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Kunz, a purist, had always preferred colorless diamonds, but he could see that Tiffany, with his weakness for fancy diamonds, was fixated by the Sol Gelida. There was an almost unearthly yellow glow emanating from the stone, deeper and richer than even the Tiffany Diamond, with a cloudy whirl of deep sunset orange in the center. The mythic status of this stone meant there could be no encumbrances to its sale. In addition to everything else, it was remarkably large; perhaps 160 carats. Kunz could not quite bring himself to look at it through the loupe, at least not yet: he was overwhelmed by the beauty of perfection.
A knock came on the door and Gruber returned with Tiffany & Company’s head banker in tow. The banker nodded a greeting and then looked at the noblewoman, waiting for an introduction.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of…Inow…Inor…Ironclaw,” Gruber said.
“Inowroclaw,” Kunz corrected, glaring at his assistant.
The woman laughed mildly. “Please,” she said. “I find ‘Ironclaw’ quite satisfactory. In fact, I think that is what I shall call myself in America from now on: the Duchess of Ironclaw. The other is too hard to pronounce.”
And half an hour later—once a price of $1 million had been agreed upon for the Sol Gelida, the Frozen Sun—the Duchess of Ironclaw left the store, the jewels locked safely in Tiffany’s vault and a letter of credit for a most remarkable sum tucked in her handbag.
7
FITZHUGH ERNEST MOSELEY, ASSISTANTphysician, carefully descended the wide staircase of Blackwell’s Island Asylum, the steps slippery with grease and urine. It was half past four, and the inmates on cleaning detail would not arrive for another half hour. He had finished his rounds for the day, which thankfully had been confined to what the asylum labeled Class Two patients: those diagnosed as ordinary idiots and defectives. It was tomorrow he dreaded: the weekly visit to the Class Five patients, deemed mild in temperament but “given over to bad habits” such as self-mutilation, masturbation, and a fascination with their own fecal matter. The doctor found these cases the most troubling of all, even more than the violent, bellowing creatures assigned to Class One. All the medical literature deemed them incurable and prescribed ice-water baths, purgatives, and restraints. But the assistant doctor’s observations over the years convinced him that more time spent talking with them and tending to their comfort, rather than binding them in straitjackets and dousing them in freezing water, yielded more promising results. But all his attempts to make changes were rebuffed by the physician in charge. When he’d pressed the matter, he was reminded—in no uncertain terms—that he had not completed medical school and was not a fully accredited physician; that his opinions carried no authority; and that he had a regimented set of duties to carry out without question or comment.
As he continued to descend, the shrieks and weeping grew fainter until, by the time he reached the bottom of the octagonal tower, peace and calm had arrived. Thanks to a strong breeze out of the north, even the stench of the cesspool was cleared away.
He threaded a labyrinth of passages and emerged into the chill afternoon light. He looked around a moment, breathing in the fresh air and letting the heavy pall of oppression and misery that engulfed him during his rounds disperse.
When he’d first arrived, his job “treating” the insane men had been discouraging enough, but over the years it had become a plague on his soul, forcing him to constantly resist the beckoning oblivion of laudanum—a habit he’d picked up in medical school that had, ultimately, been the chief instrument of his failure to complete his degree.
As he glanced toward the city, he noticed a private yacht had docked at the jetty reserved for important visitors. Looking more closely, he spied its passengers: a small party of well-dressed men and women, with walking sticks and parasols, out for an afternoon’s entertainment visiting the lunatics. It was no better than a human zoo. They’d be taken to Hall 3, he knew, where a “suitable class of patients” was kept especially for such occasions, and where conditions of cleanliness and calm were carefully enforced.
He wondered what the visitors would say if they were taken instead to—say—the Lodge…
He washed his hands at a nearby pump handle, then turned south along the walkway toward the workhouse, passing various institutional structures large and small. The dark expanse of the East River flowed to his right, and beyond it rose the buildings of Manhattan—this far uptown, around Fortieth Street, still mostly private homes and fashionable town houses.
As he approached the workhouse, he began to see various labor crews at work: some in the stables, some making shoes, and others doing repairs to the paths and roads. They looked up as he passed.
“Evening,Dr. Moseley,” said the orderly on guard duty, an insolent fellow he had once reprimanded for striking a female inmate. He walked on, ignoring the titters of the prisoners. He was used to it: not completing his medical degree somehow put him on a lower rung than if he were simply an aide. Even some of the nurses had the cheek to give him advice.
Now the grim stone façade of the workhouse loomed over him. Dinner for the staff didn’t start until six, but he rarely bothered to join them. However, he’d missed breakfast that day. He’d have time to grab a roll from the kitchen while still making the Department of Public Charities and Corrections steamboat leaving the island in fifteen minutes. He walked into the cold shadow of the building, passed the guard station, and took the stairs down into the basement kitchen.
As he made his way along the damp passageway, he could hear a familiar voice ahead—Paddy, the loutish head cook—raised in a storm of swearing. Turning the corner into the kitchen, Moseley stepped into a chaotic scene: Paddy, who weighed at least three hundred pounds, was looming over a yellow-haired workhouse boy a quarter of his size, who was holding a tray on which were balanced several crockpots of stew.
“At it again, are you?” Paddy snarled, grabbing the boy by the collar and yanking him roughly. The tray fell to the floor with a loud clatter and an explosion of crockery.
Immediately, Moseley understood what was happening. He recognized the youth: an introverted, sensitive lad who—though quiet—had a way of standing up to authority that got him into trouble more than once. Paddy was infamous for ladling out meager portions, and the boy had just been caught in the act of sneaking out more food for himself and his mates.
“Playing Father Christmas behind my back, eh?” Paddy said, lifting the youth bodily off the ground with one fist. “I’ve a mind to give you a holiday present of my own.” And then he hauled off with the other fist and smashed the boy in the face, sending the figure flying across the kitchen and tumbling onto the rough floor.
“And I’ve got a knuckle sandwich for your dinner, too!” Paddy said, lumbering forward.
Instinctively, Moseley stepped forward, interposing himself between the boy sprawled on the floor and the cook. “That’s enough!” he said angrily. “Get back to work!”
“Who are you to be telling me what do to?” the cook cried, raising his fist again.
“Iamtelling you. Come on, back away now!”
“What’s going on?” asked a new voice.
Turning, Moseley felt his heart sink. It was Cropper, the workhouse superintendent.
“What’s going on?” Cropper repeated as he stepped into the room. His office was down the passage, and he must have been roused by the noise.
Moseley pointed at the cook. “He assaulted this boy for no reason.”
“That’s a lie!” Paddy said. “That there’s a bad ’un, always causing trouble. Look: he dropped a whole tray of my good stew, on purpose, just to get my goat!”