Bless the Bride

upstairs and the first thing I caught sight of through an open door was a large new four-poster bed.
    “My, but that’s a handsome object,” Sid commented. “It’s clear what’s uppermost on his mind, isn’t it? And yours too, I expect.” And she chuckled.
    To my annoyance I felt myself blushing. The young ladies I had been playing croquet with would have swooned at such a remark and had to reach for the smelling salts. Sid and Gus seemed to think it was perfectly natural to discuss such matters, as I suppose it was in bohemian society.
    “Well, I say that Daniel has done you proud, Molly,” Gus said, wanting to spare my feelings. “I think the redecoration and the furniture are splendid. But you’re not thinking of sleeping here before the wedding are you?”
    “I don’t think I should,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair to Daniel when I’m sure he wants to surprise me. I was hoping I could stay with you until the party.”
    “Of course you can. That way Daniel won’t even have to know that you’re in town,” Sid said. “Come on then. We should make our escape just in case the eager groom puts in an unexpected appearance.”
    I glanced back at that bed as the other two made their way down the stairs. It certainly was impressive—so high and large that I couldn’t imagine how the moving men had carried it up the narrow staircase. For a moment I pictured Daniel and me.… I rapidly reined in where that thought was going. I had kept Daniel at arm’s length for too long, knowing how quickly the fire between us ignited. And now the waiting was almost over. I’m sure it wasn’t proper for a young lady to look forward to her husband’s lovemaking. Mrs. Sullivan had tried to give me gentle hints, warning me of men’s appetites and how we women must endure it for their sakes. To my credit I had managed not to smile.

Three
     
     
     
    When we returned to Sid and Gus’s house, I was itching to seek out the mysterious Mr. Lee, but had to mask my impatience a little longer while Sid and Gus took me up to my room, fussed around making sure that the pillows were to my liking and I had sufficient drawer space, then swept me downstairs to prepare luncheon. In truth I enjoyed eating with them, especially because the meal consisted of crusty French bread and what Sid described as her four-P meal: pâté, Port Salut cheese, pears, and peaches. After Mrs. Sullivan’s stodgy and filling meals it was delightfully informal, but that business card was burning a hole in my dress pocket. Fortunately as soon as the meal was over, Sid was anxious to finish her article, so I took the opportunity to escape, making my way southward to the office on the Bowery.
    The street number indicated that it would be at the bottom part of the street, where it joined Chatham Square, not at the more respectable northern end after all. So my curiosity was aroused even further. What very important man would have offices in an unsavory neighborhood south of Canal Street?
    The day had now become uncomfortably hot and humid, with the threat of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon. I had no wish to walk a step further than necessary and tried to evaluate whether I’d be better off taking the trolley down Broadway and then cutting across Canal Street, or walking from my house to the Third Avenue El and not having to walk at the end of the trip. I decided on the latter and walked in the sedate quiet of Eighth Street, past Astor Place and the Cooper Union building to the nearest El station. I regretted this decision instantly as the train arrived already crammed full, and I was forced to stand between a large Italian woman who reeked of garlic and an equally large laborer who smelled as if he hadn’t taken a bath for weeks. All I could think was thank heavens the line was now electrified or we would have had smoke blowing in through the open windows to add to the mixture of unpleasantness.
    I can’t tell you how glad I was to fight my way to the carriage door at Chatham Square. I came down the iron stairs into that teeming mass of humanity that is the lower Bowery. Trolley cars inched their way up the middle of the street, bells clanging impatiently to force delivery wagons, hansom cabs, and the occasional carriage out of their way. A constable stood on the corner, swinging his billy club in what he hoped was a threatening manner, as crime was rife around here.
    I was already familiar with this area and unexpected memories resurfaced.