The Angel on Waverly Place

New York, 1893. Lady Adesina Okafor had once again exchanged silk, jewels, and the quiet luxury of Blackwood House for the worn brown walking dress, modest hat, inexpensive gloves, and slightly scuffed boots of Addie Cole, and she was approaching another employment office with the resigned amusement of an immortal woman who had begun to suspect that being rejected by New York society was becoming one of her more dependable forms of entertainment when the door opened and a beautiful young woman stepped out, stopped beneath the awning, and began to cry. Beside her sat another woman in a wooden invalid chair. She was younger by several years, perhaps twenty-two, with dark hair, intelligent eyes, a pale blue wool dress beneath a modest cape, and the expression of someone who had become accustomed to watching her sister suffer while being entirely unable to persuade her not to apologize for it. “Miriam,” she said gently, “please don’t cry here.” “I’m not crying.” “You are doing an excellent imitation.” The older woman laughed despite herself and wiped her eyes. Adesina stopped. She had learned over many lifetimes that women rarely wept in public until private despair had exhausted every other available room. “Forgive me,” she said carefully, “but has the employment office been unkind, or merely useless?” The older woman looked up, embarrassed. “Both, I think.” Her sister studied Adesina with considerably less embarrassment and considerably more curiosity. “You’re looking for work too.” “I am.” “You don’t look very hopeful.” “I have experience.” That earned the first faint smile. The standing woman gathered herself. “My name is Miriam Hale. This is my sister Clara.” “Addie Cole.” Clara tilted her head. “That isn’t your real name.” Miriam stared at her. “Clara!” Adesina looked down at the younger woman. “And what makes you think that?” “I don’t know yet.” The answer was so immediate that Adesina became interested. Miriam sighed. “My sister has instincts.” “They are usually excellent,” Clara said. “They are frequently inconvenient.” “That too.” Adesina smiled. “And what brought you both here?” Miriam hesitated, then looked toward the employment-office door as if the building itself had personally offended her. “I have been offered a position at the Astor Library beginning tomorrow. It is nothing grand, cataloguing and clerical work mostly, but it pays enough that we might finally begin catching up.” “That sounds fortunate.” “It would be, except Clara cannot comfortably manage alone for an entire day, especially in this building, and I need someone who can stay with her, help with meals, accompany her outside when necessary, perhaps read with her, although she will insist she needs no help with anything.” “I need help with stairs,” Clara said. “I object mainly to being discussed as if I were furniture.” Miriam closed her eyes. “See?” “I like her,” Adesina said. “So do I,” Miriam replied. “Unfortunately, affection does not solve rent.” And then the story came. Their father was dead, Miriam’s husband had abandoned them three months earlier after discovering that marriage was less entertaining once money disappeared, and the little savings remaining had been swallowed by food, coal, and unpaid rent. Their landlady wanted the arrears by the end of the week. “The bank manager told me there was no basis for a proper loan without security,” Miriam said, staring down at her hands, “but then he closed the office door and suggested there were other ways a woman without collateral might persuade a man to be generous. He said one evening of my company could accomplish what signatures and references apparently could not.” Adesina’s expression did not change. “And Mrs. Kessler?” Miriam’s mouth tightened. “She is less subtle. Every few days she reminds me that a pretty woman should not lose her home over something as vulgar as money, and that if I were willing to be ‘friendly’ with her in private, she might forget the arrears altogether.” Clara looked away. “She says it when she thinks I cannot hear.” Adesina was silent for a moment. “Does she.” “Yes,” Miriam said. “And each time I refuse, she becomes less patient.” “And everyone who might stay with Clara,” Miriam continued, “wants more than I can pay, which is reasonable, or proper accommodations, which is also reasonable, and all I have to offer is a tiny room that used to be Clara’s before we began sleeping in the same bedroom because it was warmer that way.” Clara looked at Adesina. “You need somewhere to live.” Miriam turned. “Clara, please.” “She said she was looking for work.” Adesina raised an eyebrow. “You have been listening very carefully.” “I’m excellent at it.” Then Clara smiled. “You should come home with us.” Miriam looked horrified. “We know absolutely nothing about her.” “I know she isn’t dangerous to us.” Adesina became very still. Miriam sighed. “You cannot possibly know that.” Clara looked directly at Adesina. “Yes, I can.” For the first time that afternoon, Lady Adesina Okafor felt genuinely surprised. “Perhaps,” she said, “we should discuss the matter somewhere warmer than this pavement.” The Hale apartment on Waverly Place was small enough that Clara could cross most of it without assistance, provided the rugs were rolled away and nobody left anything foolish in her path, and Adesina noticed immediately that the furniture had been rearranged to accommodate the chair with the unconscious precision of people who had stopped thinking of adaptation as exceptional. Clara gave her the tour. “This is the kitchen, which is also the dining room, the sitting room, and occasionally Miriam’s place for regretting marriage.” “Clara.” “That chair wobbles.” “You needn’t tell her everything.” “If she lives here, she deserves warning.” Adesina nodded solemnly. “Quite right.” Clara rolled toward the narrow hallway. “My room is there, although lately it belongs to imaginary servants because Miriam insists she will eventually hire one.” Miriam set tea on the table. “This was supposed to be an interview.” “It is,” Adesina said. “Your sister is conducting it.” “She is ruthless.” “I noticed.” At the table Miriam finally gathered the courage to ask. “I should see references.” “You should.” Adesina produced them. Miriam began reading. Then she stopped. “You speak French?” “Yes.” “German?” “Well enough to argue.” “Mathematics?” “Yes.” “History?” “At considerable length if provoked.” Clara leaned forward. “I like her more every minute.” Miriam turned another page. “You play piano?” “Yes.” “You should be teaching somewhere.” “I am beginning to suspect New York disagrees.” Miriam looked embarrassed. “I cannot pay you what these qualifications deserve.” “You can provide a room.” “A very small one.” “I have slept in crypts.” Silence. Adesina looked up. “That was a joke.” Clara was staring at her. “No, it wasn’t.” Miriam laughed nervously. “Clara.” But Clara waited until Miriam carried the cups to the sink before speaking again. “You aren’t ordinary.” Adesina looked at her. “That is a dangerous observation.” “I don’t mean your skin or your clothes or anything ridiculous like that. I mean you. When you entered the room, everything became quieter, and you move as though you already know where everything is before you look at it.” Adesina said nothing. Clara studied her for another moment. “If I were still a child, I would probably say you were an angel.” “And now?” Clara smiled faintly. “Now I know angels are probably more complicated than people make them sound.” Adesina raised an eyebrow. “You have a very generous imagination.” “Maybe. But I still think you were sent here for some reason. You never breathe hard. I haven’t seen you blink more than twice.” “That is remarkably impolite scrutiny.” “I have a great deal of time to observe people.” Adesina’s expression softened. “And what do you think I am?” Clara considered this seriously. “Not an angel.” “No?” “You’re much too amused by everything.” Adesina laughed. “Something old, perhaps.” Clara smiled. “The good kind?” “On favorable evenings.” That seemed to satisfy her. When Miriam returned, Adesina folded the references. “I will take the position.” Miriam froze. “You mean temporarily.” “If that makes you more comfortable.” “You cannot possibly mean it.” “I rarely say things accidentally.” Clara clapped her hands. “I told you.” Miriam sat down. “You really will stay with her tomorrow?” “Yes.” For a moment Miriam could not speak. Then she whispered, “Thank you.” Adesina disliked gratitude when it came from desperation. “Go to work tomorrow,” she said. “Everything else can wait.” The following morning Miriam left in her best jacket with enough instructions to occupy a military regiment. “Clara needs help with the front steps if you go outside, the soup is already made, the coal must be used carefully, and if Mrs. Kessler comes—” “I assume Mrs. Kessler is the landlady.” Clara groaned. “She smells like violets and threats.” Miriam almost smiled. “If she comes, do not let her upset you.” “Go to your library,” Adesina said. “I am capable of surviving a landlady.” Miriam left. The day passed pleasantly. Clara read newspapers aloud, defeated Adesina twice at chess after accusing her of allowing the first victory, and demonstrated an impressive ability to maneuver her chair through the apartment while simultaneously carrying a cup of tea. By afternoon she had told Adesina considerably more than Miriam ever would. “Mrs. Kessler says my sister is too pretty to be poor.” Adesina looked up from the newspaper. “A curious philosophy.” “She says things could become easier if Miriam was more friendly.” “And the banker?” “Same idea. Different waistcoat.” Adesina smiled slowly. “You are exceptionally perceptive.” “I’m exceptionally bored.” Then Clara became serious. “Miriam thinks she failed me.” “Why?” “Because she cannot afford everything.” “And do you agree?” “No. I think everyone else failed her.” Adesina folded the newspaper. There were moments, even after centuries, when humans surprised her. “You are correct.” Miriam returned after dusk with tired eyes and the unmistakable brightness of someone who had discovered she enjoyed her work. “How was it?” “Wonderful,” she said immediately, then seemed ashamed of sounding happy. “I mean exhausting, but wonderful. There are books everywhere, Addie, shelves higher than this room, and nobody cares that I am a woman so long as I can catalogue faster than Mr. Finch.” “Then you must catalogue faster.” “I intend to.” Clara smiled. “She likes you.” “Unfortunately,” Miriam said, sitting down, “liking the work does not make money arrive sooner. I will not be paid until next Friday.” Adesina poured tea. “And the rent?” “Due before then.” “How much?” Miriam told her. Adesina’s face remained expressionless. “I see.” “I cannot pay Mrs. Kessler and pay you.” “You will not pay me this week.” “I will.” “No.” “Addie—” “I require an address.” Miriam stopped. “What address?” “Mrs. Kessler’s.” Clara immediately looked delighted. Miriam did not. “No.” “Why?” “Because whatever expression that is, I do not trust it.” Adesina looked innocent. “What expression?” “The one suggesting you have already decided something.” Clara raised her hand. “I trust it.” “You are not helping.” Adesina stood and pulled on her gloves. “Mrs. Hale, your alternatives are allowing me to speak with your landlady or spending tonight worrying about a problem you cannot solve before morning.” Miriam looked at Clara. Clara shrugged. “I vote for the mysterious woman.” Miriam surrendered. Mrs. Augusta Kessler lived three streets away in an apartment considerably larger than any she rented to others, and when Adesina was shown into her parlor she found the woman beside the fire in plum silk, jeweled rings flashing whenever she moved and the comfortable expression of someone who had spent years confusing leverage with charm. “You are Mrs. Hale’s new companion,” Mrs. Kessler said. “For the moment.” “And you have come about the rent.” “I have.” Mrs. Kessler smiled. “Then perhaps Miriam has finally become sensible.” “Sensible?” “She knows perfectly well I am willing to be flexible.” Adesina remained standing. “She told me you had made her an offer.” Mrs. Kessler’s smile widened. “An offer she was foolish enough to refuse. I told her that if she spent an evening with me and stopped behaving as though poverty had somehow preserved her virtue, I might forget the arrears. A practical arrangement between women.” Adesina’s eyes rested on her. “And the banker apparently proposed something similar.” “Men always think they invented appetite.” Mrs. Kessler gave a soft laugh and allowed her gaze to travel over Adesina. “Though perhaps Miriam has sent me something better.” Adesina raised one eyebrow. “Has she?” “You are very beautiful.” “So I have been told.” “And unlike Miriam, you strike me as a woman who understands how the world works.” Mrs. Kessler rose from her chair. “Perhaps we can arrange matters between ourselves. Her debt disappears, your position becomes considerably more comfortable, and nobody need trouble themselves with morality.” Adesina slowly removed one glove. Mrs. Kessler noticed. Her confidence deepened. “There,” she said softly. “I knew you were sensible.” Adesina stepped closer. “You misunderstand me.” Mrs. Kessler did not move away. “Do I?” “Completely.” Adesina removed the second glove and placed both neatly on the table. Mrs. Kessler smiled as Adesina closed the remaining distance between them, evidently convinced that negotiation had become something much more agreeable. “Come here, then.” Adesina did. One hand settled lightly at Mrs. Kessler’s waist. “You see,” Adesina murmured, “there is something you have misunderstood about desperate women.” Mrs. Kessler tilted her face toward her. “And what is that?” Adesina’s other hand slid gently behind her neck. “They sometimes acquire friends.” By the time Mrs. Kessler understood that Adesina’s smile contained fangs, it was already too late. The feeding was quiet. No struggle. No scream. Only the soft crackle of the fire and Mrs. Kessler’s breathing becoming slower as Adesina held her upright. When Adesina finally lifted her head, the landlady’s eyes were half closed. “You will forgive every penny Miriam Hale owes.” A slow breath. “You will reduce her rent for six months.” Another breath. “You will arrange coal for the winter, repair the broken stair rail, and stop treating women without money as invitations.” Mrs. Kessler sighed. “And tomorrow you will send Miriam a receipt marked paid in full.” Adesina considered the matter. “And a small sum for household expenses.” She smiled. “Consider it interest.” The next morning a footman arrived at Waverly Place carrying an envelope, a coal voucher, and a note informing Miriam that certain repairs would be undertaken immediately. Miriam read the papers once. Then again. Then she sat down. “Paid in full.” Clara smiled. “I told you.” “You told me what?” “That Addie was something special.” Miriam looked at Adesina. “What did you do?” “Negotiated.” “With Augusta Kessler?” “Yes.” “How?” “Firmly.” Clara laughed. Miriam pressed the receipt against her chest. “I don’t understand.” “You do not need to.” “I cannot possibly repay you.” Adesina looked toward the window. “I have accumulated more money than sense over the years.” Miriam frowned. “What?” “Another joke.” Clara shook her head. “You are terrible at pretending those are jokes.” Adesina smiled. “You are terrible at minding your own affairs.” “I like you too.” For several moments the apartment was quiet. Then Miriam said, “Will you stay?” Adesina looked between the sisters. “For a little while.” Clara wheeled herself closer. “Until we don’t need you?” “No,” Adesina said. Clara raised an eyebrow. “Until you realize that needing help and being helpless are entirely different things.” Clara smiled slowly. “That sounded very old.” “It probably is.” Miriam laughed. And for the first time since her husband had left, the sound did not contain exhaustion. Later that morning, while Miriam prepared for another day among books and Clara sat beside the window reading the newspaper, Adesina looked out over Waverly Place and allowed herself a small smile, because New York had once again provided something unexpected: no arrogant heiress to punish, no decadent wager to reverse, no rich woman who thought possession could be purchased, but simply two sisters who had been pushed almost to the edge and had somehow remained kind to one another. Clara lowered the newspaper. “You’re smiling.” “Am I?” “Yes.” “How unfortunate.” Clara lowered the newspaper slightly. “Angel.” Adesina looked at her. “I thought we had established that I was too complicated for that.” Clara smiled. “Fine. Vampire.” Adesina went completely still. Clara returned calmly to her newspaper. “Your secret is safe.” For perhaps the first time in seventy years, Lady Adesina Okafor had absolutely nothing to say.