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  When they returned, Mrs. Winspear had her victory: Margaret no longer felt a need for college. However she was now in control of her fortune, and she committed an act of rebellion more profound than going to college: She fell in love with Thomas Sinclair and chose him to be her husband. Sinclair was Irish, and he’d been raised a Catholic—two marks against him in her family’s eyes. He’d also been born into poverty of a desperate kind. As a boy he’d worked in a glass bottle factory in Belfast. He’d been a “take-out boy,” using tongs to take the half-finished bottles out of the molds and carrying them to the next step in the glassmaking process. He’d come to America alone as a teenager and risen by his wits, the gossips said—and the way they said it was not entirely complimentary.

  While working at a railroad telegraph office in Scranton, Pennsylvania, Tom caught the attention of John J. Albright, a well-born Scranton native whose railroad associations would soon bring him to Buffalo. Albright paid Tom’s tuition to his own alma mater, the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where Tom studied engineering. Before his fascination with hydroelectric power, Tom made a fortune in the design and construction of railroad bridges. Tom was invited to Buffalo at Albright’s urging by the private consortium of businessmen funding the construction of the power station.

  Money triumphed, of course, and Tom and Margaret’s union was finally accepted by the Winspears and thus all of Buffalo society. Tom shrugged off his Catholicism, and they were married at Trinity Church, the epicenter of the Episcopal establishment.

  I liked Tom from the moment I met him, mostly because he made Margaret happy, but also because there was a focus and forthrightness about him that was missing in most young men (at least in my experience). Self-educated as a boy, he was well-read and displayed an enthusiasm for knowledge that was often lacking in those whose education came easily. He was purposeful while still being reflective; he was generous, funny, and welcoming. Never once did he object to the closeness Margaret and I enjoyed.

  I often wondered if Tom and Margaret were aware of the disapproving whispers about them. If they were, they didn’t care. They forged a marriage of rebellion. They gave up the endless round of dinner parties that marked formal society. Tom threw himself into the technological challenges of his position. Instead of being a hostess, Margaret made a commitment to settlement house work, teaching English to immigrant children and marketable skills like sewing to their impoverished mothers. To me she remained a loyal and supportive friend.

  Gazing at her wedding portrait, I was stung by how far I’d come since I’d been Margaret’s bridesmaid. I was no longer the young woman who’d pinned flowers in her hair, wore paisley shawls and garnet-colored skirts, and imagined herself in a pre-Raphaelite painting. Now my clothes were sturdy, my colors navy or gray. I could no longer risk being exotic.

  Luckily the change for me came just when I was appointed headmistress. People began to remark on how I had “grown into” my position, becoming what they expected me to be. Margaret teased me about my newfound conservatism, but I didn’t dare tell her the cause of it. More than once as the years passed, offering fewer and fewer possibilities, I found myself wondering, is this to be the limit of my fulfillment? I was now thirty-six, yet sometimes at school when I saw young eyes looking at me with respect, looking at me for guidance, I was surprised—who am I, but a girl like themselves, struggling to find my way?

  No, I would not allow myself to indulge in the sin of self-pity. Firmly I turned away from Margaret’s portrait and walked across the room. Hanging on the far wall, near Tom’s desk, was a plainly framed architectural drawing of a railroad bridge. Tom considered this bridge, on a river somewhere in the West, his greatest achievement, although I could neither pronounce nor remember the name of the river it crossed. Beside the drawing were three fairly large watercolors I hadn’t seen before, and I set myself to study them.

  The pictures showed the powerhouses on the shores of the Niagara River above the Falls. I’d read in the newspaper that two powerhouses had already been completed and put “on-line,” as it was called. Two more were under construction on the American side of the river. On the Canadian shore, four powerhouses were also being built. Stanford White was the architect for the entire project (which as a whole was referred to as the “power station”), and the landscaping was designed by the Olmsted firm. In interviews Sinclair called the buildings “cathedrals of power,” but I’d never understood what he meant. Now, looking at these watercolors, I did understand. The powerhouses rose beside the river like transcendent symbols of the holiness of man’s endeavors.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  Thomas Sinclair stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at the pictures. Turning to greet him, I felt as if I were trapped between his body and the wall. He was tall, over six feet Margaret had told me, and strong. Tonight he wore a formal dinner jacket with white tie. His pale-brown hair was swept back, and he was clean-shaven. His cheekbones looked angular and precise; he was thinner than I remembered. Tom was in his midforties, but his face was smooth and unlined, his hair free of gray.

  Whenever I saw him, which was primarily with Margaret, at home, his bearing disturbed me. There was a shyness and a hesitancy about him that was at odds with both his physique and his self-made wealth. He seemed to be slightly insecure about whether people were going to like him; yet at the same time, he obviously didn’t care. He had the casual arrogance of a young street fighter.

  “They were painted by someone you know,” he said, leaning forward to focus on the pictures. Although he’d left Ireland thirty years ago, his brogue remained a gentle lilt at the end of his sentences. “Susannah Riley?” He looked at me with a touch of concern, saying her name as a question and implying that perhaps he should have asked my permission before purchasing the work of one of my employees. Susannah Riley was the art teacher at Macaulay. I was over-proud of her, for I had given Susannah her first job in Buffalo when she’d arrived here alone from the village of Fredonia, fifty miles to the southwest.

  “Susannah is a wonderful artist,” I agreed.

  “Yes. I saw her work at the Fine Arts Academy exhibition last autumn. Those pictures of Niagara …” His words drifted off. “I liked the way she did the light on the Horseshoe Falls.” He seemed embarrassed to be offering this bit of art criticism.

  “Yes, I liked that too,” I said, to encourage him.

  “When I commissioned these paintings, I feared she’d be resentful—the scourge of industrialism, the wanton destruction of nature—the usual cant among these self-proclaimed preservationists.” His hand cut through the air dismissively. “But she surprised me. She understood exactly what I was after.” He turned to the watercolors. “These pictures are a comfort to me. An inspiration. Well”—he stepped back and gave me a crooked grin that carried more than a little exasperation—“making electricity is far easier than managing Grace, I can tell you. Please, sit down, Louisa.”

  And with the offer of a chair, he answered a question for me: By using my given name, he placed me within the family circle once more, where I’d been before Margaret’s death. If he had called me “Miss Barrett,” I would have been reduced to the woman he employed to educate his child. Instead, he would call me Louisa, and I would call him Tom.

  He indicated one of the straight-backed chairs (considered more suitable for ladies) while he himself relaxed in a leather armchair, his long legs stretched before him, his elbows resting on the carved wooden armrests, his fingers forming a triangle beneath his chin.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, suddenly formal.

  I took a breath, disconcerted by his abrupt shift from small talk. “I need to discuss a matter pertaining to Grace,” I replied, as businesslike as he. I related to him the story Millicent had told me. As I spoke, his expression never changed. He’s a wily one, I thought.

  “Has she ever talked this way at home, Tom?” I asked when I finished the story.

  He ignored my question. “Who was it who
told you this?”

  “Millicent Talbert. She’s—”

  “The niece of William and Mary Talbert.”

  I paused. “Yes.” I knew only too well where this was leading.

  “A story from such a girl, might it not be subject to … exaggeration?” He looked at me with raised brows. “Given the nature of her …”

  He wished me to fill this in for him, to allow us to have a conversation of hints and nods and mutual understandings, nothing stated but everything comprehended. But I wouldn’t give in to his urge for complicity, even though it would have been pleasant to smile at our mutual understanding, to let it bring us close. What Tom implied was what the overwhelming majority of Macaulay parents would imply. However, I had the responsibility to make a stand, to do as much as I could (little though it was) to grant Millicent Talbert a proper portion of respect.

  I waged the battle gently. “We mustn’t blame the messenger, Tom. Millicent was brave to come to me with this, instead of passing the story as gossip among her friends at school. The concerns she raised must be taken seriously. We must consider them, and be alert to any changes in Grace’s behavior that might indicate—”

  But his attention was gone from me. He’d turned his head and was listening to the faint singing upstairs, in Grace’s rooms.

  “I have been wondering …” he said slowly, “is this normal, do you think? This dressing up and imitating people, pretending she’s acting out the plays and stories she reads at school? She gave me quite a fright the other day as Lady Macbeth.”

  I laughed, and he managed a smile. “I can imagine her as Lady Macbeth.”

  “Yes, it was quite a sight.”

  “That’s perfectly normal, however. Girls at this age often play by taking on the identities of the people they study. I used to pretend I was Joan of Arc, conquering France on a white horse.”

  “Really?” He seemed taken aback.

  “It was fun,” I insisted. “Pretending to take care of the horse, especially.”

  “Well, here you see my problem, Louisa. Grace’s life is so different from what mine was at her age. I’m happy for that, believe me—but it’s not always easy for me to … judge her.”

  “And what was your life like at her age?”

  “Ah. I’d already been in the factory for three years. But that’s not a story for drawing rooms.” He dismissed the subject with a flick of his fingers, and my heart went out to him for how lightly he wore his memories.

  “Since Margaret died—” He stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. “Since Margaret died, Grace has been … well, we’ve both been …” Now his hints and implications were enough. “But she’s never talked about … what Miss Talbert heard. She has been a bit more … dedicated to her costumes and her games. And to her drawing, of course. Miss Riley tells me she has a talent.”

  “Miss Riley?”

  “Yes, Miss Riley comes to tutor her once a week. Should I have asked—?”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right,” I said quickly. I knew Susannah tutored some of the ladies of the town, but I didn’t know Grace was among her private students. The fact that neither Susannah nor Grace had mentioned it made me wary.

  “Grace won’t touch paints,” Tom continued, “only pencil, charcoal, and pastels. She’s very obstinate about things that seem simple to me.”

  “Children sense their lack of power, so they gain what power they can by being obstinate about things that seem to us unimportant.” Well, that statement came out a bit more schoolmarmish than I intended—undoubtedly a reflection of my jealousy over Susannah Riley’s tutoring.

  Tom sighed, glancing away. But when he looked at me again, his eyes were alight. “Why shouldn’t she be obstinate? I’m glad she stands up for herself. Maybe this talk with Millicent Talbert was part of some play she was rehearsing.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “She’s very ambitious—I do see that in her. She’s always dreaming up new plans for herself. I have high hopes for her.”

  Didn’t he know that girls from nine to eleven were always ambitious, always dreaming up new plans for themselves? Didn’t he know that those plans almost invariably came to nothing? Mercifully, most girls were not even aware of the nothing they were forced to embrace as they grew older. They simply thought they had left their girlish fantasies behind to take on the welcome obligations of womanhood: dinner parties, fancy clothes, and the interviewing of baby nurses. Sometimes I despaired that I could do so little to help them.

  I steadied myself. Who could tell? Perhaps Grace could find a new kind of life, especially because her father would encourage her.

  “Frankly, I’ve been grateful that she’s had something to occupy her time,” Tom continued, “because I’ve been so involved with business.”

  “Are you still enjoying your work?”

  “It has its rewards,” he said, suddenly brightening. “Recently I’ve been devoting much of my time to persuading new industries to come here to use the electricity we’re producing. No sooner do they set up shop than they’re demanding so much power I’ve got to worry about shortages! Then I’m racing to get more generators online. The aluminum industry is taking off like lightning. So is the production of abrasives. I’m also planning the electrical exhibitions for the Pan-American.”

  His eyes narrowed, as if I had unfairly accused him of something. “We must each make our own consolation, Louisa. I didn’t ask for Margaret to die.”

  “And what consolation have you found in your business?”

  He exhaled, regaining his equilibrium. “I have found light. Literally. It’s become a kind of religion to me, as sacrilegious as that may sound: creating electricity from water, using alternating current to send the electricity wherever it’s needed. Most people don’t realize what it means. Of course everyone sees the new electrochemical industries at Niagara, and the street railway and streetlamps here in town, and everyone talks about the steel plant we’re building out at Stony Point, but it’s more than that—it means more than that, I mean. Electrification is a fundamental change in the nature of life itself. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true.” He sat at the edge of his chair, leaning toward me. “Someday I’ll send hydroelectric power to every farmhouse and every tenement in five states. Maybe the entire country. Certainly all of Canada. You see, Louisa, it’s possible to change the world with electricity. When factories are electrified, machines will do the most dangerous jobs, not men. Factories won’t need boys to work all night running cheap bottles from the benches to the ovens; a conveyer belt will do that. The boys can stay home and learn to read and write—with the steady light of electric lamps. Their mothers won’t go half-blind, the way my mother did, sewing by kerosene. Farmwives won’t be crippled from hauling water up from the wells all day long, every day of their lives; an electric pump will do that job.”

  The glow of commitment filled his eyes. And it was a glorious vision. I saw it with him: an end to child labor, an end to the beating-down that so many women endured simply to get by from day to day. I wanted to embrace that future with him—it was a miraculous place of hope and freedom, intoxicating to imagine.

  “I tell you, Louisa, I’ll change the world, and people won’t be afraid anymore.”

  “Afraid?” I didn’t understand him. “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of the dark,” he said easily. “Afraid of the night.” He motioned toward the windows. “Aren’t you ever afraid of the dark?”

  “Well … when I was small, I suppose.”

  “That’s the shield of gentility. I don’t imagine that people who grow up in university towns are ever afraid of the dark—except as very young children, tucked up in their comfortable little beds, scaring themselves with thoughts of Indians in the wardrobe. People in the middle class, the upper class—no, they’re never afraid of the night. Margaret was never afraid. But when you’re poor, the darkness is like a blanket that suffocates you.”

  I didn’t know what t
o say. I simply looked at him, knowing he was right, feeling pity for all he had suffered, and yet hurt that he seemed to be blaming me for things beyond my control.

  “Forgive me, Louisa,” he said, suddenly sheepish. “I’ve become a bit of a crusader, I’m afraid. Why don’t we simply say that I’m involved with my work, and leave it at that?”

  “It’s quite all right, Tom, it’s fascinating. I’ve never thought about electricity in terms of …” I heard myself speak the clichés that would return us to polite conversation, even though he’d shaken me. “Tom, why don’t you take Grace out with you to the power station, show her how the machinery operates, discuss your plans.”

  “I don’t think she’d find it very interesting, a nine-year-old …”

  “You’re wrong! She’d find it fascinating, because you do.” An idea came to me, an opportunity for my girls. “I wonder if you might like to lecture to our seniors sometime. Whenever you have an hour. The young ladies at Macaulay would benefit from hearing your goals.”

  “Really? Well.” He blushed, touching his pockets nervously as if searching for a cigarette before realizing it might be considered impolite to smoke in my presence. I had disconcerted him; the thought of it pleased me.

  “You believe electricity is a proper topic for young ladies?” he asked.

  “Virtually anything is a proper topic for young ladies when presented in the proper manner, by the proper person,” I flattered him. One reason I hated flattery toward myself was that I used it so often to get my way with others; by others I mean the wealthy men of the community from whom I always needed money: to improve the science labs, to buy new books, to pay the custodian. “And most important, how will our young ladies assist their future husbands, if they’re not given the opportunity to become familiar with the great challenges of our day?”