CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Pleasures and Pursuit

Bertram Morganstern plopped onto a wooden seat as soon as he’d boarded the streetcar.  “Whew!” he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.  “Hot one.”

Hoping he wasn’t crowding his rather wide-girthed friend, Adam settled into the narrow space remaining at the end of the seat and loosening his cravat, nodded his agreement.  It wasn’t a long walk from the office to City Park, where they’d caught this conveyance, but air didn’t circulate among the tall buildings as well as it did further north.  “The park should be cooler, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.  The perfect place to relax after a long, hard week of work.”  Apparently eager to begin that relaxation, Bert leaned back and closed his eyes.

Adam shook his head with a wry grin.  Maybe Bert had worked a “long, hard week,” but Adam knew that he himself had had a very short, light one.  He’d done nothing at all his first day except get somewhat acquainted with the office arrangement and the surrounding area.  As for yesterday, he had put in a full day, but nothing he had done was either difficult or tasking.  For the most part he’d worked with Mr. Perkins in the file room, either finding papers some associate wanted or filing them away when they were returned. He’d done the assigned tasks diligently, and Perkins had complimented his neatness and efficiency.  “Unlike some I might mention,” the clerk had confided with a frown toward the outer room, where Bert’s unsuspecting back bent over a drawing table.  Adam feared his characteristic diligence might have earned him nothing but permanent confinement to the file room.

He’d been sent out once to deliver some papers to a neighboring office and had welcomed the opportunity for fresh air.  He was luckier than Bert after all, he’d decided, to be confined in that file room.  At least, there was a window in it, although the air was so still that it didn’t help much.  Much as he coveted a place at a drawing table, he was probably more comfortable where he was.  Glancing to his left in the horse car, he saw the sweat glistening again on his comrade’s forehead.  Yes, as the summer progressed, he might become happier by the day to be a file clerk for Bracebridge, Harwood and Associates.

As they approached 59^th Street, Adam nudged his shoulder into Bert’s and when the other man’s eyes slowly opened, said, “Our stop is coming up soon.”

“Oh, thanks,” Bert said, yawning.  “I must have drifted off.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Adam inquired hesitantly.  “If you’re that tired . . .”

Bert chuckled.  “Heat does that to me.  No, I’ll be fine once we’re up and moving.  This was my idea, remember?”

The streetcar stopped and they debarked, walking the few blocks over to Fifth Avenue.  On entering the park, Adam asked if Bert would mind stopping by the Pond near the entrance.  “I’m eager to see it without the ice and snow of last December.”

“Sure,” Bert agreed.  “It’s a pretty spot, and we have plenty of time before the concert starts.”

“Here, let me carry that.”  Adam reached for the light blanket that Bert had brought for them to sit on during the concert, and Bert relinquished it gladly.  They turned immediately to their left, and only a few steps brought them to the edge of a small lake, which Adam estimated to cover about five acres.  He gazed out over the still surface and the gently undulating foliage reflected in the water.  “Much more pleasant now than when I saw it in December.”

“I would think so!” Bert chortled.  “Although I hear it has its own attractions in winter.  See any lovely skaters when you were here, Adam?”

“Alas, no.  No skating permitted the day I was here,” Adam admitted.  His mind immediately filled with the image of a certain lovely skater he’d literally bumped into on the skating pond in New Haven, but he couldn’t retain it with this lake looming before him.  It was nothing like Lake Tahoe, a mere puddle compared to that majestic expanse, and the delicate fronds of the willows bending over the shore were certainly different from the sharp needles of conifers back home.  Still, he felt a sudden nostalgia sweep over him, for the quiet serenity of the scene made the same sense of peace well up within him.  He’d written a letter to Pa the night before, but hadn’t mailed it, intending to include notes to each of his brothers with it.  A description of this little crescent-shaped lake would interest them, and Hoss, in particular, would understand how it reminded him of home.  He spotted some small children as they ran down the broad, grassy slope to the very edge of the water to watch the ducks and swans gliding over its surface and knew at once that this would be the most interesting part of the park to Little Joe.  If he could just manage to do justice to a drawing of those graceful, white birds . . .

“Adam?”  Bert’s voice startled Adam from his reverie.  “You seem rather far away,” he suggested.  “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Adam said and explained what he’d been thinking about writing to his little brothers.

“They sounded like fine little fellows,” Bert offered.  “So kind of you to make that special effort to tell Mrs. Randolph about them in the parlor yesterday evening.  I’m afraid the rest of us behaved rather like boors.”

“You just didn’t see her eyes,” Adam excused.  “They were so sad, and now we know why.”

Bert nodded thoughtfully.  “Her grandchildren, living so far away, almost never seeing them.  I wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

Bert shrugged.  “Just wondering if my parents would feel the same . . . if my brother were ever to move away.  They positively dote on little Penelope.”

“Your brother’s child?”

Bert laughed.  “Indeed, and what a little minx she is!  About the age of your Little Joe and every bit as feisty, comparing your description of his antics with what I know of hers.”

Adam smiled.  “Heaven help us, then, if they ever get together.”

“Would you care to walk around?” Bert suggested, gesturing toward the Pond.

“Very much.”  Adam looked searchingly into his friend’s face.  “If it’s not too much for you.”

Bert shrugged.  “We’ll be sitting long enough once the concert starts.  Might as well stretch our legs while we can.”

They turned to the right and followed a path that skirted the edge of the Pond.  It was new territory for Adam, since he and the Edwards hadn’t done much exploring on their earlier visit.  Of course, this was pretty tame exploring, even compared with a five-minute walk from the Ponderosa ranch house, he mused wryly, but the city faded away and the sense of serenity deepened, especially since they had the path almost to themselves.  When they came out close to the western carriage road, Bert suggested that they make their way toward the Mall, which would lead them to the concert area.

Following the footpath, they came to the intersection of the road they were on with the one on which they’d entered the park and turned north.  Adam paused to admire the marble arch at the foot of the Mall, but Bert moved quickly inside its shade and made for the water hydrant.  Adam followed, his ear cocking at the sound of carriages rumbling on the bridge above his head.  It was an odd sensation, one that took some getting used to, although he had experienced it on his earlier trip.  He chuckled softly as he recalled his younger brother’s response when he’d written a description of it before.  Hoss had written back that he thought over a man’s head was a “right peculiar place to put a horse” and warned Adam to stay away from “such as that.”  Adam had considered writing back to suggest that it was no different from riding into Virginia City, with its honey-comb of mine tunnels beneath the surface, but decided that might do more harm than good.

“Does it remind you of New Haven?” Bert asked, hand sweeping toward the elms lining both sides of the walk after they’d climbed the stairs at the end of the tunnel beneath the bridge.

Adam laughed.  “Perhaps in its infancy.  The streets of the City of Elms are overarched by majestic grandfathers of the species, not these”—he had started to say runts, but courtesy made him temper the description—“striplings.”  Although here and there he spotted a mature tree, most of the elms were obviously in the adolescent stage of their lives.

“I guess they do have a lot of growing to do,” Bert admitted ruefully.

“And years in which to do it,” Adam suggested.  “The park has made a wonderful start and can only improve with time.  One day this walk will look every bit as stately as any in New Haven.”

Bert laughed.  “Or Philadelphia.  I challenge you to find older trees in New Haven than there.”

Adam returned a wicked grin.  “Difficult, perhaps, but you’d be hard put to find trees in Philadelphia older than the ones I’ve seen in California.”

Bert’s eyes looked dreamy for a minute.  “Oh, the redwoods and sequoias, I suppose you mean.  I’ve read about those.  Always thought they’d be a sight to see.”

“Come see them, then,” Adam offered.  “You’d always be welcome at the Ponderosa.”

Bert clapped him on the back.  “Maybe someday.  I think it’ll be easier to get you to Philadelphia, and it has some fine sights, too.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Adam said politely, although he saw no way at present that he could afford pleasure excursions like that.

Near the upper end of the Mall, they came to the Music Stand, decorated in gay colors and gold gilding.  A good crowd had already gathered, and the benches provided were already filled.  “Good thing you brought this,” Adam commented as he and Bert spread their blanket on the ground.

Since a little time still remained before the concert was due to begin, he used it to look around at the crowd, which he estimated at more than ten thousand people.  They were surprisingly well dressed for an afternoon in the park.  In fact, Adam and Bert, having come straight from work, seemed, if anything, underdressed for the occasion.  The rich, alighting from their carriages on the road above and descending a sweeping staircase, were as elegantly attired as if they were attending this concert in the grandest music salon, rather than under an open sky, but even the lower economic classes were obviously dressed in their best.

Children were cavorting around on the lawn, but as the conductor moved into position, they all scurried back to their parents, and there was a moment of near silence before the soft strains of strings began.  Adam quickly consulted the printed program they had picked up before sitting down.  Meyerbeer.  German, obviously, but not a composer he was familiar with, not that he recognized many of the composers listed.  Nice music, pleasant, but he had expected something more rousing to start a program like this.  A few bars in, though, more instruments joined to create the strident steps of a march, more what he had expected from Bert’s description of popular music.

For their fourth song the band struck up a polka by someone named Lackner, and around the edges of the crowd, youngsters jumped up to dance.  Adam grinned.  Now, that you wouldn’t see in a grand music salon, and he relished the difference.  A polka, after all, was a dance, though only the children had the abandon to fling dignity aside and enjoy it as it was meant to be enjoyed.

The polka closed the first portion of the concert, and while the band took a brief break, Bert turned to Adam.  “Enjoying it?” he asked hopefully.

“Very much,” Adam replied.  “Thanks for bringing me.”

“Quite welcome.”  Bert’s smile held the slightest smirk of superiority.  “I don’t suppose you’ve had much opportunity to hear classical music, off in the wilds of Nevada.”

Adam arched an eyebrow, wondering why so many people chose that phrase to describe his home.  “In Nevada?  No, not often, but I took my preparatory schooling in California, and the opportunities there are greater.”

Bert looked surprised.  “You’ve heard opera before, then?”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Adam admitted.  “I don’t get to San Francisco often.”

“Oh, then we must attend one together!” Bert cried enthusiastically.  “It’s my greatest love—musically, I mean.”

“I’d like to,” Adam said, “although I do want to save as much money as possible, too—for next term at Yale.”  Much as he’d like to squander every cent he earned on operas and dramatic presentations, he also wanted to provide some extra comforts for Jamie next year.  He couldn’t just offer to pay some of his friend’s expenses—that would be charity—but anything he purchased for their common room would be overlooked and, more importantly, shared.

“I can’t go as often as I’d like, either,” Bert admitted, “but we really must, Adam.  You’re the first person I’ve met here that could possibly share my cultural ardor, so you mustn’t deny me the pleasure of your company on as many outings as possible.”

“As many as possible,” Adam promised.  The conductor again moved into position to begin the second portion of the concert, which began with another selection from Meyerbeer and ended with one by a Danish composer named Lumbye that startled everyone with its opening sound of a champagne cork being popped.  Not until the third part of the concert did the band play any music with which Adam was already familiar, a work by Guiseppe Verdi, but to him, the joy of the afternoon was hearing so many pieces of music that were new to him.  Free and available every Saturday afternoon—oh, yes, summer in New York City was definitely going to be all he had hoped—and more.

* * * * *

Adam and Bert had enjoyed their afternoon, but there was a price to be paid when they returned to the boardinghouse, where the entire household was seated in the parlor, occupying themselves in whatever fashion took each one’s fancy.  Joining the group to be cordial, they were immediately accosted by the youngest Whitney daughter, and when they explained where they had been, she cried, with an elaborate pout, “Oh, fie on the both of you!  A grand excursion like that, and you didn’t think to take us!”

“Are you particularly interested in music, Miss Rose?” Adam asked with studied innocence.

“Oh, enormously,” she declared, elongating the word for emphasis.  She wagged her index finger in his face.  “You’re a very bad boy, Mr. Cartwright.”  Bestowing the same mark of disapproval on Bert, she added, “And you, as well, Mr. Morganstern.  A fortunate thing that tomorrow is Sunday, as you’ll both need to spend the entire forenoon in repentance.”

“Now, Rose, my blossom,” Mrs. Whitney chided weakly, “I’m sure the young gentlemen have better things to do than escort you to Central Park.”

Having a feeling that the rebuke was more intended for the young gentlemen than for the young lady to whom it was addressed, Adam glanced at Bert, dark eyes pleading for help.

“If only we’d known of your musical interest,” Bert said lamely.  “Perhaps another time.”

Adam could have strangled him.   He’d looked forward to the weekly concerts, but he had a feeling that attending them with this flighty female, whose musical interest, if it had ever existed, was just as likely to flit away as the butterfly she resembled while dancing about the room.  Adam struggled to find an excuse—any excuse—to discourage her.  “Well, we—uh—went straight from work, you know.  I’m not sure we’d have time to come here to escort you.”

Rose stopped twirling about to stare at him with narrowed eyes, but before she could say anything, her oldest sister spoke up in clear tones.  “You needn’t be bothered with that.  We can meet you at City Park next Saturday and take the streetcars with you from there.”

“We?” Adam asked weakly.

“Well, you wouldn’t expect us to allow Rose to walk the streets on her own,” Pearl declared haughtily.

“Certainly not,” the mother put in firmly.  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Adam stammered.  A sudden inspiration struck him.  “Perhaps we should all go,” he suggested.  “You’d enjoy a musical afternoon, wouldn’t you, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph?”

Mrs. Randolph looked hesitantly at her husband.  “It would be pleasant,” she said softly.

He patted her hand.  “My dear, I’m sure these young people don’t want to be bothered by a couple of tottering old folks like us.”

The female contingent of the young people all looked intensely bothered by the notion of adding anyone else to the party, but Adam and Bert both hurriedly assured the Randolphs that their company would be a positive delight and that the afternoon wouldn’t be complete without them.  “I won’t take no for an answer,” Adam insisted and was rewarded with their warm smiles of acceptance.  He turned toward the other man in the parlor.  “And won’t you join us, as well, Mr. McCrory?”

“Unfortunately, my working hours don’t permit that,” he said, “but I thank you for the invitation.”

“And, of course, you’ll wish to come, too, Mrs. Whitney,” Adam said suavely, “to chaperone your daughters.”

Mrs. Whitney looked surprised, but apparently realized that having just expressed concern for propriety, to insure that all her daughters would have an equal opportunity of catching the attention of the two eligible young bachelors, she could scarcely afford to appear unconcerned about it now.  “Well, yes, I suppose that would be best,” she murmured, despite feeling that she had been cleverly manipulated, somehow.  The daughters looked decidedly displeased and even more certain than their mother of that manipulation.

Grace covered a dainty yawn with the back of her hand.  “Well, now that that’s settled, I think it’s time for bed.  I like to be well rested for Sunday services.”

Resting up for the day of rest—that’s a novel concept.  Adam didn’t speak the words aloud, but perhaps they affected the expression on his face, for Grace stared directly at him and asked, “Will you be joining us at church in the morning, Mr. Cartwright?  Mr. Morganstern generally does.”

Adam’s quick glance at Bert revealed only a sheepish smile.

“Now, my dear,” Mrs. Whitney protested feebly.  “We don’t know what Mr. Cartwright’s religious preference is.”  She tittered lightly.  “For all we know, he might be of the Popish persuasion.”

“And choose Yale as college?” Grace scoffed.  “I scarcely think so, mother.”

Adam’s cheeks flushed scarlet, as much from outrage as embarrassment.  Marie’s loss was still too fresh for him to stomach any derogatory reference to her chosen faith, even if it wasn’t his own.  He had no idea what sort of church the Whitneys attended, but he felt a sudden aversion to it that had nothing to do with religious dogma.

“What they are trying to say, Mr. Cartwright,” Pearl announced with strained forbearance for what she clearly thought their inappropriate bickering over him, “is that we would be pleased to have you attend services with us tomorrow at Grace Church.  It’s quite the most fashionable in town.”

Adam would not have thought it possible, but his distaste for that particular church, of whatever “persuasion” it might be, grew even greater at this announcement.  “I’m afraid I’m not a very fashionable young man,” he said with a wry lift of one corner of his mouth.

Pearl had the grace to blush.  “You would certainly be welcome in our pew,” she said simply.

“Thank you,” he said, but he made no commitment.

Mr. McCrory gave a short laugh.  “No one has asked you what denomination you prefer, have they, Mr. Cartwright?  Or even whether they have churches in the wilds of Nevada.”

The “wilds of Nevada” again!  Adam had to grin at his fellow boarder’s insistence on seeing the western territory as the habitat of wild Indians and wilder white men.  “They do,” he chuckled, “although not of so many ‘persuasions’”—he nodded at Grace—“as here.”

“And which do you attend, Mr. Cartwright?” Grace asked.

Adam shrugged.  “Methodist Episcopal, generally.  It was the first in the territory, but I’ve been exposed to a variety of faiths.”  Though he didn’t list them, he thought of the Lutheran church he had attended with Inger and the Catholic chapel to which he had, on occasion, escorted Marie, as well as the chapel services at Congregationalist Yale.

“Baptist?”  There was a hopeful light in Mrs. Randolph’s eyes as she shyly asked.  “Of course, our church isn’t at all fashionable . . . .”  Her voice trailed off.

Adam was quick to snatch what he considered a God-given way of escape.  “If that’s an invitation, I’d be pleased to accompany you tomorrow, since the young ladies already have the inestimable company of Mr. Moganstern.”

Mr. McCrory snuffled, but Adam was quite certain that he caught the barest hint of a wink from Mr. Randolph’s twinkling eye.  Following Grace’s example, he excused himself for the evening, but he didn’t retire immediately.  He wrote a letter to Hoss about his visit to the park and started a drawing of the Pond with its ducks and swans for Little Joe.  Deciding that he could do a better job in natural light tomorrow afternoon, he set that aside after roughly sketching its outlines and began a letter to Billy Thomas.  He hadn’t written to his old friend in months, and he knew that tonight’s none-too-subtle machinations of the three fair damsels to acquire his company were just the sort of high jinks Billy would relish.

* * * * *

“I’m so glad you decided to attend services with us,” Mrs. Randolph said, smiling over her shoulder at Adam as they walked away from the boardinghouse the next morning.  “It was very kind of you.”

“Now, Jochebed,” her husband chuckled, “I don’t think kindness had much to do with it.”  His eyes twinkled and his chin twitched as he looked back at Adam.

Adam laughed.  “You’re quite right, Mr. Randolph.  As we say in my part of the country, you pulled my fat out of the fire with your timely invitation, and I’m very grateful.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Randolph.

“You saved me from a morning spent in that ‘fashionable’ church with its fashionably man-hungry adherents,” Adam stated more plainly.

Mrs. Randolph caught her breath; then she smiled demurely.  “In my day young ladies were more discreet.”

“But managed quite well to catch the eye of the lad you favored,” her husband teased.

She blushed, but looked pleased nonetheless.  Evidently, feeling a change of subject was in order, she asked, “Won’t you tell me more about your delightful little brothers, Mr. Cartwright?”

Adam gave her a grin almost too wicked for a man on his way to church.  “I could tell you stories that would make them seem much less delightful.”

She only laughed.  “I raised two boys; I know what children can be like.  From a distance, even mischief can delight an old lady.”

“Well, Nevada should be distant enough,” Adam laughed, “and Little Joe is certainly mischievous enough, but I doubt you’d be in a frame of mind for worship if I recounted the tricks he’s been known to get up to.”

“On the way home, then?” she asked.

“Sure,” Adam agreed.  “You should be spiritually fortified by then.”

Laughing, they crossed Bowery and a block beyond turned north on Elizabeth.  Another block brought them to the intersection with Broome, and on its corner stood a castle-like structure of brownstone with a four-storied turret on each side.  Adam halted across the street to admire the church and take in each detail of its Gothic architecture, particularly the arched windows and entrances.

“Is it all right?” Mrs. Randolph asked nervously.

“It’s lovely,” Adam assured her.  “I was just wishing I could draw it.”

She smiled in relief.  “Grace Church would be much grander, of course.”

Adam chuckled.  “Well, I might enjoy sketching that, too, sometime, but as a place of worship, I’m sure this will suit me better.  Shall we go in?”  He offered her his arm, which she happily took.

* * * * *

Adam and the Randolphs arrived home from church, laughing.  As they entered the parlor, Rose declared, “My, aren’t you merry!  Perhaps I should become a Baptist if their services are this jolly.”

“Adam was just telling us about some of his youngest brother’s antics,” Mrs. Randolph explained, lest anyone think ill of her church.  “Do tell them, Adam.”

Adam, who had thoroughly enjoyed reliving memories of home with the motherly elder, looked reluctant to share them with the others in the room.  Memories, to him, were precious treasures, only to be shared with those who would appreciate them.

“Please don’t,” Grace said quickly, whether from her own inclination or in response to his expression, Adam couldn’t have said.  Then, suddenly perceiving that her remark might be considered rude, she added hastily, “Rose doesn’t need any encouragement toward ‘antics.’”

Rose sniffed haughtily.  “If I wanted to perform ‘antics,’ dear sister, I’m sure I wouldn’t need lessons from a—what is it?—four-year-old.”

“Five,” Adam corrected, a wave of regret washing over him.  That wasn’t the first of Little Joe’s birthdays he’d missed, for the sake of his own schooling, but he had never missed one of Hoss’s, since he was always home during July.  This year he wouldn’t be, he realized sadly.  Again for the sake of his own schooling, he was set on a course that would force him to miss every Christmas and every birthday, every Fourth of July and every Thanksgiving with his family for three more years.

“I know what would be better,” Bert suggested.  “Since you young ladies are so interested in music, you’d surely like to hear Adam play his guitar and sing, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, yes!”  Rose clapped her hands, while Adam stared in horror at the man he had begun to consider a friend, but in the last twenty-four hours had started to view more as a traitor.  Was this payback, perhaps, for leaving Bert in the clutches of those three females all morning?

Bert, however, looked completely guileless, although he quickly discerned Adam’s lack of enthusiasm.  “I just thought,” he babbled.  “Well, you do like music, and—and I’ve been wishing I could hear you.”

“We’d all enjoy that,” Pearl chimed in.

“If Mr. Cartwright knows any tunes appropriate for the Sabbath,” Grace amended.

Adam stared at her.  Something about the middle Whitney daughter always seemed to bring out a perverse edge in him.  “I might know a hymn or two,” he said stiffly.

Seeing her mother enter to call them to dinner, Grace rose.  “Well, after dinner, then?”

Adam assented feebly, wondering how he’d managed to get himself roped into a postprandial concert.  Not that he minded playing and singing; he enjoyed that and he’d seen Mrs. Randolph’s face light up at the prospect.  What he did mind was the sense of being manipulated by a crafty female.  He wasn’t sure that honestly described Grace.  Of all the sisters, she was the only one who didn’t seem in constant pursuit of him, but perhaps she thought she’d fare better by playing hard to get?  Well, hard to get didn’t begin to describe what he personally intended to be.  Let the three of them fawn all over him, if they must.  His heart was taken, and they’d soon realize they had no chance of turning it toward anyone named Whitney.  At least, he hoped so.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

The Saturday issue of the New York Times always printed the program for the free concert in Central Park.