The Address(28)

A loud noise rumbled through the basement, like an earthquake. Bailey looked up in alarm.

“Just the subway. Although sometimes I do hear screaming at night.”

He was trying to scare her.

Bailey shrugged. “I assume a place like this has lots of ghosts, so much tragedy inside these walls.”

“We don’t discuss that. Not with outsiders.”

“I’m not exactly an outsider. My grandfather was raised here; he was Theodore Camden’s ward. There’s another tragedy for you. Another murder. Almost like the building’s cursed.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He looked like he was about to lock her in the storage room and leave her there. She’d told Kenneth she’d handle the guy with kid gloves. Even if he didn’t really deserve it. Talk about prickly.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to overreach.” She stepped out of the small space. “Is there somewhere else you’d like us to put everything?”

He led her to another locked door. She’d become disoriented, and was no longer sure which side of the building they were on. The room was all interior, no windows at all. He flicked on the light switch and she caught her breath. It was a catacomb for the glorious detritus of the Dakota: four claw-footed tubs, dentil molding, mantels, baseboards, dozens of massive mahogany pocket doors. Her eye traveled over piece after piece, some in fine condition, others nicked and scratched. An old chandelier sat on top of a beat-up grand piano, and a trio of trunks were piled up in the far corner.

“This is so sad. Like the Land of the Forgotten Toys.”

“At least we know things are safe here.” He pointed to the trunks. “You can have your guys move those into the alcove to make more room. But you’ll need to supervise your workers both coming and going. I don’t want to find anything missing.”

“I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“Like earlier at Kenneth’s?”

She’d had enough of his smugness. “You know as well as I do that when renovations happen in New York City, things break. I’ve offered to make it right, and, to be honest, I’m not sure what else you expect me to do. I can’t change my client’s tastes. This is my job, this is how I make money.”

His lips parted, as if he was about to say something. But instead, he slid the key to the room off the key ring and placed it in Bailey’s palm.

“Give this back to me when you’re through.”

He turned and walked away, leaving her unsure if they’d reached a détente or if she’d simply harangued him into submission.





CHAPTER TEN



New York City, September 1884


Sara awoke early the day after the trek into town and headed downstairs to the tailor’s room. The Singer sewing machine was one of the latest models, with ample room for cloth on the walnut cabinet and a smooth, shiny shuttle. She placed her feet on the treadle, gave the shuttle a whirl, and the machine clattered into action. The years away from a sewing machine had taken their toll, and at first the work took longer than usual. She couldn’t help but worry that Mrs. Camden, with her fine upbringing, might make fun of the curtains when she eventually saw them. Laugh with her husband at the sight of such simple window dressings.

Eventually, the fabric slid under her fingers with ease. Once finished, she folded the material into a large square before working on her own. On the last hem, the thread bunched up, creating a small bird’s nest on the underside of the fabric. As she concentrated on rethreading the machine, a shiver of memory ran through her. Rose-colored silk, smooth under her touch. Mr. Ainsworth, standing behind her, placing a large hand on her shoulder. How the strength of him was palpable, and how her heart had beat faster at his praise. He’d taken his hand away quickly, but then came more touches, more familiar, lingering ones that she squirmed under.

“Mrs. Smythe.”

She jumped, pricking her finger. Luckily, the fabric remained unstained. Mrs. Haines stood in the doorway, her thick eyebrows giving the unfortunate effect of a perpetual scowl.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Camden asked for you. He’s in his apartment.”

“Thank you.” She stood and gathered up her work. “I’ve made him some curtains to keep out the sunlight. He’s probably eager to receive them.” Why was she explaining? Mrs. Haines was not her employer.

“Right, ma’am.”

Always the cipher, that one. Between Daisy’s chattiness and Mrs. Haines’s reticence, at least her charges balanced each other.

To her disappointment, Mr. Douglas was with Mr. Camden when she entered the library, the finished curtains in her hand.

“Ah, good. Mrs. Smythe.” Mr. Camden looked at the cloth in her arms, confused.

“Your curtains.”

“Right, yes. Leave them over there on the windowsill.”

“Of course.” She put them down on a chair to the side of the window. If he opened it, the dust from the roadway might dirty the cloth. But he didn’t seem to care about the curtains. In fact, all of the familiarity of the previous day was gone from his demeanor. He barely looked up at her as he and Mr. Douglas ran through a list of items with her to be taken care of before opening day.

A vague frustration settled over her, but she shrugged it off quickly. Her job involved keeping the tenants happy, and Mr. Camden was a tenant. Not a friend. Best to remember that and not overstep her official duties.