New York - The Novel

the dignity of thebusiness. No, he’d write him a note and place it on his desk. Master had the key to the door. If he did come back, he’d be letting himself in, for sure.

    By two thirty, Frank Master was starting to become agitated. Round the corner, at the Second Avenue armory, a huge crowd had surrounded the building. But there was quite a large body of defenders inside, and they were armed. From time to time, stones were hurled into the building, but so far the crowd hadn’t tried to storm it. Meanwhile, there were mobs appearing in one street after another. All around.
    And where the devil was Hetty? Was she trapped down at South Street? Was she trying to walk back on foot maybe? Had she been waylaid? Was she hurt? If there was only some way that he could guess which route she might take, he could go after her. He hardly wanted to admit it to himself, but a terrible feeling of guilt was overwhelming him. If only he hadn’t gone away with Lily. If only he’d stayed to look after her. What agony of mind must Hetty be in, let alone physical danger? His wife’s distraught face rose up in his imagination like a nightmare. He began to have visions of her being chased by rioters, knocked down, worse.
    It was his fault. His alone.
    “Pa.” It was Tom. “We need to get the carriage out. We’ve got to look for Mother.”
    “Yes, I think so too. See to it, will you, Tom? Then I’ll go downtown, and you guard the house.”
    “No, Pa. You better stay while I go. If she gets back here and you’re gone, I don’t know if I can stop her going out again.”
    “That’s nonsense, Tom, I have to go.”
    “Pa, she ain’t going to stay put until she sees you. I’m telling you, it’s you she wants.”

    It was after half past three when the hotel manager came to see Hetty. She had made several applications to the front desk since Sean O’Donnell had left, but to no avail.
    “You’re the first in line,” they had promised her, “but we can’t get any cabs to go uptown.” Lily de Chantal had twice had to restrain her from walking. “I can’t have your blood on my hands,” Lily had cried, the secondtime. Though why Miss de Chantal should be so concerned about her welfare, Hetty couldn’t imagine.
    “Mrs. Master,” the manager said, “there is a lady with a carriage who is going uptown, and who would be prepared to take you.” He looked a little awkward. “I must tell you, it’s the only hope of transport I can offer.”
    “I see. A lady?”
    “Her name is Madame Restell.”

    The wickedest woman in New York sat comfortably back in the plush seat of her carriage and gazed at Hetty. She was large-bosomed and her face was strong. Her eyes, it seemed to Hetty, were those of a bird of prey.
    So this was Madame Restell, the abortionist. Hetty was aware of her by sight, but she had never thought, or wished, to be so close. If Madame Restell guessed all this, which she undoubtedly did, it was quite clear she didn’t give a damn.
    “Well, I found out what I wanted,” she remarked. “That mayor’s a fool.” She gave a decisive sniff. “Almost as big a fool as Lincoln.”
    “I’m sorry you think the president a fool,” Hetty remarked stiffly. She might have accepted a ride, but she wasn’t going to let herself be browbeaten by Madame Restell.
    “He’s caused too much trouble.”
    “You are not a Republican, I take it,” Hetty said.
    “I might be. They say that people should be free to do as they like. That’s what I think. But if they start preaching at me, they can go to hell.”
    “I suppose it depends on what you mean by being free.”
    “I help women to be free. Free not to have a child if they don’t want it.”
    “You arrange abortions.”
    “Not the way you suppose. Not often. Mostly I give ’em a powder that’ll stop it.”
    It was evident that Madame Restell not only liked to do as she pleased, but to talk about it as well.
    “Perhaps in France they do things differently, madame,” Hetty said, politely but firmly.
    This, however, was met with a loud laugh.
    “You think I’m French because I call myself Madame Restell?”
    “I supposed so.”
    “English, dear, and proud of it. I was born in Gloucester. Dear oldGloucester. Poor as church mice, we were. Now I got a mansion on Fifth. And I still think Lincoln’s a fool.”
    “I see.” Hetty let a silence fall. They passed Grace Church.
    “Do you know Lincoln’s wife?” the abortionist suddenly asked.
    “I haven’t