Read Online 31 Bond Street by Ellen Horan - Free Book Online
Authors: Ellen Horan
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
York,” he said, with a sudden seriousness.
“That would be delightful,” she replied nonchalantly. A path led them inside a formal garden enclosed by boxwood. Emma stopped and fingered the blade of a sundial whose base was wound, serpent-like, with ivy. The fragrance of honeysuckle blended with the scent of rose water pressed against the white skin of her bosom. Harvey Burdell’s eyes flashed seductively. He grabbed her, pressing into her with a lingering kiss. She separated after a calculated measure of time. It is done, she thought. But she would not press any gain too soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When a man dies, who can say what deep stains may have rested, at one time or another, upon his soul? What crimes (untouchable, perhaps, by the laws of men or the rules of society) has he committed, either in evil wishes, or in reality?
Walt Whitman
February 4, 1857
H enry Clinton gazed across the East River at spots of sunlight that dappled the gold-flecked steeples of Brooklyn. Bowsprits of schooners formed an arcade across the waterfront, their hulls bobbing at their moorings. At eight thirty in the morning, he was waiting for James Armstrong to arrive from his home in Brooklyn Heights. By arrangement, they would ride uptown to the funeral of Harvey Burdell.
The Brooklyn Ferry lumbered toward Manhattan, slipping sideways, banging against the wharf, as dock hands scrambled to tighten the ropes against the pilings. Commuters hurried off: bankers with bowlers and working girls in gingham, sidestepping horsemanure and piles of snow. Clinton’s carriage tilted on its springs as James Armstrong climbed aboard.
“Morning, Henry,” grumbled Armstrong, arranging his cane, newspapers, and muffler in the small space. Armstrong began each morning in a sour mood that lasted until midday, when his dour face receded behind an inscrutable mask.
“Good morning, James,” said Clinton in a robust tone. He knew that exuberance this early in the morning irritated his partner.
“Uptown, to Grace Church,” called Armstrong. The driver pulled the reins, preparing the horses to lurch into motion. A newsboy ran up, pressing the headline against the glass.
SEVENTY THOUSAND COPIES!
OVER THIRTY THOUSAND EXTRA COPIES HAVE BEEN ORDERED,
SEE A DRAWING OF THE BODY IN ITS CASKET!
SEE DR. BURDELL’S WOUNDS IN DETAIL!
The carriage driver swatted at the boy with a whip, and he tumbled away into the crowd. “My God!” said Armstrong. “It takes eighty-one days for a ship to bring news of the insurrections in China, but the papers are full of this murder, as if the world beyond our shore had simply vanished.” The carriage turned away from the seafront, onto Pearl Street, losing view of the harbor. In the narrow jumble of downtown streets, emporiums spilled their wares onto tables and carts on the sidewalks: wigs and cutlery, adjustable bustles and India rubber gloves. Dry goods stores piled bolts of muslin and flannel; wet good stores sold fabrics from shipwrecks, still crusty with salt.
“Henry, last night I received a visit from Dr. Burdell’s brothers, Gaylord and Thomas. They called on me at home. We spoke for about two hours.”
“The Burdell brothers?” asked Clinton, surprised. “Did they come to you for legal advice?”
“No, they have an attorney to advise them about the ongoing investigation and estate matters. They came because they heard you had visited that woman.” Clinton heard the disapproval in his voice. “Henry, it is ill-advised—no I shall say foolhardy—for you to embark upon this case, and I am dismayed that you are considering it. There is a questionable marriage document, and Harvey Burdell left no will. He was wealthy; he had property in New York and in Elizabeth, New Jersey. His dental practice, although lucrative, had become a sideline for his real estate pursuits. It seems that the Burdell family believes that a defense of Emma Cunningham is an attempt to swindle them out of their brother’s
“That would be delightful,” she replied nonchalantly. A path led them inside a formal garden enclosed by boxwood. Emma stopped and fingered the blade of a sundial whose base was wound, serpent-like, with ivy. The fragrance of honeysuckle blended with the scent of rose water pressed against the white skin of her bosom. Harvey Burdell’s eyes flashed seductively. He grabbed her, pressing into her with a lingering kiss. She separated after a calculated measure of time. It is done, she thought. But she would not press any gain too soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When a man dies, who can say what deep stains may have rested, at one time or another, upon his soul? What crimes (untouchable, perhaps, by the laws of men or the rules of society) has he committed, either in evil wishes, or in reality?
Walt Whitman
February 4, 1857
H enry Clinton gazed across the East River at spots of sunlight that dappled the gold-flecked steeples of Brooklyn. Bowsprits of schooners formed an arcade across the waterfront, their hulls bobbing at their moorings. At eight thirty in the morning, he was waiting for James Armstrong to arrive from his home in Brooklyn Heights. By arrangement, they would ride uptown to the funeral of Harvey Burdell.
The Brooklyn Ferry lumbered toward Manhattan, slipping sideways, banging against the wharf, as dock hands scrambled to tighten the ropes against the pilings. Commuters hurried off: bankers with bowlers and working girls in gingham, sidestepping horsemanure and piles of snow. Clinton’s carriage tilted on its springs as James Armstrong climbed aboard.
“Morning, Henry,” grumbled Armstrong, arranging his cane, newspapers, and muffler in the small space. Armstrong began each morning in a sour mood that lasted until midday, when his dour face receded behind an inscrutable mask.
“Good morning, James,” said Clinton in a robust tone. He knew that exuberance this early in the morning irritated his partner.
“Uptown, to Grace Church,” called Armstrong. The driver pulled the reins, preparing the horses to lurch into motion. A newsboy ran up, pressing the headline against the glass.
SEVENTY THOUSAND COPIES!
OVER THIRTY THOUSAND EXTRA COPIES HAVE BEEN ORDERED,
SEE A DRAWING OF THE BODY IN ITS CASKET!
SEE DR. BURDELL’S WOUNDS IN DETAIL!
The carriage driver swatted at the boy with a whip, and he tumbled away into the crowd. “My God!” said Armstrong. “It takes eighty-one days for a ship to bring news of the insurrections in China, but the papers are full of this murder, as if the world beyond our shore had simply vanished.” The carriage turned away from the seafront, onto Pearl Street, losing view of the harbor. In the narrow jumble of downtown streets, emporiums spilled their wares onto tables and carts on the sidewalks: wigs and cutlery, adjustable bustles and India rubber gloves. Dry goods stores piled bolts of muslin and flannel; wet good stores sold fabrics from shipwrecks, still crusty with salt.
“Henry, last night I received a visit from Dr. Burdell’s brothers, Gaylord and Thomas. They called on me at home. We spoke for about two hours.”
“The Burdell brothers?” asked Clinton, surprised. “Did they come to you for legal advice?”
“No, they have an attorney to advise them about the ongoing investigation and estate matters. They came because they heard you had visited that woman.” Clinton heard the disapproval in his voice. “Henry, it is ill-advised—no I shall say foolhardy—for you to embark upon this case, and I am dismayed that you are considering it. There is a questionable marriage document, and Harvey Burdell left no will. He was wealthy; he had property in New York and in Elizabeth, New Jersey. His dental practice, although lucrative, had become a sideline for his real estate pursuits. It seems that the Burdell family believes that a defense of Emma Cunningham is an attempt to swindle them out of their brother’s
Similar Books
