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  Before leaving, he stopped at the records office to file a death certificate. As he wrote “respiratory failure,” he felt like a liar. But was “morphia toxicity” any more honest?

  As he made his way out of the hospital, Noah noticed the sharp-featured man with the spectacles that he had seen exiting the children’s ward loitering at the far end of the lobby.

  SEVEN

  DAY 2. THURSDAY, 9/21—6 P.M.

  Dinner at the De Kuypers combined elements of passion play and farce. Oscar, Maribeth’s father, shipper and patriarch, was bluff, generous, pompous, and condescending. Adelaide, his wife, was sharp-featured and sharp-witted, substantially brighter and more venomous than her husband. She constantly sought weaknesses to exploit and generally found them. Alan played the family cynic, the opposite of his younger brother, Jamie, who was crabbing his way up the ladder at the trust department at First Mercantile Bank and who viewed the pursuit of wealth as the highest human calling.

  Maribeth, the youngest, was an amalgam. She had her father’s fair hair and giving nature, but not his smug superiority; her mother’s insight, but not her malice. As the baby of the family and the only girl, she had learned well the tactical use of her femininity. She and Alan adored each other. Jamie was no match for her.

  “You’re in a bit of hot water, old man,” Alan said as the driver pulled the coach away from Noah’s door. “What did you tell Frias about the tablet?”

  “He asked for it back. I told him I’d discarded it.”

  “Well, he found out you went to the laboratory and tested it. You shouldn’t have signed the log. He came up to pediatrics looking for you, but I told him you had gone. He was hopping.”

  “I wonder what he was so angry about. The test showed the tablet wasn’t a morphiate.”

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like being played for a fool. There are people with that quirk, you know. In any event, it was a big mistake. I wouldn’t want Dr. Dollars lurking behind my back.”

  “I don’t see what he can do.”

  “He can make your life hell, that’s what he can do. He can have the hospital deny you privileges, for one thing. Word around the wards is that he’s been sounding out the board about some deal. Something that will make him even more money. Never good to anger a bear who’s preparing to feed.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Something to do with his visit to Germany. When he came back with that automobile he’s so fond of.”

  “Maybe that’s why he was at the hospital today. He was with someone named Martin Smith. Looked like a czarist police agent.”

  “Martin H. Smith?”

  “Possibly. Do you know him?”

  “Know of him. He’s a chemist. Formulated Dr. Jordan’s Elixir. Made him quite a bit of money.”

  “I’m sure. My housekeeper takes it. Do you think Frias is going into patent medicines?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be advertising it at the hospital.” Alan patted Noah on the knee. “On a happier note, I think May 15 will be the day. My mother told me to be certain I had no engagements on that day. As if I make plans seven months in advance.”

  “I’m pleased to be informed thirdhand as to the day of my wedding.”

  “Welcome to the De Kuyper family. One of the reasons I remain a bachelor is to avoid in-laws. But Maribeth is worth it.”

  “You remain a bachelor because you would drive any decent woman mad.” In truth, Noah had always wondered why Alan eschewed the company of women. He always assumed that a man who chose to work with children would want some of his own. “But Maribeth is definitely worth it.”

  The previous June, after months of trying to convince Noah that he and Maribeth might enjoy each other’s company, Noah had finally allowed Alan to arrange a Sunday outing in Prospect Park. The three of them rented a boat, rowed on the lake, then settled in on the green for a picnic. Alan had kept up a steady stream of conversation, allowing Noah and Maribeth to avoid the awkwardness of a first meeting. As the afternoon moved on, Alan decided that he needed a stretch of the legs.

  Maribeth had sat for some moments, not speaking, but not uncomfortable in the silence. Noah realized how lovely she was. Thin and delicate, with a long, swanlike neck. Her eyes were a soft blue and her complexion pale and luxurious.

  Finally, she smiled. “I hope Alan takes a long walk. He couldn’t be sweeter but subtlety is a trait he has yet to discover.”

  “He is indefatigable. I hope you are not here against your will.”

  “The reluctance, I believe, Dr. Whitestone, was on your end.”

  “I was incredulous that Alan could have a sister so attractive and appealing. Had I known that you bear so little relation to him, I would have forced a meeting sooner.”

  She had laughed, more of a girlish giggle, but quite infectious. Noah stretched out his legs and, in doing so, moved closer to her. They spoke for an hour, until Alan returned. He had glanced from one to the other, but in tacit conspiracy, neither Noah nor Maribeth let on that they had enjoyed each other’s company. Finally, after dropping off Maribeth at Gramercy Park, Alan could bear it no longer.

  “Well, Noah? What did you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Alan. I found her a bit dull.”

  “Dull? How can you say—”

  “Alan, your sister is an exceptional woman.”

  De Kuyper had grinned broadly, the pride of the matchmaker.

  Noah called on her later that week. At Maribeth’s suggestion, they had seen the avant-garde play The Doll’s House by the Norwegian, Ibsen, at the Empire, with Mrs. Fiske reprising the role of Nora. “Her performance epitomizes the naturalism of the new theater,” Maribeth told him later. “She has abandoned the flourishes and melodrama of Bernhardt or Ellen Terry and instead, like Duse, seeks to conduct herself on stage as a genuine person.” Over dinner, Maribeth had talked at length about the ongoing evolution in the theater and, in fact, in art in general. “We are entering a new century, Noah. A time of excitement and hope. Experimentation with the ways of our fathers and grandfathers should not be sniffed at but encouraged.” She extended a long, delicate index finger and tapped Noah on the back of the hand. “Mark my words, Noah Whitestone. You and I will live to see women get the vote.”

  “You and I?”

  A blush had shot up both sides of her neck.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but with a smile. “That is simply my fumbling way of saying that I would be pleased to be able to see you again.”

  Their next engagement was to upper Fifth Avenue to view the antiquities at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As they sat over lunch in Central Park, Noah told Maribeth about Isobel. She listened without interruption. How would she take it? What would she say?

  “I’m so sorry for you, Noah. You can never forget your past. Nor would I want you to. You should and you will honor Isobel’s memory for the rest of your life. And you will love her. But you have a future as well. Trying to make that future as rich and as happy as you can does not sully your wife’s memory.”

  After that, Noah and Maribeth began to keep steady company. He discovered that she wrote poetry, was expert in renaissance art, and volunteered at a settlement house in Hell’s Kitchen. Noah asked her once why she saw him instead of one of the many society beaus that would have fought to gain her affection. She replied that she was seeking substance, not wealth. Two months later, he asked for her hand. She had accepted instantly, and as one of the perquisites of their engagement, Noah now attended the weekly family dinners at Gramercy Park.

  As they pulled up to the door, Alan sighed. “Well, Noah, as the bard said, ‘Once more unto the breach’ . . . or was that Wilde?’”

  The De Kuypers lived in a three-story, brick town house that faced east on Gramercy Park. Edwin Booth had once lived in the house four doors down. The interior was opulent and overdone, packed with antique furniture and adorned throughout with a series of pedestals upon which sat busts of a variety of ancient Gre
eks and Romans. Adelaide De Kuyper was the daughter of a merchant and had chosen this décor with the impression that it would convey erudition.

  Alan and Noah were the last to arrive, and a servant ushered them into a dining room dominated by a table that could seat twenty, although only seven were present. Instead of placing everyone close together, Mrs. De Kuyper had spaced the chairs so that she and her husband could each have an end.

  Either in recognition of the natural split in the family or by chance, Noah, Maribeth, and Alan sat one side of the table, Jamie and his wife, Rosa, on the other. Noah greeted his future in-laws, took Maribeth’s hand for a moment, then allowed a servant to seat him. Alan waved the servant off and plopped into his chair. Soup was served almost immediately. Oxtail consommé.

  “You’re just in time,” Jamie crowed, raising his glass, which was emptied regularly. “I was about to propose a toast.” Jamie was three years Alan’s junior, as wide as Alan was tall. He had taken it into his head that a successful banker must be as immense as Old Man Morgan. “To Admiral Dewey!”

  “Here, here, Jamie,” extolled his father, raising his glass as well. “To Admiral Dewey.”

  “Do you also offer a toast when someone swats a fly?” Alan asked.

  “Eyewash, Alan,” grumbled his father. “A nation needs heroes. They are the glue that holds a people together in common purpose. Promote patriotism. Do you find something objectionable in that?”

  “What about Mark Twain?” Alan asked after the glasses had been replaced on the table. “One of the great men of American letters. Didn’t he write ‘There must be two Americas: one that sets the captive free, and one that takes a once-captive’s new freedom away from him, and picks a quarrel with him with nothing to found it on; then kills him to get his land?’”

  Maribeth sniffed. “I believe you memorized that passage specifically for the occasion, Alan. Can we expect any other homilies this evening?”

  “Mark Twain is a fool,” Jamie sniffed, before Alan could reply. “I suspect he is secretly one of those radical socialists who countenance planting bombs in theaters.”

  “Quite so,” growled his father. “What is the matter with you, Alan? Has treating all those immigrants turned you against your country?”

  “Never, father,” Alan replied. “My country, right or wrong . . .”

  “Do you think your country is wrong, Alan?” It was his mother.

  “I could never countenance bullies,” he replied.

  “And you, Noah?” she asked, then blotted her lips with her napkin.

  “I confess to being uncomfortable with hero worship.” Maribeth’s father and Jamie glowered, very much two generations of shared values, but Noah pushed on. “And the Filipinos seem no match for our military. But I hesitate to judge in matters of which, in truth, I know so little.”

  “That’s not what you told me when we were alone,” Alan pointed out. “Don’t be cowed by these two.”

  “Leave him be, Alan,” Maribeth chided. “You seem to be descending into a bit of a bully yourself.”

  “Hear, hear,” Jamie intoned. He raised his glass, with his first smile of the night. “A toast to Alan, the bully.”

  “How do you feel about the war, Noah?” asked Mrs. De Kuyper. “The truth, please. You are going to be a member of the family. You may certainly feel free to be as intemperate as Alan.”

  “It’s as I said, Mrs. De Kuyper. Our soldiers are performing honorably, but it doesn’t seem much of a fair fight. There is danger in winning so easily. There are many in our government who itch to join the race to empire that has infected much of Europe. That race, if history is any judge, will surely lead to war. Real war, not like this one. Defeating an old crippled Spain is one thing; war with Great Britain, France, or Germany will be quite another. My complaint, I suppose, is with the people back home who are using the war to increase their own prestige.”

  “Like TR?” demanded Oscar.

  “Enough politics, Oscar,” Adelaide De Kuyper told her husband, as the soup was cleared and the lamb served. She was imperious and commanding, what Mildred Anschutz would grow into if Pug was promoted to general. “I prefer to toast our beautiful daughter and her fiancé and their impending wedding on May 15 in the first year of the new century. To long life, happiness, and many children.”

  Oscar’s scowl turned to a beam. “Hear, hear.”

  “Indeed,” Jamie chimed in, although with slightly less enthusiasm. He had always complained that Maribeth got more attention even though she was a girl. “To my sister’s marriage to a successful doctor.” Oscar had been stunned by Noah’s refusal to abandon the family practice and set himself up, with his new father-in-law’s help, on Park Avenue.

  Alan raised his glass. “To Noah’s success. A successful doctor is almost as good as a dishonest banker, right Jamie?” Alan turned to Noah. “But he might not stay successful if he gets on the wrong side of Dr. Dollars.”

  “And who is Dr. Dollars, Alan?” Rosa asked with a tiny smile. Jamie’s wife bisected the continuum between attractive and plain, and had decided shy amiability was the most likely mien to help her husband further his career. At Jamie’s insistence, she had attempted to supplement the absence of natural beauty with an expensive trousseau, but lacking grace and self-confidence, the clothes accentuated her lack of appeal rather than camouflaging it.

  “That’s just what I call this fellow Frias,” Alan replied. “He thinks medicine has an obligation to make him rich. Jamie would like him.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being successful,” his father intoned.

  “Frias? Arnold Frias?” Jamie asked, ingesting a large bite of lamb and washing it down with a swig of wine.

  “Yes,” Alan replied. “Do you know him?”

  “Customer of the bank. Good-looking man.” Jamie grabbed a roll off the tray. “Was in just last week, as a matter of fact.”

  “What about?” Alan asked.

  “Dunno. I’m not in the loan department.” Jamie smeared butter on the roll and took a bite.

  “He came in for a loan?”

  Jamie paused, the buttered roll suspended near his mouth. “That’s usually why people come to the loan department, Alan. Went right to see Mr. Dansfield himself. Him and the other fellow.” Homer Dansfield was president of First Mercantile Bank, and Jamie breathed his name worshipfully.

  “Was the other fellow named Smith?” Alan asked.

  “Dunno. I told you. Not my department. Wouldn’t have been Smith though. Schmidt maybe.”

  “He was German, this other fellow?”

  Jamie quaffed more wine. “Yes, Alan. German. Schmidt. My, you are obtuse tonight.”

  Conversation settled in after that, the De Kuypers bickering their way through the next three courses. Noah was grateful that their byplay was so ingrained that no one seemed to notice that he had little to say. His mind was still on Frias and the failed tests in the laboratory.

  “You will continue without me,” Maribeth said, after dessert was cleared. “I’m going to give Noah a respite.”

  Oscar and Adelaide watched with approval as their daughter left the table with her fiancé. They didn’t totally approve of Noah, perhaps, but what parent is not buoyed by the sight of a happy child?

  Maribeth led him to a sitting room. “Noah, what’s wrong tonight?”

  “I lost a patient last night. Another doctor’s patient, actually. I was only there because of the emergency.” Noah was grateful to have Maribeth to speak to about it. She was one of those rare people who could make another feel better just by listening.

  “I’m so sorry, Noah.” Maribeth placed her hand on his. Her skin was always cool. She seemed never to perspire. “Was there something special about this patient?”

  “It was a child. A boy. Only five.”

  “Oh, Noah. How terrible. To have it been a . . . someone else’s patient.”

  “Thank you, Maribeth.”

  “Noah, I am so proud of you. So proud that I will be
your wife, no matter what featherhead Jamie says. Healing the sick, giving comfort to those who are in pain or afraid . . . there is no nobler calling. Mother and father think so as well, although I know they are not free with compliments.”

  “That is very kind of you, Maribeth. Unfortunately, I don’t always heal the sick.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Noah, if medicine was as easy as all that, everyone would do it. It is the very element of risk . . . and your willingness to take that risk . . . and Alan’s . . . that makes what you do so important. So special.”

  He placed his other hand on top of hers. “You are really quite extraordinary, Maribeth. I don’t deserve you.”

  “Oh yes, you do.” She smiled. “You deserve to be taken care of and loved. I intend to do quite a bit of both.”

  “Mrs. Jensen will be jealous.”

  “Mrs. Jensen will be just fine. As long as we get someone else to cook.”

  “She’ll be crushed, but I’ll break the news to her somehow.” He took her hands in his. “I would never want to hurt you, Maribeth. I care for you deeply.”

  “Do you, Noah? Do you really?”

  “Yes, Maribeth. I do.” He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips were soft, supple, under his. She eyed him strangely when they pulled apart. Noah knew she wanted more, so he kissed her again, this time longer and more deeply. She smiled afterward. Relief as much as happiness. Why could he not feel more for her? Perhaps real love comes only once.

  “We best rejoin the others,” she whispered.

  Oscar was waiting in the foyer. He called Noah into his study.

  “You are determined to remain in Brooklyn?”

  “I must stay where my patients are, sir.”

  De Kuyper nodded perfunctorily. “I suppose I must find that admirable. You will, of course, move to more suitable lodgings?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wish my daughter to live in a proper fashion.”