Chapter Twenty-Four
Although Congress was normally in session less than half the year, and the new president would not be sworn in until March 4, the Fiftieth Congress, dominated in both houses by Republicans, convened on January 4, 1889, with one item on the agenda: legislation to provide federal funding for an immigration inspection facility at Montauk Point, New York. President Cleveland, in office for another two months, vowed to veto any such bill that came before him, so after whisking through the House, the legislation sat at the Senate desk, until President-elect Harrison would take the oath of office. At that point, the Senate would act quickly, and the bill would be the first presented to the new president after inauguration. The legislation, though dormant for the moment, signaled what was coming and added to the psychological assault on the city.
Nellie continued to look furiously for some irrefutable link between Henry Hilton, Charles DeKay and Emma’s murder, but the going was slow, much too slow. The one ray of hope was the list from Sarah, Emma’s maidservant, which set out all the people who had visited Emma from the time she returned from Europe until her death three months later. It was surprisingly comprehensive, with detailed notations beside each name. Sarah had taken the assignment seriously and searched her memory for anything that might lead to Emma’s murderer.
There were thirty-five names on the list. Hopefully one of the visitors had noticed Charles DeKay give Emma the arsenic or even been an accomplice themselves. But which one?
And how would she go about asking? Nellie spent two afternoons painstakingly reviewing the list with the World’s archivist, a retiring man in his late sixties who seemingly knew everyone whose name had appeared in the New York papers over the past forty years. Nellie eliminated Emma’s immediate family—they were unlikely to cooperate—and anyone likely to protect Charles, such as Helena and Richard. That left about a dozen people. But one name in particular jumped out at her: Mary Hallock Foote.
Mary Hallock Foote was a well-known Western writer and illustrator and, according to the archivist, Helena Gilder’s college friend and apartment-mate. She had moved to Colorado and Idaho shortly after Helena and Richard had married and rarely made it back to New York. Yet she’d visited Emma twice in the three months before she died, and according to Sarah’s notes, “they engaged in a shouting match, and Mrs. Foote stormed out of the house.” Nellie certainly wanted to know more about that but didn’t know how to get in touch with Molly Foote, as she was known. Although Foote was published in the Century, it was unlikely Helena or Richard would cooperate, and she knew no one else in that world. Dale was in Boston for the holidays. He might have some ideas when he got back.
Other matters were occupying Nellie’s attention as well. Her mother’s senility was getting worse. At times Mary Jane didn’t recognize her or know where she was. The disorientation also made her tired, and Mary Jane would nap for several hours every afternoon and retire for bed right after supper. Nonetheless, the move to Ingram’s house had been a helpful tonic, and Nellie was grateful for that. Mary Jane was not as lonely during the day, with Ingram stopping in every so often to inquire about her health and taking walks on her own to the park in Washington Square, where she would enjoy the ducks and children for hours. Ingram arranged for a twelve-year-old boy, whose mother Ingram had cured of a nasty case of pneumonia, to keep an eye on her whenever she left the brownstone. In Harlem, the confinement had been almost unbearable and accelerated the senility: her days had been limited to sitting in the common room and staring out the window at the peddlers on the street below. And when she did venture out on her own, there was always the very real possibility she would not find her way home.
The three of them took meals together at morning and evening. Ingram, who employed a cook since he often worked late into the night, simply had her prepare for three rather than one. He was pleased to do it. This allowed him to see Nellie every day.
Mary Jane did not give much thought to her daughter’s relationship with Ingram. Nellie had told her mother that she wanted to live closer to the paper—the trip from Harlem to Newspaper Row was nearly an hour each way—and she had seen a lovely place in a home owned by a doctor she had met through her work. Mary Jane had balked, assuming that all New York doctors were like the pervert who had given Nellie a breast exam, but Nellie assuaged her concerns by telling her that the new doctor had very unpleasant things to say about that first doctor they had seen. Mary Jane found Ingram perfectly agreeable and consented to the move, especially when he had two large men help them transport their belongings and look after them. She also liked that those same two men took turns each evening standing outside the front door and making sure no one bothered them with loud noises or unwanted interruptions.
The dinners themselves were pleasant affairs for each of them. Dining with Mary Jane alone night after night had become extremely tedious for Nellie, and she welcomed Ingram’s conversation. Mary Jane had begun to find dinners with her daughter equally tedious, and she enjoyed conversing with a handsome young man who treated her with respect and interest. And Ingram was happy for some semblance of normal life in an eighty-hour workweek seeing patients, visiting the asylum, and conducting research. The fatigue that had hounded him all his life seemed to vanish, and he would refer to his meals with the two women as his prescription tonic.
They enjoyed a lovely Christmas dinner together, the finest Nellie had had since she was a child. It was a feast: Ingram’s cook prepared a roast, Nellie and Mary Jane made pudding and pies, and Ingram supplied three different kinds of wine. Mary Jane had held on to a lovely tablecloth ever since her husband died, and she brought it out for the occasion. They also exchanged gifts. Nellie presented Ingram with a leather-bound ledger for his research. He presented her with a virtually identical leather-bound journal for her notes. Both had to smile at the similarity of their thoughts. Maybe it was that, or it could have been the wine, but the curtain of formality seemed to drop, and they were suddenly back to their old ease and familiarity. Almost on cue, Mary Jane announced that she was tired and got up from the table. After Nellie put her mother to bed and returned for tea, she and Ingram sat in silence. The sexual desire was still there, more than ever, and it would be the easiest thing to slip into a bedroom and engage in prodigious lovemaking. Both of them thought often about that every time they were together. One glimpse of a hand or the nape of a neck would conjure up images of wonderful pleasures. But uncertainty about the future always hung over them, and both held back. It was at the Christmas dinner, over tea and dessert, with Mary Jane gone to sleep, when they finally broached the subject of their future once again.
“Have you heard from your colleague in Vienna?” asked Nellie.
“Yes. Regularly. We still correspond.”
“Was he upset with you for staying here?”
“He understood.”
“You no longer mention spending time in his clinic.”
“Other matters occupy me here.” The brevity of his answers only compelled her to learn more. She looked at him intently.
“You have to go, Ingram. You are exploring a new field with great discoveries to be made. You need to be with scientists doing similar research. I feel horribly remiss that you are not there already.”
“I would have worried myself sick had I left you here.”
“I understand. But when my story is completed, you must go. I insist.”
“And what of us?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Do you still wish me to come with you?’ she asked.
“I would marry you in an instant. You know that. But the decision is not mine alone. And I suspect the possibility will soon be out of the question.”
“Why so?”
“I see your excitement with your work. I also see the quality of your work. Mr. Pulitzer will dare not let you go abroad for a year. And you wouldn’t ask.”
“If I fail in this story, I fear Mr. Pulitzer will have nothing to do with me.”
“Mr. Pulitzer will hold on to you no matter what.”
“Not if I were married.” She blurted it out. She surprised herself. She hadn’t realized how much she had been thinking about this.
“He would find a way,” he said. “But marriage is not the issue. You need to be here. Your heart is with your work. It captures your imagination, and I will not deprive you of that. This is where you belong, not in Europe with me.”
The quickness of his breathing seemed to punctuate the finality of his conclusion.
“Then what do we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
Tears came to his eyes. She saw how much he loved her, and she was humbled.
Tears came to her eyes as well, that someone she loved and genuinely admired could love her so much and treat her so kindly.
He stared at her, saying nothing but his eyes pleading with her to come over to him. But she dared not do it. She knew what she would be giving up, as did he.
She stood up.
“Thank you for dinner.”
She hurried to her room while she still had the power to think straight, before she was overcome by passion and sadness.