said.
She stopped and looked at him. He had a boyish eagerness to share a secret. “I cabled Miss Lazarus’s doctors in London.”
She did not expect that. The transatlantic cable had only recently reached the point where an office could transmit and receive 120 words per minute, at fifty cents a word.
“It’s so expensive.”
“I wanted to know the answer myself.”
“What did you learn?”
“Miss Lazarus stopped receiving arsenic treatments six months before she returned to the United States.”
“Six months?! So any arsenic in her system came solely after her return.”
“Yes.”
Now Nellie absolutely had to obtain an item Emma had worn after returning. That would make it all the easier to prove that her death was a murder.
“Thank you for doing that.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“In that case I am curious to see what you will call this.” She began unbuttoning his shirt and stroking his chest with her fingers. She wanted him so badly, and not only sexually. She wanted to feel his soul against her.
“I received another cable from Europe.”
He said it haltingly. Something was wrong.
“An invitation from Emil Kraepelin, to study at his hospital in Germany.”
Kraepelin was the leading psychiatrist in Europe and a pioneer in the new field of mental illness. Ingram had corresponded with him regularly, sharing observations from Bellevue and his own practice. Kraepelin, like Ingram, classified his patients by symptoms and had begun developing different approaches for each disorder, and he had met with meaningful success.
All Nellie’s joy and anticipation of seeing him suddenly dissipated. “That is a marvelous opportunity,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You must accept it.” He nodded.
“How long will you be gone?” She dreaded the answer.
“A year.”
The words sliced through her heart to the core. Nellie needed Ingram, more than she had ever needed anyone. She had only begun to acknowledge that in the past few weeks. Life had been so lonely, as long as she could remember. One skirmish after another, one enemy after another, one trial after another, always leaving her alone and mistrustful. Ever since her father died and life became so difficult, she wanted to be close with a man, but they had always let her down, starting with Thaddeus Jackson, continuing with teachers and policemen and employers and union organizers and the publisher at the Dispatch. The men either wanted her for sex or menial tasks; no one had ever really cared about her as a person or given her any credit. No one until Ingram.
“When will you go?” she asked.
“Within the month. As soon as I can find a suitable replacement at the hospital.”
A month?! She needed him longer than that. She needed him for the story—to analyze the clothes Emma wore, the clothes DeKay wore, the items DeKay touched. More than that, she needed him to talk with, to bolster her courage when she felt overwhelmed and alone.
He took her hand in both of his. “Come with me,” he said solemnly.
“I’m working on this story.”
“Join me when it’s finished. We can marry over there.”
She gasped. Other women called attention to the inherent unfairness of marriage, but Nellie wasn’t like them. She was an Irish girl through and through, and part of her longed for a husband and a family and a home where you could tell stories at night and laugh with your children and make passionate love with your husband. Deep down, try as she might to give up that dream, she still clung to it. But this was not the way.
“I can’t.”
“Please, Nellie—”
“I am responsible for my mother. And my sisters. I need to keep working.”
“I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of your entire family, for the rest of your life.”
He meant it. She could see that. But her father had made the same promise to her mother, to take care of her and their children forever, and the moment he died, their lives had fallen apart. How could she explain to Ingram what it was like to be thrown out of your house as a child? She had vowed never to rely upon a father or husband for her well-being ever again. She had worked hard to get a job, a very good job, and she could not give that up. It had nothing to do with ambition or pride or independence of mind—she simply could not put herself in a position where she and her family were dependent on a husband for their survival.
“No.” She was adamant.
“Please, Nellie. Marry me.” He squeezed her hand tight. “Spend your life with me.”
She shook her head, an act of will to keep away the temptation.
“Will you at least wait for me?”
He was asking her to be like a wife waiting for her soldier husband to return from war or her fisherman husband to return from a long sailing trip, but she didn’t want to be like those women. She had gone without for long enough. She wanted Ingram in her life day in and day out.
“I don’t think so.”
He suspected as much. He knew the history and the fears. Still, he had hoped.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, no. I am very happy for you.”
“I will miss you terribly.”
She didn’t know what to say. She had pulled back from him. They were no longer touching. She began putting on her underskirts.
“Please understand—” He looked so wounded.
But she didn’t care. “I do understand.”
She dressed as fast as she could. Neither knew what to say. Finally she stood up, straightened her dress, and slipped on her coat.
“If you can locate any samples before I leave, I would be glad to take a look,” he said.
“Thank you. If it is not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.”
She walked to the door and stopped. “Congratulations again on your invitation,” she said.
His heart was breaking. “Please don’t rush off—”
She walked out and closed the door behind her. And burst into tears.