THE BETHESDA FOUNTAIN
1902—New York
Viola pulled the shawl up over her head and tucked it around her chin, keeping her face turned away from the other people riding the streetcar as it traveled north, toward Central Park. Paul thought she was going to the fish market over on Fulton Street, so she’d have to be sure to stop there—or somewhere—before she returned. She couldn’t chance him becoming any more suspicious than he already was. Not when she was getting so close to the information she needed.
She got off the streetcar near Madison Avenue and walked along East Drive through the park until she came to the large open piazza where the enormous fountain stood, topped by a winged angel. She didn’t come to the park much on her own—there wasn’t really a need to. Most days, seeing people lounging about in the grass and enjoying a stroll through the wooded pathways only served to remind her of what she would never have. But on the occasions that she did pass through it, she made sure to take a path that would bring her past this fountain. It depicted the story in the Bible of an angel healing people with the waters of Bethesda.
In a family of Sundren, Viola had been an anomaly. The magic she’d been born with had felt like a mark that meant her life had been damned from the very beginning. So the story of the angel who healed with nothing but some water had always struck something inside of her, as though there were a chance her own soul might be cleaned someday, just the same.
But Viola was not a dreamer. She’d learned long ago that fairy tales were for other people. She lived in the body she’d been given and was gratified with the life she’d made for herself. She didn’t imagine other lives, and she didn’t yearn for impossible things, so it was doubly troubling when her chest felt tight at the sight of the pink muslin and ivory lace on the girl sitting by the fountain.
Ruby was waiting where her note had promised she would be. Next to her was a pile of packages all tied up with string and her fiancé, Theo. He was leaning back on the bench, his hands cradling his head as though he owned the world, and Ruby was writing in a small tablet, her face bunched in concentration. Gone were the sleek dark skirt and high-buttoned shirt finished with a tie, as she’d worn the day Viola had taken the pointless ride in their carriage. Today Ruby’s gown looked like something designed for an innocent debutante. It was the palest pink, with softly puffed sleeves and a delicate flounce of lace at her throat. She looked like a picture, sitting there by the water. She looked untouchable. Impossible.
Some days it seemed as though the pearls Ruby had been wearing the night of Delmonico’s—the delicate strand of ivory beads, and the way they had lain perfectly against the dip at the base of her throat—were seared into Viola’s memory. She had a feeling that this moment would join that memory.
Bah! She shook off the thought and the heat she felt. The weather was changing—that was all. The sun was high and bright, and the warmth she felt brushing against the skin beneath her blouse had nothing to do with the stupid, stupid little rich girl who had been brainless enough to send a note by messenger to the New Brighton—right under Paul’s nose. Ruby was going to get them both killed, but then, what did the rich care about a little thing like dying? They probably thought they could give the angel of death a few dollars and send a servant instead.
Theo saw Viola first and nudged Ruby, who looked up from her writing and squinted across the piazza. The girl’s entire expression brightened the moment she saw Viola coming toward them, and she put the tablet of paper and pencil back into the embroidered clutch hanging from her wrist.
“You came!” Ruby said, and before Viola knew what was happening, she found herself enveloped in the rich girl’s arms and in a cloud of flowers and amber and warmth.
When Ruby released her, Viola’s legs felt weak, and she stumbled backward, her shawl falling from her head as she caught herself. At the sound of Ruby’s gasp, she pulled the fabric back up, covering her head and the side of her face. But Ruby wouldn’t let well enough alone. Silently, her delicate features twisting in concern, she reached up to move it away from Viola’s face.
“Who did this?” Ruby asked, her voice so soft that Viola could barely hear it over the rushing of the fountain’s water.
“No one. It’s nothing,” Viola said, hitching the shawl back up. She knew what Ruby was seeing—the purple-green bruise on the side of her jaw, the cost of slipping out to take the carriage ride without telling Paul where she was going. She’d missed saying good-bye to her mother, and he’d decided to beat some manners into her.
She could have killed him, but instead she’d taken the punishment without fighting. It had seemed to appease him well enough. What else could she do? She couldn’t very well have told him where she’d been. But every time she spoke or took a bite of food, the bruise throbbed, and every time it ached, she promised herself that she’d pay him back tenfold.
Still, Viola felt somehow wrong for being here, with these people. They would hurt Paul if they could—especially the girl. They would break him, destroy him. She should want that—she did want that—and yet, he was still family. Still her blood. She didn’t know anymore if that word meant anything, or if it was just another lie, like happiness and freedom.
“That is not nothing,” Ruby said, reaching for her. “Someone hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Viola said, brushing away her concern. People hurt other people all the time. Why should she be exempt?
Ruby’s manicured fingertips reached to touch her cheek. “We can help you, you know. You don’t have to—”
“Basta!” She pushed away Ruby’s hand again. “What are you going to do? Take me home like some stray dog?”
Ruby blinked, clearly surprised at the tone of Viola’s voice. Probably because no one else had ever dared talk to her in such a way. Ruby Reynolds was the type of girl who’d grown up without hearing the word “no,” and Viola had been born with the taste of it in her mouth.
“Don’t pretend you understand my life,” Viola said, a warning and a plea. “Don’t pretend you can do a thing to change it. And don’t imagine that I want you to.” She raised her chin. “I’ll take care of it myself.” It was a declaration and a promise all at once. “I don’t need some little rich girl’s charity.”
She saw Ruby flinch, but the girl didn’t back down. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to help.”
“I came like you asked,” Viola said, ignoring the hurt in Ruby’s voice. “Now, what is it that you wanted?”
“I thought we could talk.” Ruby worried her pink lower lip with the edge of one of her straight white teeth.
“So talk,” Viola told her.
“Maybe we could go somewhere more private,” Ruby said, glancing around as though she were worried someone might see her talking to a woman as common as Viola.
Viola’s chest felt tight, like when she’d been trussed up in stays that night at Delmonico’s. She shouldn’t have come.
She could still leave. She should, before she allowed this bit of rich fluff to make her start doubting herself or the life she’d chosen. But leaving would mean that Ruby had won, and Viola couldn’t have that, either.
“Fine,” she said, the word coming out even sharper than she’d intended. “Where do you want to go?”
“Perhaps we could take out one of the boats?” Theo said. “It’s a pleasant enough day, and I could use the exercise.”
Viola swallowed the sigh that had been building inside of her. She couldn’t imagine a life so easy, so filled with luxury, that Theo needed to find work. Pointless work, rowing in circles and getting nowhere at all. Ridiculous. But the sooner they were done with it, the better. “Fine,” she said, not quite looking at Ruby. “Let’s go.”