Through the Window(4)

“How very worrying,” I said. “Is there anywhere else she could have gone? Any friends or relatives?”

He shook his head. “She has no friends or relatives in this city. She is from the South, from New Orleans.”

I took a deep breath before I dared to ask the next question. He was, after all, quite a formidable-looking man. “Is it possible that she might have run away, back to her home and her family?”

There was a long pause, then he said, “I suppose it is not beyond the realm of possibility, but when we first married she confided to me that she had not been very happy at home. Her stepsisters are now married. Her stepmother has remarried. The old family home has been sold. Where would she go?”

“If she ran away yesterday, would she have reached New Orleans yet?” I asked.

“It depends how she chose to travel. One can make the whole trip by train, or, more pleasantly, by train and paddle steamer. Either way I don’t know where she would have found the money to embark on such an undertaking. I only give her an allowance that covers her household expenses. I am not a rich man, Mrs. Sullivan. I have tried to impress upon my wife the need to live prudently.”

“Perhaps she had some jewelry that she pawned?” I suggested.

He winced. “Was she that desperate to escape from me? I have tried to provide well for her, within my means. She felt cramped in our apartment so I moved her into this house, but of course I do not move in circles that allow her the balls and festivities of her childhood. Nor would I want to move in such circles of depravity. No, if she was lonely it was her own fault—I encouraged her to go to Bible study at the church, to do good deeds among the poor. But she was raised only to think of herself and her own pleasure.”

His voice had risen in volume and intensity as he spoke. When he finished there was a profound silence in the room.

“So what would you want my husband to do?” I asked quietly.

“First, I want to know if any young women have come to a bad end in the past two days. I have to ease my mind on that subject. It is just possible that my wife set off on her visit to Long Island and for some reason did not reach her destination. There are villains and rogues enough in this city and she is particularly naïve and susceptible. She could have been lured astray and…” he broke off abruptly as a spasm of pain crossed his face.

“Mr. Emory, it seems to me that the first thing to do is to send another telegram to New Orleans, to your wife’s stepmother, asking her to make inquiries.”

“Another telegram?” He ran his tongue over his thin lips and I could tell he was weighing the cost of a telegram all the way to New Orleans with the desire to have his wife returned to him. “Yes, of course. That would be a sensible thing to do,” he said.

“If she ran away she would have taken her belongings with her, wouldn’t she?” I said. “You must have noticed if her wardrobe was empty.”

“I—I didn’t really check,” he said. “Would you be good enough to take a look for yourself? A woman would know if items had been removed.”

I was conscious of my mother-in-law watching me from the sofa, but told myself that my two weeks of rest were almost up and I could certainly walk a short way down the street.

“I’ll get my shawl,” I said.

“I’m most grateful,” he replied. “I am beside myself with worry, or I would not have troubled you.”

I went over to Mrs. Sullivan, who was now pretending to rearrange flowers on the adjoining table.

“Mr. Emory has asked me to accompany him, Mother Sullivan,” I said. “If Daniel returns home, please ask him to join me right away.”

“If you are sure you’re strong enough?” She asked, her eyes holding mine. “And make sure you keep your shawl wrapped well around you. The night air is already cold for this time of year and you haven’t been out in quite a while.”

“You have been ill, Mrs. Sulivan?” Mr. Emory asked.

“I gave birth to a child, but am quite recovered, thank you,” I replied, glancing at my mother-in-law, who said nothing.

“A blessed event. How fortunate you are. My wife and I have not been similarly blessed.”

I took down my shawl from its peg in the hallway and threw it around my shoulders. “There’s still time, Mr. Emory,” I said. “Do not give up hope.”

“No,” he said in a voice clipped with emotion. “One should not give up hope.”

***

There was indeed an icy wind that sent leaves swirling as I followed Mr. Emory down Patchin Place. His house felt cold and empty after the warmth of my own. It was almost like a house that has been abandoned by its owners, or never fully lived-in.