Benson's House: A Novel

By John Milner

The 1864 art debut of Sarah Taggart Bensons spurred wide acclaim among New York society. Many thought a woman artist would not be taken seriously, but her popularity grew, spawning an insurrection against rigid Victorian standards, and a following of counter-culturists known as the Urban Romantics. They congregated in the downstairs galley and in the basement tavern of the brownstone she shared with her husband in Greenwich Village. The rooms evolved in accord as a center of a new artistic universe known affectionately as Bensons House. Then one day the balance became unbroken.

Throughout five generations, her family kept hold of the reins of the chariot, cultivating art and music to restore the balance and speak for the common man against the oppressions of institutional authority. The culture grew with certain defiance, nurturing slave songs to speak boldly throughout Post Impressionism, Jazz, Flappers and Bootleg Whiskey, The New Masses, Folk Music, Beatniks, and disciples of Rock & Roll.

This is their saga - an American love story accumulated over a hundred years - passed down through the generations by tavern discourse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483654508

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

J ustin Benson returned from the war, arriving in New York by ferry on the afternoon of November 25, 1863. Keeping with the passengers’ measured departure, he moved down the gangplank onto the Hudson River promenade, marching with self-assurance but with no idea where his march would end. He had come to New York City to fulfill a destiny but with no idea where it would be found.

Distancing himself from the ferry docks, Justin found himself marching alone. His swagger began to move with less confidence. He felt unease as two bonneted women approached from the opposite direction. Their style of dress seemed unfamiliar and formal. They wore decorative shawls covering the shoulders of brocade blouses, and their full-length skirts rustled on the swaying motion of layered petticoats. Their nods and smiles were greeted with his expressionless stare as they passed by.

An old man sitting on a side bench raised his cane like a marcher’s baton, touching its hilt against the brim of his stovepipe hat. God’s speed, soldier, the old man offered.

Justin heard the cries from a flock of seagulls. They hovered above him, hanging in midair like religious icons in the briny breeze—lifting and dropping like kites in the wind before angling to glide north above the tree line. Justin listened to their abating calls while watching their fleeting flight.

Follow the birds, the old man shouted, leaning back in his seat, cackling with the absurdity of his suggestion.

With God’s speed, Justin replied, turning his back on the harbor ships that sailed on the jeweled waters rippling beneath the late afternoon sun. His march now led north on Whitehall Street and into the heart of the city’s lower west side.

The bird chase led him into Bowling Green Park where he stopped to rest against a large maple tree. Removing the haversack and bedroll from his shoulders, Justin paused to consider his less-than-abundant prospects. He had no place to stay and had spent his final service pay getting to New York. He felt hungry and in need of a bath and fresh clothes. The pursuit of the birds seemed unnecessary and meaningless.

Excuse me, soldier. Oh, soldier boy, yoo-hoo!

Justin looked up to notice the girl a few feet before him. She stood in a camel-brown, ankle-length, wool coat, cradling a sketch pad in her arm and clenching a wooden case in her opposite gloved hand.

Excuse me, would you indulge me a moment? I’d like to compose a sketch of you.

What?

Her cheeks were blushed by the climate of the autumn afternoon.

I’d like to draw you.

Draw me?

I’ll pay you of course.

Pay me for what?

To pose, she replied curtly.

Fearing he had upset the girl, Justin nodded and asked what she expected him to do.

I just simply need you to stand while I take a likeness of you.

You wanna pay me to just stand here?

I would be obliged.

Fine, do what ya may. Justin leaned against the tree, cocking back the brim of his forage cap while studying her movements and pondering her intentions.

She bent down to remove a piece of charcoal from her pine case then stood while opening her sketchpad to a blank sheet. You are indeed an interesting subject. Do you have a name, soldier?

I’m called Benson, Justin Benson.

Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master. Benson. I’m Sarah Taggart.

How ya do, Miss. Taggart.

Sarah released a nervous giggle, which inspired his grin as he relaxed his stance. She didn’t allow his movements to disrupt her concentration. With an eye on her subject, she paced as she drew, positioning her head to inspect angles and examine details in the characteristics of the young blond soldier.

Did you see much action in the war, Justin Benson?

I fought a bit in Virginia then later north at Gettysburg, he replied, crossing his arms with portentous flair.

Really? Did I not hear somewhere that battlefield was recently declared a national cemetery?

Yep, was there when they did it.

Really? You saw the president? She disrupted her artistic concentration.

Uh-huh, he stood above the spot where the rebel soldier died.

What rebel soldier?

The question upset his newfound poise. This boy I watch die in battle.

Oh.

Justin changed the subject to stop the awkward silence. Look, I have this. Reaching down into his haversack, he retrieved a page from a newspaper. This was given to me by a paperboy in town the day after the event.

He handed her an article on the commencement ceremony, along with the related text to Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.

Fascinating, you witnessed history in the making, Justin Benson. It will be something to tell your grandchildren about. You must always keep this as a memento of that day. She folded the paper and returned it to him. Justin placed the article in his haversack as Sarah continued studying his expression, pondering her attraction to his innocence and the sudden feeling of responsibility for his fostering. Justin, where are you heading?

I have no idea.

Well, the afternoon is waning, she said, looking toward the sky while closing the cover of her sketchpad. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I wonder if you would escort me to dinner at my parents’ home in Chelsea Commons.

Okay.

We will, of course, have to find you some new clothes. You must agree?

He began brushing the dust from his soiled uniform, pausing as he decided not to draw further attention to his tousled wears. I reckon, he replied.

Then it’s settled. I promised to compensate you for posing today, which I will fulfill by purchasing you a new wardrobe. I see you have a bedroll there. She pointed to his gear. You may set it up at my place tonight and stay until you find a permanent place of your own.

I can’t do that.

Why not?

’Cause it ain’t proper.

Not proper by whose standards?

Aw, I do not wanna burden you, Miss Taggart.

Oh, I see. Well, first of all, Justin Benson, you will from this moment on address me as Sarah. Secondly, I will make it clear to you when you’ve become a burden to me. Finally, and I don’t know as of yet why, but my intuition tells me that our meeting today has a purpose.

Startled by her remark, Justin thought about the dream he had in Gettysburg on the night before the ceremony to consecrate the Civil War Cemetery. He wondered if the foretelling vision was now taking place.

What purpose? He asked.

I’m not sure, but I sense that it is good.

Justin agreed and picked up his haversack and bedroll, Sarah’s case and pad and followed her out of the park.

They made their way toward Sarah’s studio next to the Merchant Exchange building on the corner of Wall Street and Pearl. Carriages raced by in both directions. Pedestrians moved along the sidewalks in haste with no attempts to salute or gestures of greetings.

My, people sure do move a lot quicker here then they do along the waterway. Where’s everyone goin’?

Wherever they have to be.

Why in such a hurry?

I suppose it’s because they should have been wherever they are going by now. We must hurry too. It’s getting late.

They entered her building and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Sarah found her key to unlock the door of a small but comfortable one-room studio. Three large windows across the east wall provided adequate lighting. One side of the room was her sleeping area. The other side, divided by a mere curtain, contained a small kitchen area, a dining table, and her easel and paints. Beneath the large windows stood stacks of finished canvases, each row marked by a place card taped to the windowsills.

Let’s see now, oh yes. She went to her nightstand and found a measuring tape in the drawer. Justin, hand me the small pad from my case along with a piece of charcoal please.

He removed his haversack and bedroll, found the pad and charcoal, and handed it to Sarah.

Extend your arms, she instructed as she began to measure him for his new set of clothes. When she finished, she turned in haste. I’m going to the Marble Palace to purchase you some clothes. There’s a common bath area down the hall and towels and soap in the cabinet above the kitchen sink. She pointed to a key hanging on a brass hook beside the door. Lock up while you take your bath. I shall be back shortly. She opened the door before pausing with her back turned. I have a good feeling about you, Justin Benson. This meeting was meant to be.

Justin stood listening to her footsteps fading down the hallway, attempting to recall the last time he felt warm inside a building sheltered from the elements of nature.

He found the soap and towels and held them against his chest as he took the key. Locking the door behind him, Justin stepped into the hallway. A window at the far end revealed an alleyway that prevented the daylight from reaching that area of the building.

Inside the bath area, Justin found a candle and a box of matches upon a windowsill. He placed the towels on the adjacent sink then lit the candle before adjusting the silver facet knobs to stream water into the tub. Removing his sullied uniform, he eased into the hot bath. The knobs creaked as he closed the faucets. The rushing water receded into a sudden stillness.

A gust of wind whistled through the cracks on the mullion, rattling the window panes and fanning the candle flame to toss flickering shadows across the white tiled walls. Its iridescent light resembled the flashes of gunfire on the night of the second day of the battle in Gettysburg. Leaning back into the bath water, Justin surrendered to the sound of the autumn wind and the manic light display. His thoughts returned to the despondencies of war. He began to sense the distinct smell of gunpowder mixed with the stench of blood-soaked soil. He felt a sudden chill defy the tepid waters. His newfound peace now violated by war reflections. His thoughts returned to vivid memories of the cannons positioned on the outskirts of town.

They stood on a knoll the villagers called Cemetery Hill. Equipped with a bucket of water and a worm tool, the young soldier stood beside two twelve-pound smoothbores, swabbing out the barrels after each case was fired. The occasional rifle shot, whizzing passed his ears, sounded between the frequent cannon blasts.

Justin shivered with recollections of men seen cut down in the fields below. The images played in his mind. The wasted lives like rag toys on the battlefield scattered beneath the powder smoke swirling in the muggy skies on that July afternoon.

In the twilight, two brigades of Confederate soldiers attempted a bayonet attack upon Cemetery Hill. The young soldier abandoned his cannon duty, taking his musket to drive the enemy from the hill. The conflict lasted hours, and the formation held its rank.

The Confederate brigade had been driven from the hill just after midnight.

The battle sounds subsided to the distant popping of gunfire and the occasional yelps of warriors. Justin remembered how comforting the tranquility of night seemed following a day of constant bloodshed.

When handed a lantern by one of the corpsmen, he left his post to explore the field below. Exhausted and hungry, he staggered down the slope, sensing the carnage that lingered all around him. Anguished cries from wounded soldiers filled the night. Lantern lights dotted the battlefield like fireflies, mostly used by the Ambulance Corps.

A young Rebel soldier lay wounded on the ground. Justin lowered his lantern for a closer inspection. The soldier’s dark hair appeared matted with soil, sweat, and blood that streaked down the sides of his face, his chest billowing with each gasping breath. His right leg was gone just below the knee. Speckles of crimson blood encrusted the stalk of bone that extended below the ridge of jagged flesh and the frayed fabric of his pant leg. The wound oozed into a coagulating puddle upon the field. Flies buzzed franticly beneath the lantern light.

Water.

Sure, Justin recalled saying as he placed the lantern on the ground, stooping down to uncap his canteen. Bracing the soldier’s head in his trembling hand, Benson brought the contents of the canteen to the warrior’s mouth.

The soldier took several gulps then asked to be lowered back down.

Look at the sky.

The gun smoke swirled above them like a silvery cloud beneath the full moon and twinkling stars.

I lie here thinkin’ . . . . the gun smoke’s a veil… keeping me in a web.

Justin felt responsible; convinced the shrapnel fired from his cannon case caused the soldier’s fate.

Let me get one of the Ambulance Corpsman.

No, the soldier insisted, too late.

Would you like some more water?

The Rebel shook his head; his bloodshot eyes focused distinctly upon the gun-smoke web. I’m sorry, he recalled the Rebel muttering.

Sorry for what?

The soldier lay panting for several moments. Man’s God’s finest creation… what a shame we treat his works… with such reckless abandon. Stillness followed his final deep breath until the air was slowly exhausted from his lungs.

A faucet droplet plunked into the bath water, startling him into forfeiting the image of the Rebel soldier.

Justin stood and began draining the water from the tub. Draping himself in a couple of towels, he collected his uniform in his arms and carried the candle back to the studio. He felt alienated once again and trembled with his war memories.

While folding his uniform and placing the pile beside his bedroll, Justin noticed a stack of paintings and began leafing through them. They all held a common theme of people on the streets, sitting outside cafes, or standing collectively in front of buildings. The images were rich in texture and tone, each subject revealing an emotion that seemed quite genuine.

He discovered a painting of a little girl sitting on the front steps of a building. She examined a brightly colored ball held in her fingertips as if gazing into a crystal ball. Her expression and deep concentration caused Justin to wonder what her thoughts would reveal.

Unrolling his bedding, he rested in a prone position, placing the candle near the painting. The light played upon the little girl’s face. Justin imagined himself sitting beside her on a warm summer afternoon, far removed from the torments of war.

He gazed at the image until sleep took hold then blew out the candle flame. He watched its amber tip glow in the dark like a distant constellation. It soon faded to black and lured him to sleep.

Wake up, sleepy head.

The voice of his redeemer aroused him.

You back already? He asked groggily.

Already, my dear Justin, it is morning. Happy Thanksgiving.

Justin rubbed his eyes to adjust to the morning light.

I never heard you return. Why didn’t you wake me?

No need. The carriage chauffeur helped me bring the boxes upstairs. There are your new clothes. She pointed to a stack of boxes lying beside her bed. You may draw the curtain and dress in there.

Still draped in the towels, Justin went behind the curtain and began opening the new packages of clothing. He felt like a child on Christmas morning. There was an overcoat, shoes, socks, pants, shirts, even undergarments and pajamas. He dressed before opening the curtain. How do I look?

Sarah turned and smiled. Handsome.

In the corner of Sarah’s sleeping area, a full-length vanity mirror reflected the image of Justin’s posturing. He gazed at his reflection, turning frequently while admiring his appearance in new civilian clothes, Sarah, ya gone too far in your generosity.

Nonsense. I’m confident you will return the favor many times over. I see you’ve discovered one of my children. She pointed to the painting of the girl with the ball.

That little girl’s yours?

Well, sort of. I regard all my paintings as my children. You, sir, are the first to ever see them. What do you think?

They’re wonderful.

Sarah began elaborating on the styles and techniques she used on each painting. Each grouped in series marked by the place cards on the windowsills.

While describing her works, a knock came at the door. Sarah answered as her enthusiastic discourse on her art continued. A chauffeur appeared to take them to her father’s house.

Oh, do come in, she demanded. You shall be the second person to observe my paintings.

Yes, ma’am, the chauffeur replied.

Benson and the driver watched Sarah’s passionate lecture on art play out. Then after some length, she finally stopped talking.

Well then, she said, pausing to catch her breath, what do you think?

A moment of silence was broken by the chauffeur’s words. Miss Sarah! I believe it be time to go to your father’s for dinner.

CHAPTER 2

T hey pulled into the drive off Tenth Avenue, approaching the three-story brick manor framed against an expansive view of the Hudson River. Pebbles popped beneath the carriage wheels as it climbed the slope of the Chelsea Common property. A man wearing a tailcoat and knee breeches stood on the porch to meet the carriage as it halted before the home.

Miss Sarah, you are late, and just who is this gentleman with you?

Happy Thanksgiving, James. His name is Justin Benson.

Does your mother know you brought a guest? He stepped off the porch to accept Sarah’s hand.

She’ll find a way to accommodate. She always does.

Justin followed Sarah and the statuesque footman up the wooden steps to a large oak door, which James held as Justin stepped inside. He paused before a grand staircase with rungs covered in lush burgundy carpeting. Two bronze chandeliers stood upon the base of its banisters, each with splayed arms holding globes of ivory light.

His eyes followed the arched pathway of mahogany railings. They rose to a landing where patterns of a large stained glass window radiated in the late morning sun. Justin felt like a sinner kneeling before the altar of an ancient cathedral. He felt ordinary, and his estrangement to the newfound world began to take hold again.

This way, young man, James said, pulling two sliding doors open. Justin moved to Sarah’s side as they entered the dining room.

The guests—already seated at the table—were mostly employees of Taggart’s real estate holding company. Sarah sensed her father’s scorn, knowing her intrusion disrupted his holiday ritual. Edmund Taggart’s carving of the turkey no longer attracted the center of attention. Her mother, Deloris Taggart, jumped from her seat and ran to her daughter’s side. Why, you never mentioned bringing a guest, Sarah?

A last-minute decision, Mother, this is my friend Justin Benson.

How do you do, ma’am?

Yes, charmed, Deloris responded with supercilious intent, directing the servants in arranging another place at the table.

The seated guests maneuvered their positions as a chair and placement utensils were brought to the table. Edmund Taggart kept carving, making no attempt to acknowledge the rearrangement, his daughter, or his daughter’s guest.

A servant decanted wine into each guest’s glass. He filed pass Justin as he and Sarah found their corner seats on opposite sides of Edmund Taggart. Edmund stood and raised his glass when all were filled.

I want to thank all in attendance for coming here this evening to celebrate the final Thanksgiving at the Chelsea home. As you all are well aware, the city plans for urban land development and call for the place to be demolished next year. I assure you all, they paid me handsomely to accept their decision.

Mumbling laughter followed as Justin stared at the silverware positioned before him. He looked across the table at Sarah. She picked up a fork with her left hand and began mouthing her instructions to start with it and work toward the plate.

I want to especially welcome my daughter and her escort, Taggart continued, whose qualities I’m unfamiliar with, but will be revealed—I assure you—through polite interrogation over the course of the evening.

Murmurs of anticipation swept the table as everyone prepared for the prospects of the proposed evaluation.

Deloris Taggart sat at the opposite end of the table. Her elbows cocked to hold her wine glass close to her lips. She watched as Justin followed Sarah’s instruction, lifting his fork with trepidation. His appearance seemed unbalanced. He dressed in the finery of a gentleman, but his blond hair appeared unkempt and his table manners clumsy. His eyes revealed the fear of facing any inquiries, which prompted her to speak. Tell me, young man, where is your family from?

Justin felt flushes of panic with having to address the question. Outside New York, ma’am.

I see. Specifically where outside of New York?

He looked up to face the hostess’s contemptuous smirk. I’m from the wilderness.

Edmund Taggart paused from receiving the portion of greens held on the prongs of his fork. Could you be more precise? he asked.

I reckon I could give it a try, he responded, not knowing what the word precise meant.

Tell me, another from the table asked, are you related to the Bensons of Canaan, Connecticut?

Justin let out a sigh. I ain’t related to any family of Benson.

I don’t understand.

The question compelled Deloris to speak. Yes, perhaps young Benson is trying to tell us that he feels unrelated to family ties, and that he is genuinely his own person.

Deloris teetered in her seat. She tossed her head to adjust a mane of white hair while flaunting a glass in her right hand. She had obviously tasted more wine than socially acceptable by a lady of her means.

Her mother’s inebriated display prompted Sarah’s giggle. It caused her father to remove the napkin from his lap and fling it upon his plate.

Father, Sarah attempted while composing her laughter, Justin has recently returned from service in the Union Army. Sarah used her father’s contempt for the war to divert his attention from his wife’s conduct.

Jeff Davis should be hanged for rallying the young men of the south to fight over such an inane and futile cause as secession. The way of the gentry is fleeting. Soon the telegraph will connect our country, and nationwide communication will spur nationwide commerce. Factories in the North will build equipment to harvest cotton more efficiently and humanely than slave labor. The plantation lifestyle is over. You cannot stop progress!

He turned to face his daughter. The Merchant Exchange Building—standing beside where you reside—is an icon of capitalism. Destroyed in the fires of 1835, it is resurrected and stands as a symbol of American financial strength and will for accomplishments. You have no respect for the magnitude of power the workers in that building provide in keeping our country solvent. I grow impatient by your indifferences. I insist that you return home and forfeit this painting idea for a suitable path of a lady of means. You’ll be twenty-one next April. You have until then to find a more sensible interest, or I will find one for you.

What if she can make a livin’ selling her art? Justin asked. Had ya ever seen her work?

That’s irrelevant.

Well, I’m just sayin’ she’s good. She taught herself right here on these grounds when she was just a little girl. Didn’t you never notice? Justin began describing Sarah’s techniques, mimicking words she offered hours earlier.

Although the manner of his defense moved Sarah with affection, it did not persuade Edmund Taggart to alter his opposition. The lifestyle of a painter is unfit for a lady. No one will believe a woman artist capable of serious creative expression.

"You’re askin’ her to give up her life desires. You buy and sell buildin’s, don’t ya? What if she asked ya to give that up? Would ya do it?’

The table erupted with laughter from Taggart’s employees. Give up my properties?

Why sure! Ya ask your daughter to give up her life for you. I bet ya wouldn’t do the same for her.

This is not a wager, Taggart insisted.

Well, maybe it should be! Deloris bellowed with slurred pronunciation.

All eyes turned to the grinning hostess sitting at the other end of the table.

You’re so damn assured your only daughter’s so talentless. Go ahead and make a statement. Wager your life’s achievements against Sarah’s. You don’t have the guts to do it, do you?

Sarah threw her napkin down as she rose from her chair. I don’t see why you all insist on taking liberties with my life.

Others chimed in, and discussions began to surface within collected groups about the table. Deloris Taggart sat at the opposite side of the table, sipping her wine and gleaming with a contented smile. She studied the conversion between her husband and her daughter’s guest. Sarah stood behind her chair, pouting with arms crossed.

Mr. Taggart then rose from his seat and began tapping his glass with a spoon. "I have made a decision. I’m willing to support my daughter’s endeavors until her birthday next year when all compensation will cease unless she returns home to her mother and me. If she chooses to do so, I will find a suitable path for her and demand that she cease this obsession with art. However, if she does prove herself capable of affording herself a comfortable lifestyle as an artiste before then, I will endow her with suitable financing to allow her continual progression."

The room launched into thunderous applause.

Well done! shouted Deloris Taggart.

Sarah uncrossed her arms. What have you done, Justin Benson?

Justin stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. I think I’ve forced ya into makin’ money sellin’ your art.

CHAPTER 3

J ustin awoke before dawn to find Sarah working at her easel. The glow of an oil lamp shone behind her, a dim yellowish light casting her large shadow across the kitchen wall. He lay on his bedroll, watching her movements portrayed in the animated silhouette.

Sarah.

What is it?

I never learned to read or write.

Her reply broke a long pause. Do you want to?

Yeah.

Then you must learn.

I will.

Her shadow hung motionless upon the kitchen wall.

Sarah.

Yes.

I sorta killed men in the war.

I know you did.

Well, there’s this one that I watch die… he spoke to me in a dream.

He did? Well, what did he say?

He said he’s my guardian, seein’ that I make it to a destiny.

What destiny is that?

Justin turned onto his back, cupping his hands beneath his head.

I ain’t sure. Always felt I kept him from crossin’ over into the afterlife. Then on my release from service, I returned to Gettysburg and slept for a short while on Cemetery Ridge. It’s where I was stationed during the battle.

I know. You’ve spoken of it often.

Well, while I slept, I dreamt I lay on a couch in a cave made a stone wit’ walls glistenin’ in cascadin’ waters. The Rebel soldier lay on a couch across from me, and between us stood a large clay vase filled with wine. A boy scooped wine from the vase with a pitcher and poured it into goblets we were holdin’. Then this girl came strollin’ around us. She was naked from the waist up, wit’ a skirt matchin’ a strip a’ fabric she wore as a headband. She played a flute, an’ da notes seemed to be a floatin’ ’round da chamber like tiny bars a’ silver.

Go on, Sarah said.

"Well, I asked da Rebel where were we. He said we were in some sort a way station between what was an’ what will be. He said he awaited passage to da afterlife. I asked if I was dead. He told me no, but that I was to go on a journey. He said he was to be my guardian. Then this sound occurred like rollin’ thunder. The girl’s flute songs ended, and the Rebel soldier said they were rollin’ away a stone. He said a passage opened for the second comin’—a passage that would lead me home.

When I awoke, crowds a’ people were all around me. I looked down on the battlefield and saw a stage. Someone said the president was about ta speak. The stage stood above the spot where I watched the Rebel soldier die. I ain’t sure, Sarah, but I’m thinkin’ this destiny thing has somethin’ to do with you and me, the president, and some place servin’ the people.

I see, Sarah said.

I just wanted you to know that.

Well, thanks.

He heard Sarah pull the lamp down from behind the easel and watched its beam of light rocking across the ceiling.

Why don’t we try to get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk about this in the morning.

Okay, Justin said as he turned to his side.

She held the oil lamp before her, illuminating the passage to her sleeping area and revealing the contour of her body beneath the veil of her nightgown. Justin watched as she drew the curtain. He heard the bed boards’ squeak and the covers toss. Silence followed her faint cough and the dousing of the lamp light. Justin attempted sleep, confused by the sensation her naked form had aroused in him.

He awoke to the aromas of bacon and eggs sizzling in a frying pan, slices of bread toasting in the oven, and coffee percolating on the stove. He gathered his clothes and left undetected to dress down the hall in the common bath area. She smiled as he entered the room. I made breakfast.

I see that.

Sarah tossed her head to prevent her long dark hair from falling onto the plate. She reflected a puzzling expression as she handed Justin his food. What are you grinning at?

Nothin’, he replied, just seemin’ like I’m seeing ya for the first time all over again, that’s all. His mind raced with a newfound intoxication.

Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.

They sat together to consume their meal and to discuss her relation to his visionary destiny.

Justin left later that morning for the job he found as a dishwasher in a tavern on Broadway. He stood for hours cleaning the previous day’s stacks of dishes, pots, and pans, listening to the commotion in the kitchen behind him, taken by the aroma of the meal preparations. While drying the last dish to emerge from the basin of soapy gray water, Justin heard his named called as he wiped his hands upon his damp apron.

Get over here, mate. I got somethin’ for ya.

The young cook, Timmy McCormick, stood behind a butcher block, wrapping a cut of meat in brown paper. Here, take this home to ya girl artist.

Justin draped his apron across the basin then approached Timmy to accept the warm bundle. What is it? he asked.

Mutton, she gonna need representation.

What does that mean?

I hear ya talkin’ the other day ’bout the girl artist. The guy you’re lookin’ for is a man named Edward Sullivan.

Who?

Sullivan, mate. He’s owner of a gallery in Longacre Square, caterin’ to an eclectic array of design, paintin’s, and sculpture. He’s a talent agent as well.

Don’t seem likely I’d meet a guy like that anytime soon.

Timmy smiled. Well, the fates are upon ya, lad. I gotta cousin who bellhops for the Astor House near City Hall Park. He’s told me your man Sullivan’s gonna be meetin’ wit’ John Jacob Astor tomorrow for lunch. They’re to discuss the refurbishin’ of the hotel lobby in the dining hall at noon.

Justin paused. I need to be there.

Well, to pull that off, mate, ya gonna need a hell of a reason to confront John Astor. The man’s the richest in New York, I’m told.

No, I can do this. I’ll just borrow one a’ Sarah’s paintin’s, take it to him, and ask Sullivan to represent her.

Timmy laughed. "As simple as that, aye?

Doesn’t have ta be hard to work, it’s just gotta work.

*     *     *

Justin dressed before dawn then wrapped one of Sarah’s paintings in his bedroll blanket.

Are you leaving already, Justin? she questioned drowsily from behind the curtain.

Yes, Sarah, long day ahead, be home before sunset.

Well, dress warmly. It will be cold.

I am. I promise, he replied, placing his overcoat on before leaving the studio with the blanket-wrapped painting.

Flurries of snowflakes tossed in the predawn light as he headed down Wall Street. He reached Broadway and noticed a tawny glow illuminating from inside the Prancing Pony Tavern where he washed dishes. The light beckoned him to turn into a cobblestone alleyway and proceed to the rear entrance. The thick oak door creaked opened to the smoky warmth of the tavern. Cinders popped and crackled from the dining hall hearth as the light pulsated against the shadowy surroundings. It danced against the staked chairs on tables and off the presence of Timmy sweeping the floor.

Well, mate, you’re up an’ about a wee early now, ain’t ya? Just got here me self.

I’m on my way to the Astor House to see if I can meet Sullivan.

Why, dat meetin’s not ’til noon. You’ll be stone cold roamin’ outdoors ’til then. There’s a pot a coffee brewing on the kitchen stove. I’m just cleaning up from last night. Could use a cup me self to stay alive.

Justin placed the bundle against the wall as Timmy finished sweeping. He brought two mugs to a table, and soon they sat sipping coffee, watching as the pale morning light transformed into a hazy shade of winter that dissolved the frost on the tavern window.

Do ya even know what Sullivan looks like, mate?

I have no idea, Justin confessed.

"He’s a young man, early thirties with black hair and a full beard, very distinguished lookin’, a real gent. He’ll be dinning with John Astor—late forties, gray hair, mutton-chop sideburns, and mustache. His father was considered the Landlord of New York, and his firm, John Jacobs and Sons, owns the Astor."

Sarah’s father’s also in real estate!

True. Yet I can’t believe he’s in the same camp as Astor. Family’s the richest in New York—fur trade I’m told.

Their conversation lingered. They chatted about Justin’s role in the war and his presence at the consecration ceremonies and Timmy’s immigration from Ireland and brief career as a dockworker in Liverpool, England. All the while they drank coffee.

Finally it was time for Justin to leave. Timmy, I’m feeling very peculiar, he said, putting on his overcoat.

Relax, mate. It’s just the coffee affects.

Justin left the inn, carrying the precious bundle on his brisk march down Broadway. Frequent wind gusts forced him to struggle from losing his grip on the painting. He fought with a determination, his thoughts with Sarah.

Justin entered the Astor House gratified to be inside a warm lobby. His heart pounded rapidly from a combination of anxiety and caffeine stimulation. The throbbing in his chest pulsated with the echoing midday commotion from within the hotel lobby. He noticed the desk clerk’s stare as he unbuttoned his overcoat then unwrapped the painting from the blanket. He saw a man stationed at the podium just outside of the dining hall and assumed he would attempt him from reaching his final destiny.

Placing the folded blanket beneath his left arm, he gripped the rim of the painting firmly. Justin began to perspire, feeling faint and barely able to stand. He hadn’t experienced this sort of anxiety since the battles of Gettysburg. The stench of bloodstained earth and gunpowder returned to his senses.

He took a deep breath, held it a second, and then exhaled as he approached an anticipated altercation with the maitre d’.

May I assist you? the man at the podium asked.

Yes. I’m looking for Edward Sullivan, he replied, glancing inside the dining hall and locating the two gentlemen fitting Timmy McCormick’s description.

Are you expected?

Yep! Justin declared while moving beyond the podium.

Excuse me, young man. You cannot enter unannounced!

The words could not curtail him. He picked up his pace, maneuvering around the tables of dinning patrons. Edward Sullivan looked up and smiled as Justin approached.

Excuse me, Mr. Sullivan.

May I help you? Sullivan asked.

What do you think of this? Justin shouted while attempting to balance the painting on the edge of the white linen-covered table.

Now see here! Astor shouted. What is the meaning of this intrusion?

Sullivan raised his hand. Just a moment, John. Why, this is exactly what I was talking about. This is the type of artwork I have been describing.

Sullivan made a hand motion to dismiss the maitre d’ who stood beside Justin, prepared to remove him from the premises.

It is, huh? And who are you? Astor demanded.

I’m Justin Benson, sir!

You are, huh? Well, tell me, Sullivan, is the painting any good?

Actually, John, it is extraordinary!

The painting depicted a man in silk hat and tails, holding the hand of a woman as she stepped from a carriage. Sullivan began to critique with enthusiasm, elaborating on the balance of the painting, the exact proportions of the horse and carriage to the landscape, the posture of the driver, the proper coloring of the woman’s long ruby gown, and the details of her form accented with lighting and brush strokes. He rambled with the same passion Sarah used on Thanksgiving.

"This is just one in a series called Carriages around Town," Justin stated.

Sullivan looked up.

You mean to say there are more of these?

Yes, sir, but can I be excused? I sorta need to relieve myself.

The blight of