The Address(92)

“Where were you?”

“I ran into a couple of potential clients on the train back. They invited me to the Murray Hill Hotel for a drink, and as they are planning on building on a plot they own on Broadway, I thought it was a good idea to go. For the business. For us.”

She had worked herself up into a lather over nothing. The Dakota had the ability to do that, to make you feel like you were the only person within its walls, causing you to become desperate for human contact, particularly at night. The loneliness would dissipate upon awakening the next day, as it had on other nights.

He picked up on her uncertainty. “I know I seem ungrateful, but I am very, very pleased you were there. Minnie had sent the maid home, then fell into a fever. It was all a terrible mess.” His eyes grew teary, his face red. “I should have been home. I had no idea.”

She stood so she blocked the draftsmen’s view through the glass window and lowered her voice. “You couldn’t have known. I’m sorry I was so hard on you. It was a frightening scene.”

He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “Once again, you’ve saved the day. Minnie said to say thank you as well.”

“Will she be all right?”

“The doctor seems to think so. Says it’s common for patients to have recurrences. She was looking brighter this morning, before she left.”

“What about the children?”

“The governess is on her way back. The maids are taking care of them. Such is the privilege of living in an apartment house where the building’s housemaids can take charge in an emergency.”

She thought of the children in that cavernous apartment without their mother. “When is the governess due back?”

“In two days. After all that you’ve done for me, can I ask yet another favor, Sara?”

“Yes, I suppose.” She held her breath, not knowing what to expect from him.

“This morning, Lula asked for you. Would it be a bother if you could stop by the apartment and say hello? I have that blasted dinner with the Builders’ Society. Would that be all right?”

The sweet scent of the baby, the way his fingers curled around hers, invaded her senses. She should say no, but there was no way to explain why not without seeming heartless. “Of course.”

“I wouldn’t be able to manage without you.”

“Thank you, Theo. I’m sorry I was so angry.”

Later that afternoon, he stopped by her desk and placed a piece of paper facedown on it. When she turned it over, it contained an address on Thirty-Ninth Street.

She looked up at him. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you leave early and stop by there. Ask for a Mr. Carmichael.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll see. I don’t want to give away the secret.”

She tucked the address into her satchel and walked along the streets, feeling ever so much lighter. Mrs. Camden being gone again had nothing to do with it, she told herself. Having Theo all to herself again had nothing to do with it.

She couldn’t help but smile when she came to the address. SINGER SEWING MACHINES SOLD HERE. The storefront window overflowed with ribbons and fabrics, needles and thread, and in the middle of it all sat a beautiful black machine, just like the kind the tailor in the Dakota had.

Mr. Carmichael smiled when she said that Mr. Camden had sent her. “Yes, of course, it’s right here. I’ll have one of the boys help you bring it to your carriage.”

She explained that she didn’t have a carriage.

“That’s fine, we’ll get you a hansom cab. There’s no way you’ll be able to carry this yourself.”

The enormous box was wrapped in brown paper and string, with no sign of what was inside. She couldn’t wait to get it home; it was like being a little girl again on Christmas Day. Even if the gifts her mother ultimately gave her were a disappointment—a pincushion or a dreary pinafore—the unwrapping was always a delight.

Two porters carried it up, opened the box, and extricated a brand-new Singer sewing machine. The jet-black body was decorated with apple blossom and cornflower decals, the wrought-iron legs connected with an intricate, weblike pattern. Walnut inserts in the front of the oak cover lent it the air of a valuable piece of furniture, not a practical machine.

Her sewing basket had been stored away in a closet, taken out only for emergency repairs. But now she took it out and spooled black thread on the machine, then laid a scrap of fabric under the needle. Pumping with her feet, she watched as the thread crawled its way up the center of the fabric in perfect even stitches. She could do anything with this machine. Make a runner to cover the scratches on the dining room table, or a new dressing gown.

The Rembrandts’ grandfather clock chimed seven. Sara remembered her promise to check in on the children, and reluctantly packed up her sewing basket and placed the cover over the machine. Downstairs, the Camden flat was in chaos. Emily and the twins were screaming at one another in their room, while the baby cried fat, frustrated tears in the maid’s arms. Sara had hired the maid before she’d been sent away to Blackwell’s, an Irish girl named Siobhan who seemed overwhelmed by the noise and commotion.

“Let me take him.” Sara lifted the boy up and put him over her shoulder, patting his back.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m not quite sure what the children are going on about, but I can’t get them to stop fighting.”