Ellen Horan - 31 Bond Street

February 1, 1857

F or a boy who watched boats, his room was the perfect perch. He could see the wharves across a jumble of chimney tops, and beyond, a peek of the harbor. Hed count the ships at anchor, all sizes and shapes. There were three-masters and snub-nosed square-riggers and packet boats built to carry tonnage, with black balls on red flags. Pleasure steamers were loaded down with folks out for amusement, heading past the oyster flats to picnic on the islands. A boat from the Orient had a curving hull and mysterious symbols on the sail. Occasionally, in spring, a cloud descended and sat on top of the water, leaving a ghostly smoke that blocked the Narrows. Skiffs scuttled on the New York side of it, their silhouettes looking like paper cutouts, while the foghorns wailed from the Atlantic side, waiting for it to lift. On summer days, John would crawl out the window to get the widest view, grabbing onto a chimney pot to keep from slipping off the steep pitch. Hed watch for hours from the roof, sitting at a slant, with the sensation that the entire city was straining out to sea.

Winter was different. Ice stretched clear across the East River, and the ferryboats were stalled in their berths. The previous evening, the weather had turned foul. John awoke shivering in his tangled bedding. He hopped through the cold to find his trousers and a woolen vest. He lived in an attic under the eaves with his mother, who lay still on the wooden bed in the opposite corner. She was frail and spent her days in a rocking chair next to the stove. Her hands were gnarled and pained by the cold and damp. She no longer went to the seamstress shop, for she could no longer sew.

This morning, there was nothing outside the dormer window but rain and a veil of grey. John couldnt see the harbor or the clock on the church tower, and because of the storm, no one was pulling the bells. He wrapped some pieces of wool around his trouser legs with twine, to protect himself from the bitter weather. He crept out of the room and shut the attic door gently, and hurried down the stairs of the small house on Rector Street. He did not know what time it was, but Saturday was payday, and Dr. Burdell would dock him half a day if he were late.

He hurried uptown. Along Broadway, the wind whipped a mixture of snow and freezing rain, rocking the shutters and setting gas lamps swinging on their posts. Old snow blocked the culverts, flooding the intersections, and carriages were left abandoned in water up to their hubs. He made his way to Bond Street, a long row of townhouses, and banged at a door under the stoop. The cook pulled the bolts. Good, lord! Hannah exclaimed, Youre wetter than a sea captain. Dont you dare drip on my floor. He followed her down the dark hallway and was careful not to drip, for the cook had hit him before, most recently with a wooden spoon.

In the kitchen, there were two fires burning: one in the brick beehive oven where she baked pies and puddings and one in the cast-iron stove. Only a fool would come out on a day like today, muttered Hannah. She moved back and forth to the oven, an apron wrapped around her wide girth, pulling out a fresh pie on a wooden board and then sliding it into the pie cabinet. When one of the oven doors opened, the heat hit John like a furnace blast. Hannah threw some bread crusts into a simmering pot of milk. John watched the crusts swimming around in the bowl as they softened into a pulp.

Doctor Burdell is still sleeping. Im surprised he hasnt rung for his breakfast. The cook spoke with reverence about the owner of the house, a dentist and a bachelor. John worked as an errand boy: he lit the gas lamps in the sixteen rooms, wound the clocks with a brass key, and hauled coal up and down the broad staircase with buckets on a stick across his back.

Yesterday, the serving girl was in the basement with a whiskey bottle and she was sent straight to the street.

So Alice is gone, is she? asked John, gulping down his porridge.

She sure is. And, do you think Mrs. Cunningham has hired another girl? asked Hannah. John guessed by shaking his head no.

No, she has not, said Hannah emphatically, slamming a dough ball against a wooden board and rolling it flat. So now its my job to cook the meal, serve the table, bow and curtsy, all while my bread burns.

Hannah! said the housemistress, appearing in the doorway. Mrs. Cunningham often appeared, sudden and unannounced, to give orders. Why hasnt the boy taken Dr. Burdell his breakfast? she asked, illuminated by the lamp in the hallway. She placed a hand on the doorjamb and spoke from the doorway, as if hesitating to come in. She was dressed to go out, in a wide tailored skirt. Underneath the bodice, which was edged in delicate lace around the wrist and throat, a corset carved her figure into a tiny waist and ample bosom. She brushed away a tendril of a dark hair that had fallen into her face, loosened from its pins. Her milky skin looked paler than usual, and her eyes had a look of concern.

Hannah glanced at the iron bells that were strung along the kitchen wall, each a different size, one for every room of the house. The doctor hasnt rung for his meal yet, Maam, thats why, she said.

What time did he return home last night? asked Mrs. Cunningham.

I was asleep in the attic, Maam. I do not keep track of my masters comings and goings.

Helen is taking the train at noon. Please tell Samuel to bring the carriage around. Mrs. Cunninghams daughter was returning to boarding school in Saratoga, and she spoke as if Dr. Burdells carriage and driver were hers to command.

I wouldnt send anyone out in this weather unless I expected them to swim or take a schooner, the cook retorted.

I see that John arrived this morning without being swept away, she said curtly. Please do as I say. Have John take Dr. Burdells breakfast upstairs, now. And ring me when Samuel has come, so he can fetch the carriage. She gathered her skirts and departed the kitchen.

Emma Cunningham had arrived at 31 Bond Street the previous October with her two daughters and twenty trunks. It was common for a bachelor like Dr. Burdell, who lived alone without a family, to lease the upper part of his large townhouse to a widow who would oversee the housekeeping and the servants. Only thirty-six, and a recent widow, Emma Cunningham was younger and prettier than most in the position. She irritated Hannah, for she spent her mornings at her vanity, smoothing her pale skin with scented creams and pinning up her hair into fanciful arrangements. Hannah was always harping about hershe wasted gas and decorated her room with yellow roses and an eiderdown a foot high. Her teenage daughters, Helen and Augusta, sailed around the house as if they owned the place, their hoop skirts scraping against the walls.