Cold Spring, New York
On a warm afternoon a few weeks later, well-dressed women outnumbered the few men, including GK and PT, mingling on my mother’s manicured lawn. Mother had never allowed widowhood to affect her station in life. Teas, garden parties, card games, all went on as usual, with or without a gentleman friend to accompany her. The sun, which would never have had the temerity to be absent from one of her events, shone high in a cloudless sky. Groundkeepers had set up one hundred small wooden chairs facing a makeshift stage.
From the window of my old upstairs bedroom, I spied Mother entering the back door. Her heels ticked across the oak floor from the hall to the formal dining room.
“Emily? Em-i-ly!”
I ignored her calls. Without my prior knowledge or consent, Mother had included a presentation by me in her event. She and Papa had become frequent correspondents and were likely colluding. He had asked her to spread the fund-raising word, and she was only too happy to volunteer me.
I had spent most of the morning writing my speech, and my mind weighed heavy with the dread of delivering it.
PT was so gifted at this. Indeed, his fame was much more widespread than I had known when we first met. Furthermore, he seemed to enjoy the attention of a crowd, lived for it in fact. Glancing out the window once more, I saw him holding court with the audience below. I could not make out his words, but his admirers stood in a semicircle around him, mouths agape in rapt attention.
I dawdled, sprawled across my old bed, flipping through an album of drawings and daguerreotypes. One was devoted to my mother’s grandchildren, blurry images of smiling babies in white bonnets. I gasped. There were none of Johnny; I had yet to send one.
Another yellowed album had twelve pages, one for each of the children Mother had borne. She had lost five to childhood infirmities before I came along. And then we lost Elizabeth.
GK was quite gifted at portraits, and a quick glance at the album might tell even a stranger the story—sturdy, well-fed children with a vague unease or unhappiness about them. After the accident, strict rules were enforced in our home, as Mother was determined that none of her surviving children would be taken from her.
Pa had been my hero; I eagerly awaited his footfalls upon our front steps each evening. He would twist my curls around his finger and say, “You have eyes the color of money,” eliciting a stern look from Mother and a laugh from the others. We would beg him to take us on a buggy ride or to dip a line in a nearby lake.
“Rowboats are no place for a child,” Mother would say, instead directing us to our books or a chore left undone.
No longer could we run barefoot through the lush green lawn, as Mother thought we might get hookworms, while attending birthday parties threatened typhoid and consumption. Swinging on vines was strictly out-of-bounds.
The sound of cheering below drew me back to the window. A clump of people gathered near the wellhead. “Ooh, aah,” they said in unison.
Long, giant bubbles floated above them, re-forming into great spheres that glistened in the sunshine. When the group parted, the source of the bubbles became apparent. PT dipped two sticks attached by loose strings into a bucket. He lifted the contraption out of the bucket and spread the dripping sticks in the breeze, creating the amazing bubbles. A tiny monkey in a red vest screeched and chased the bubbles or hid behind a guest in mock terror.
Mother’s calls echoed up the stairs, and I scowled at my speech notes scattered across the desk, butterflies flitting in my stomach. My impulse was to flee, but instead I found solace by turning another album page—GK’s drawing of me holding a long twig. That was the day, about a year after my sister’s accident, when the same impulse to flee nearly took my life.
My classmates and siblings had teased me about my speech, for I had difficulty pronouncing the s, z, and th sounds. This earned no sympathy from Mother, who made me stand in front of ever-larger groups, repeating the most difficult words.
“E-nun-ci-ate,” Mother said at the dinner table one day after I had stumbled through the prayer. My siblings, even my beloved father, were laughing at me. I could bear it no longer and ran out of the house and toward the dirt road. The woodland across the street was forbidden territory. Autumn had painted the trees with brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows. Soon, cold, clear nights would rob the forest, leaving the trees to face the winter stark and barren.
The Hudson River sparkled through the woods. I missed Elizabeth and longed to run down the hill to its banks to be closer to her. I wanted us to be together, to watch the steamboats ply the river’s great width. But the memory of the swift current and several lashings to my bottom enforced my boundaries.
I found a long stick and broke it over my knee to make a sharp point. Then I drew a spiral in the dirt road, bigger and bigger, making a game I had played with Elizabeth. Lost in my design, I didn’t hear a horse-drawn carriage until it was nearly upon me. I leapt out of the way barely in time to avoid the thundering hooves and carriage wheels. The shouts of the angry driver lingered as I stood in a cloud of dust.
* * *
The stairs squeaked as Mother ascended. She appeared in my doorframe, catching me in my chemise and petticoats, my dress tossed aside in the stifling room. I wasn’t about to put on a fussy dress and itchy crinolines before it was absolutely necessary.
“Emily! What on earth? We’re about to begin!”
“Why did I agree to this?” I muttered, mostly to myself. I had successfully avoided other speaking engagements, but it seemed my luck was running out.
“These are important people,” she reminded me as she replaced an errant hairpin in her tightly wound and graying bun.
“I’m sure. But I’m not the expert they want to hear from.”
“You learned plenty enough in Europe. And surely, you can explain the bridge’s importance to those who will benefit from it.”
“I’m so inept at public speaking, Mother. Can’t you make an excuse for me?”
“Fine. I’ll have GK do it. He’s sure to enchant the audience. Of course, I’d have to introduce him as Major Warren, an engineer with nothing to do with this bridge.” She wiped her reading spectacles with her handkerchief. “I’m sure he won’t be disappointed in you.”
“I’ll be down in a moment.” Effectively goaded, I dressed in a hurry, pulling off my petticoat and letting the crinoline caging stand alone, fashion conventions be darned.
Outside, I was pleased to spot Mother’s friend Eleanor.
“Emily, so good to see you. How is our little Johnny?”
“Growing, one and a half years old, and expecting to be treated like a king. The reign of terror begins.”
“Ah yes. God made toddlers adorable to make up for their swath of destruction. My goodness, we’ve hardly seen the little chap.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up, sensing judgment. I set it aside with a breezy “He’s in Trenton with his father at the moment. We didn’t think he would enjoy speeches.”
“Who does?” Eleanor glanced around to ensure we didn’t have an audience. Then she pulled out several small, thin slivers of iron. “I want you to try these—a new type of hairpin. You’re the perfect test subject.”
Her own hair hung in wisps gathered in a bun the size of a walnut. I could see why she needed my help.
The slivers, unlike regular hairpins, were doubled and connected at one end. She prized one open with her teeth and slid it into a lock of my hair. “I’m applying for a patent. What do you think?”
I rubbed a sore spot where she had raked the pin across my scalp. “It’s rather scratchy.”
Mother’s eldest friend, Henrietta VanDrie, joined us, a mass of gray hair piled precariously on top of her head, her purple dress buttoned halfway up her neck. Her rather loose tongue probably eliminated her as Eleanor’s “test subject.”
“How’s that Roebling clan?” she asked, her nasal accent belying her Brooklyn roots.
The arrival of Carrie Beebe spared me from recounting the antics of my large and complicated set of in-laws. Out of Carrie’s earshot, Henrietta referred to her as “the mouse” due to her soft speech, drab hair color, and habit of scurrying in, unnoticed.
Carrie passed around copies of her manuscript-in-progress, entitled Violets. “I’d love your opinions, ladies. You’re all in here somewhere.”
A few eyebrows raised. I politely took a copy and feigned interest in page fifty-seven. More than her story, I was interested in the creation of the manuscripts themselves. Carrie had procured a prototype of a typing machine and was happily punching out her stories on it, reporting any issues back to the inventors.
A male voice boomed. “My, what a delightful collection of young ladies.” The circle of women parted, giggling with hands over mouths, as P. T. Barnum joined us. He proceeded to delight them with card tricks until, catching my eye, he asked them to excuse the two of us.
“You’ve hardly said a word and ignored all my best tricks.”
“My apologies. I’m rather preoccupied.” I waved my notes, now droopy from the humidity and my moist gloves.
“Ah. Stage fright.”
“Please take your seats.” Mother herded everyone to rows of chairs. She stepped to the lectern in front of them, in full control as always. I fanned myself with my notes, my heart climbing into my throat.
“Ignore them.” PT touched my cheek. “Look at me.”
I did as he asked, his warm blue eyes showing a tenderness that allowed me to relax my shoulders from their rigid position.
“I will place myself in a middle seat. Seek me out. The audience will think you are addressing each one of them. Then, if you get stuck, make them all disappear.” He lifted my chin. “Speak as if I were the only one listening.”
After a few welcoming remarks, Mother said, “And so, it is with much pride that I introduce my daughter, Mrs. Washington Roebling.”
A smattering of applause greeted me as I made my way to the front.
Taking a deep breath, I peeked at the audience, who stared back at me expectantly. Sweat dampened my brow, and a rivulet ran down my backbone. My hands shook as I fumbled with my notes. Sweat blurred my vision; the crowd swirled in front of me as if I were underwater. The hushed murmur flowed like water through my ears with bits of conversation popping through.
I tried to regain my composure, closing my eyes and opening them to see GK in the front row, nodding encouragement.
Clutching the lectern with each hand, I began. “A bridge connecting New York and Brooklyn is a necessity for progress in our state and our country. When complete, it will be a monument to—”
Hecklers shouted objections and questions.
“How much of our taxpayer money is going for this?”
“Another of Boss Tweed’s scams.”
My vision narrowed, and I wiped my hands on my dress and fanned my face with my notes. My eyes darted around the audience, seeking PT. “In the interest of everyone’s time, please hold your questions until the end, and I promise to answer each one.”
I finished my speech, stronger, more confident under PT’s steady gaze. The audience clapped politely after I had conveyed my message, but whether it swayed anyone’s opinion was another kettle of fish.
My relief at finishing was short-lived as I remembered my promise to Papa. The thought of repeating this speech over and over made my stomach churn anew. My mind spun toward a means to rid myself of this obligation. Perhaps I could find refuge in motherhood. Or magic.