them. There were two straight chairs and a sideboard, but little else. She found a well-dressed woman of about thirty sitting on one of the divans, with a cup of tea on the table before her. She had the look of old New York, thick, fair hair above round blue eyes and pink cheeks.
She would be, Harriet guessed, a Stuyvesant or a Steenwijk or a Bleecker, one of the Dutch who had come here, made their money, and for decades dominated the city. She wore a walking suit of tweed, with a tightly fitted jacket over a high-necked shirtwaist and a graceful gored skirt.
Harriet absorbed all this in an instant, including the detail that the young woman had not touched her teacup, nor the small biscuit perched on the edge of the saucer. When the visitor spotted Harriet, she jumped to her feet and held out one gloved hand.
“Miss Bishop, I believe? I hope you don’t object to my calling unannounced.”
Harriet took the young woman’s hand. “Yes, I’m Harriet Bishop. And you are Miss…?”
“Mrs. Mrs. Peter Schuyler. Dora.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Schuyler.” Now that she was closer to her visitor, Harriet saw that the pink in her cheeks was not from health but from embarrassment. Distress had intensified the blue of her eyes. It wasn’t often that someone from the upper classes came in search of Harriet’s help, and when they did, their need was usually desperate.
Harriet said, “Please, do sit down. You should drink your tea. Grace makes exceptionally good tea.” And of course Grace had divined, in her best old-retainer way, that this was not a social call, despite the visitor’s well-turned-out appearance.
“Thank you,” Dora Schuyler said. She sat down again, perching nervously on the edge of the divan, skirts fluttering like the wings of a skittish bird. “This is the first time I’ve been to the Dakota. It’s quite—quite a building, isn’t it?”
Harriet sat down, too, linking her hands in her lap. She knew the process of getting to the purpose of Mrs. Schuyler’s visit could be laborious, wandering through the lanes of polite conversation, twisting and turning until the end point was finally achieved, but she had little patience with small talk. The afternoon was getting on. It was best to move things along.
“I would say, Mrs. Schuyler, that there is no other building like it in New York. I haven’t yet decided if that’s a good or a bad thing. We are certainly well out of the city. You must have come by carriage.”
“I did, Miss Bishop. My landau is waiting in the courtyard.”
“Well, then. Let us not keep your driver waiting. How can I help you?”
As Dora Schuyler began to speak, Harriet bent her head to listen, not only to Mrs. Schuyler’s voice but to her heart. Harriet was adept at hearing the truth beneath a person’s words.
Mrs. Schuyler told her story in a hurried whisper. It was an echo of hundreds of others and as old as time. Her wealthy husband was a good bit older than she. Her marriage had no affection in it. They had two children but had not shared a bed in five years or more. She had met someone, had fallen in love, she had never meant to be indiscreet…
Harriet listened without judgment, and without curiosity for the details. She had heard it all before, though rarely from someone of Dora Schuyler’s social position. She knew the end before her visitor said it, and she knew she would help. It was what she had been born to do, and it prevented women from seeking other, more perilous, frequently fatal remedies.
When the recitation stumbled to an awkward stop, Harriet asked, “Who sent you to me, Mrs. Schuyler?”
“My maid went to the Italian woman’s shop on Elizabeth Street. Do you know it?”
“I do. Then I assume you understand the need for absolute discretion?”
“Yes, but… your housekeeper…”
“Grace has my complete trust, and she understands you and I are both at risk. You needn’t worry.”
The younger woman’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and she groped in her small, soft purse for a handkerchief. She whispered, “I’m terrified, Miss Bishop. I will lose my children if I’m found out. My husband will find an excuse to send me to the asylum, to Blackwell’s Island.” She spoke the name with a shiver of pure horror. “I couldn’t survive it!”
“I understand perfectly.” Harriet spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she were discussing a household shopping list. She would not indulge in sympathy,