23. A Dangerous Retrospection

“Every truth we see is ours to give the world, not to keep for ourselves alone.”

— Elizabeth Cady Stanton. “The Solitude of Self.”

My dear Watson,

You could already be a doting father, and I hope providence has gifted you this way. It would suit you, dear friend. I believe I have sufficiently kept my feelings apart, but it is unbearable to consider leaving the child tomorrow. I imagine I feel a little of what a proud parent does for his intelligent child: it has expanded me, taken me places I didn’t know existed and quite against my will. But isn’t that the way with children?

Much violin therapy will be needed back in our rooms at Baker Street. Your companionship will be of considerable benefit.

This will also be my last chance to speak with Miss Marcello and Mrs. Stanton. You may chuckle at this, Watson, but there are spectacularly intelligent women who will take on the world together. I now have eyes to recognize them.

As you have done many times in similar situations, the child attempted to engage me for the trip. There are times when my focus is inward and away from any interaction. I remember sharing this with you as one of the bad habits new roommates should know about on the day we met, old man. For some reason I will never understand, this causes distress in those with whom I associate. In her case it is needless worry, for my heart has already been charmed.

As you know me to be, dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,

S. H.

The next morning I awoke to the front-page newspaper banner: “Asylum Doctor Henry Simons Arrested for Murder.” My bags packed, I left for breakfast.

My view of women was changed by Irene Adler, not because she outwitted me, but that she did it with style, grace, a face a man might die for, and the intelligence I would use in her situation. She beat me yet as my equal, possibly more than my equal. Set apart from the commonplace nature that women emulated today, she opened my eyes to something new, something I couldn’t dismiss. And I fell as only I could. But here she also beat me. In one hour I loved completely and lost hopelessly, unbeknownst to her, as I witnessed her marriage at St. Monica’s. All kept like the petals of a flower closed in the pages of the token I wear always. I wouldn’t need to wear anything of Moriarty’s to remind me of all the times that professor had outsmarted me. No, Irene’s token was a remembrance of when love touched me.

And now I knew there were others who lived outside the strictures imposed on women by society and I broadened to include them in my world. I encouraged my Vassar College students in that direction. Witnessing young minds awaken was one of the great gifts my association with Vassar had given me and I was forever grateful for this endowment.

The day I left, President Taylor found me in the midst of one of these conversations in the Rose Parlour. Taylor poured a cup of tea and pulled a chair up to the discussion. “Please continue.” He said. And the intellectual argument progressed. My student youthfully defended her point while I argued its consequences. When she departed for her next class, Taylor said. “You’re a lightning rod, Sigerson, my students have caught fire. Know that you are always welcome at Vassar. We will be creating an archaeology department, stay and help me build it.”

I was deeply touched. “It is difficult to pull myself away from Vassar. Possibly this is my future, but for the present, I have much to complete in London. Giving me this chance to share what I’ve learned from my journeys has brought me incomparable joy. To watch students begin to see how they could move in the world as men do is unique for me, yet also exquisite. Everyone here is a pioneer. The light of this college shines brightly for the world to see its useless folly. Your offer is a most generous one but I must decline. Yet, I will keep in touch.” We stood and shook hands. Taylor gave me a package. It looked like my cleaning, so I smiled and patted him on the back.

I went to my suite and collected my new violin and bags. Inside the package were the robes of a doctor of philosophy with Vassar’s colours on the hood and a diploma: “Vassar College. Mr. Keevan Sigerson, Doctor of Archaeology.” My face flushed and the feelings surprised me. I dabbed my eyes and lit a cigarette. Taylor was using all his ammunition. I dressed in my perfectly tailored new robes, and left the faculty apartments. Marie and Anne took my luggage. Students and fellow professors lined the halls of Vassar’s second floor, all applauding as my students sang: “For he’s a jolly good fellow and so say all of us!” I shook hands with the professors, Taylor, and my students, and left magnificent Main for the last time.

My cab whisked me through Mr. Gatehouse’s archway to the Marcello’s home to collect the child. She was dressed in a female version of a sailor’s suit. I jumped from the cab to hug Miss Marietta farewell. “Engage your dreams, Miss Marcello. Good luck in your California adventure.”

“If you change your mind about smoky old London, you know where to find me, Professor Sigerson.”

“I will not leave London again. Yet, I would welcome a chance to change your mind about my city, if you would allow.” I gently wiped her tears and kissed her hand. “Au revoir!”

The child and I raced to the Poughkeepsie train station, and hopped on the Hudson River Railroad to meet Oscar in Manhattan. And I had the perfect disguise.

The girl said. “How terrific you look in your new robes, Professor Sigerson, now you can be one of my professors!”

“Child, the future is yet to be written.”

She recited her favourite aspects of Grand Central Depot: “It opened in 1871, and the building covered twenty-one acres in the city. Soon its great arches will lead us into the largest indoor space in all America! It’s 100 feet high, and 200 feet wide.” She held her arms out. “And more than 600 feet long.”

And I lapsed into meditation.

Following the river south, after firing five unanswered questions at me, the child accepted my adult necessity for occasional solitude. As we drew nearer to the city, her excitement became uncontrollable. I lit a cigarette, and invited her in with a wave of my hand.

“Professor, what are your plans? Do we see Uncle Oscar first or Mrs. Stanton? When is your boat? Can I come on board? I’d love to see this floating city.”

“Child, I have some dangerous tasks ahead of me. In my European research into the underworld I discovered that each country’s criminals have close connections in other lands. By now there will be watchers posted in the Depot or on the docks.” I took out my revolver, checked it, and put it in my pocket. “First, you must understand that we may encounter villainous men in the city until my ship departs.”

“What! What can I do?”

“Stay close to me, follow my orders without question and we will be all right, your hierarchical apparel is appropriate to our situation. We will meet with your uncle first and last as he will rendezvous with us via cab at Mrs. Stanton’s home.”

We arrived in New York through the depot’s labyrinthine rails, screeching and flashing over the seemingly infinite amount of points. “Remember, we keep to the shadows.”

“This is terrifying. I will do my best to keep you safe.” She said.

Her arms crossed, her face determined. I acknowledged her earnest expressions of love, worry, her protectiveness, by putting my hand on her shoulder. “Child, this is my assignment. The best way for you to protect both of us is to implicitly follow my directions.”

We disembarked at the platform, emerging at the depot.

Scouring the mammoth structure, I spotted a possible watcher moving away from us toward the Forty-Second Street exit. I now set her between me and the information kiosk. She followed my line of sight, observed my sudden change, and then wrapped herself around me.

I moved her quickly to the other side of the booth. “It is not a childish thing to stand between danger and a loved one, no matter how old one is. It is foolish, yet also courageous. Thank you, child, please inform me immediately if you observe anything suspicious. But as I am more suited, I will take the protector role today.”

“You mean like that lookout? Aye, Aye, sir!” She saluted me then surveyed the whole of the enormous depot. I now had directions to the freight tracks where we stayed behind luggage carts all the way.

Marcello was surprised to find us so deep within the recesses of the depot. I immediately signalled to him to keep close and we three moved to safety. “The freight section is a part of the station few people ever see.” He pointed the way. “Our car is on the next track.” He took the child by the hand. “New York is a twenty-four-hour town. You can always find something open, and in those late hours, filled with the beauties of the stage.”

“The most beautiful and gracious of women.” I said, as I tapped the gold sovereign on my watch chain.

Marcello looked at me. “You are a man of mystery, Sigerson. So what is the story of that coin?”

“Something I lost a long time ago. Yet, the notion never leaves me, like a delicate, radiant, and oft reprised refrain.”

“Oh, man, if she’s alive, go get her. If she’s not, find another.”

“You are a wise young man, Marcello, and I am going to miss you.” I clapped him on the back.

When we arrived at the transcontinental freight track, the sculptors had painted on the wooden car, in grand and glorious artist’s lettering: “SAN FRANSICO WORLD’S FAIR OR BUST!”

“Sigerson, there’s a piece we are about to load. It’s my final New York submission. I’d like you to see it. Rachel, come over here for a better view.” He pointed the way. “The pieces we are contributing all represent human sensibility as interpreted through the eyes and hands of the Impressionist School. I took some liberties with this one, however.” He led me to the other side of the car. “I call it ‘Virtuoso.”

It was a sculpture of me with my violin, yet fifteen feet high. It was playing as I did for him, eyes closed, head back, long hair loose and wild as if in a tempest. This virtuoso was bare-chested and muscled. Marcello had modelled my scarred arm and the bleeding knife cut across the chest, plus the needle marks on my left arm. I was caught completely unawares, and as tears formed in my eyes, he grabbed me in an Italian bear hug. “I’m sorry, Sigerson. Rachel will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic.”

Pink-cheeked, I said. “Marcello, I’ve never been so honoured. Yet I don’t think my mane has ever been so uncivilized.”

“Creative license!”

“Something I heartily support.” We laughed. “Please send me a photograph.”

“I saved you the original drawing, Sigerson. It should do until the fair.” He signed it.

“I will frame it, thank you, Marcello.”

He looked in my eyes. “Sigerson, remember that day you ran up to my studio and I hastily covered up a sculpture? You caught me in the lie, I know you did. I wanted you to see it completed.”

The child took my hand, gave me her handkerchief.

We left Marcello to his work and hired a cab from the stand, and completed our journey to West 62nd Street. Wrapped up in warm rugs, we travelled across town by way of 59th Street with snow-covered Central Park on one side and the city on the other.

Miss Marcello greeted us at the door and twirled the child around in her joy. Then she hugged me. “I’m so glad to see you. Do you have to leave so soon?” She brought us into Mrs. Stanton’s greenhouse office overlooking the park. This small white haired, grandmotherly woman, with a brilliant light in her eyes that betrayed all she had accomplished, sat at her desk in a comfortable chair. She was composing her radical magnum opus, “The Women’s Bible.”

“Miss Rachel, please find seats and join me. Isn’t this view magnificent? I never get tired of it. Professor sending Rita to me unescorted was most ungentlemanly.”

“It was paramount, as the evidence of murder fades fast.”

Mrs. Stanton looked up at me with a raised eyebrow.

I kissed her hand. “I am sorry yet I do have a steamship to catch.” I turned to her. “Miss Marcello, I have the happy task of imparting the news that your release has been approved from Hudson Asylum. You’re free, and may return home today with your niece and you might want to hold onto these.” I gave her the papers drawn up the night before. “Dr. Josiah Simons, the new Superintendent of Hudson is the man to thank.”

“Dr. Joey? Oh, there will be marvellous changes. You are a magician, professor!” Another Marcello hug was wrapped around me, and I reciprocated in kind.

“Miss Marcello, there is one more thing. I have arranged for a scholarship for your niece at Vassar College. She can test now and begin in the fall. Vassar will focus her supreme intelligence toward the science she chooses to study. Please contact President Taylor who has been apprised.”

“Wonderful, professor, thank you.”

I waved her off. “I advise you to put your things in order. We leave immediately.”

“I’m going to Vassar this year? Hooray! Aunt Rita, I’ll help you.” And they left.

“When is your ship sailing—murder?” Mrs. Stanton said.

I opened my watch. “It leaves in two hours. The Superintendent of Hudson Asylum killed a patient in cold blood, he was caught red-handed. Thanks to Miss Rita’s quick thinking, the Poughkeepsie authorities have enough proof to put an end to his horrific dominion.”

Mrs. Stanton studied me for a moment. “Yesterday’s affair was such a success all round. My dear friend, Susan, rescued 13 women and 10 children from that horrible asylum.”

“Do you know if they are well-provisioned and traveling north?” I said.

“Yes and the houses were happy to host them. Miss Tubman was delighted to join in the fun. What an extraordinary event. It was a pleasure working with you.”

“A singular and most illuminating occurrence.”

“So, Professor Feathers, how have you fared since your liberation?”

“Gratefully, all the difficulty was left behind at the moment of my conversion. I find the antithesis of prejudice reconciles well with my personal pursuits. Thanks to your and Miss Anthony’s achievements, the young women at Vassar College will continue to establish a new direction for this country. The college encourages such freedom and the child will do well there. With your tutelage, she is sure to blossom.”

“As my daughter has. Looking through the lens of the Temperance Movement who would think that a brewer could create something as wonderful as the first actual college for women in this country? Vassar was a working-class man of vision. Brilliance does not brook class distinctions and sprouts even in the humblest gardens. But I wonder why you are forgoing your role in Rachel’s destiny?” She nodded her head in the girl’s direction.

Miss Rita and the child joined us with her luggage.

The doorbell rang. It was Marcello with our carriage.

“It’s time to go. Let’s not keep Marcello waiting.”

“Generous Mrs. Stanton, thank you for sharing your wonderful home with me, I’ll visit right after my California trip, and tell you all about it.” Miss Rita said.

“My pleasure, Miss Marcello, and please bring back to me the western suffrage news. Miss Rachel, do visit me frequently. Professor, be careful on your steamship home. People feel freer on a ship out to sea. With your change of heart you may wind up engaged.”

“Mrs. Stanton.” I knelt. “My heart belongs to one woman only.” I kissed her hand.

“My valiant, ‘Feathers.” She smiled, raised me up and gave me her card. “Call or cable me as soon as you’re able. And send me the British suffragist news. The rumours I hear are worrisome.”