City of Light (44 page)

CHAPTER XXVIII

I
managed to maintain my composure until Susannah left. Then names and faces rushed through my mind in a torrent as I asked myself who the man in the picture could possibly be. The groom, the butler, one of Tom’s business associates—someone who knew his schedule? Or maybe what was shown in the drawings didn’t happen at home; maybe it happened when she was visiting a friend: a brother home from university, a cousin visiting from out of town. Grace would appear vulnerable to a man with such an intent, Grace with her moodiness and her harkening to Margaret. In some perverse way the man might even think he was consoling her. Giving her a reason to live. Certainly Abigail Rushman had felt loved and comforted. All I could think was, thank goodness Grace had her talent for drawing, otherwise Tom and I might never have discovered what was going on.

There was no time for rationality or reflection: I had to act, now, to protect my child. I had to do something, anything, to safeguard her. Tom would help me—and of course he needed to know what was going on. I telephoned his office at the Ellicott Square Building downtown. Upon learning that he was at the power station, I began to telephone him there, before realizing that speaking on the telephone would do no good; I had to show him the evidence Susannah had brought me. I stuffed the drawings into my own portfolio, and leaving my schoolwork spread across my desk, hurried out. I hailed a hansom on Elmwood Avenue to take me to the station, where I boarded the electric train to Niagara. In less than forty-five minutes I was at the gate of the power station. Seeing me frantic (and undoubtedly evaluating me as a harmless old maid rather than a bomb-throwing anarchist), the guard directed me along the path to Powerhouse 3, the equivalent of several city blocks away.

During my walk I had time to consider the proper course of action, and my steps slowed. I would need to approach Grace gently, not like a whirlwind, which would only make her frightened and defensive. I couldn’t scare her with the enormity of what had happened. In order to discover who the man was, I would have to be calm with her even as every urge within me screamed for revenge. Tom and I would have to act together. As I truly accepted what the pictures showed, I felt overcome by grief—for the pictures might have been of me; in a way they
were
of me, for I too was only an innocent girl when a powerful man exploited me. And isn’t any man powerful in the eyes of a girl, able to hurt or help her as he sees fit?

When I reached the arched marble portal of Powerhouse 3, however, I realized this wasn’t the best place to talk to Tom, or the best time. Dirt-smeared workmen pushed up their brimmed caps to stare at me. I took a deep breath, steeling myself against their stares as I walked through the portal. Inside, the powerhouse was crowded. There was a din of conversation. Elevators clanged as workers were brought up from the tunnels and other men took their places. Workmen pressed close to me. I didn’t know where to turn. I was lost. How would I even find Tom amid this teeming confusion?

Then all at once I saw him in the distance striding toward me, taller than the others. Like polished leviathans, the generators rose beside him. Everything about him was strong and bright and set off by contrast with the workmen, but as he came closer I saw the fear on his face. “Louisa! The guard telephoned—is Grace all right? Is she hurt?”

Of course he would assume that only an emergency would bring me here unannounced. But this was an emergency, an emergency as serious as if Grace had fallen from a horse or been hit by a trolley.

“Tell me! Is she all right?” Tom stood before me now. Time seemed to slow, offering every detail: his smooth skin, his brushed-back hair. He reached for my hands.

“She’s all right,” I reassured him.

“But?” he questioned. “What’s happened?”

“She’s—she’s fine.” I averted my gaze, deeply embarrassed about what I had to show him. “Everything is fine.” I forced my voice to sound confident. “Forgive me, but I need—I need to speak to you. Now.” I studied the floor, no longer the dirt and planking I remembered from my visit with the girls, but meticulously designed decorative tiling.

I felt him watching me. “Yes, of course …” He looked around. “This has been a difficult day for me, I don’t mind telling you, Louisa.” Sighing wearily, he squeezed my hands before letting them go. I glanced up to find him staring at the balcony that went around the second level of the powerhouse. “There’s a place upstairs….”

He led me to the circular staircase in the corner. The handrail was twisted into elongated vines resembling the eels that played upon the rocks in the Cave of the Winds. I touched the wall for support rather than hold that image. On the balcony, there was a small alcove with a carved oak table and several hard-backed chairs: Roycroft furniture, handmade craftsmanship set amid this mecca of industry. When we sat down, Tom leaned forward and waited for me to begin.

I felt reluctant to speak. The day was warm; my undergarments clung to me. I was still breathless from the stairs. My heart beat fast. “Well,” I offered, looking around, reaching for anything to avoid the subject that had brought me, “everything has changed since my last visit.” Indeed, although crowded with workmen, the powerhouse was pristine, every detail not only in place but shining; there was no memory of Rolf, nothing to mar the building’s perfection. “Will you be finished in time for the president next week?”

Puzzled, Tom stared at me. “Mostly there’s finishing work needed underground, in the tunnel.”

“You’ll make the deadline?”

“I don’t intend to miss it.” His bewilderment increased. “I suppose if I had time to see you more often, you wouldn’t need to come out here to talk to me—as delightful as it is to have you. Now then, what is it that’s brought you?”

I felt ill-bred, bringing out the drawings. I didn’t even want to touch them.

“I need to show you some pictures.” I tried to be as businesslike as he. “Drawings Grace showed to her teacher. As part of an assignment. The teacher took them—without Grace’s knowledge—and brought them to me.”

I smoothed the pile on the table between us, cringing at the knowledge of what they showed. He reached for them, then leafed through the pile, one at a time. “Who did you say gave you these?” he asked, without looking up.

“Grace’s art tutor. Susannah Riley.”

“Ah.” He continued to study them. “They’re very well done,” he said finally. His nonchalance shocked me. “You realize Susannah Riley will stop at nothing to discredit me?” He pushed the drawings back haphazardly across the table. “Now she’s circulating salacious nonsense and claiming my daughter is the author of it. Today, of all days. Well, yes, obviously. Today. She’s planned it very well.”

“What do you mean? Grace showed the drawings to Susannah without any prompting.”

“We have only Miss Riley’s word on that.” His implication rested between us, confusing me. After a moment he asked, “You haven’t shown them to Grace, have you?”

“I haven’t taken them back to her, if that’s what you mean.”

“Grace had nothing to do with these pictures.”

“You think Susannah made them up? I doubt it,” I said firmly. “Susannah’s description of Grace sounded very real—sounded like Grace.” I stopped myself, realizing that Tom’s first reaction would be an unwillingness to face the truth. Whereas I was responsible for Grace at school, he was responsible for her from day to day; denying the evidence was the only natural reaction. Steadily, trying to console him, I continued. “Tom, as difficult as this is, we must accept the fact that Grace did the drawings and that she is the girl pictured. Now we must try to discover who the man is. A servant, perhaps. Or a visitor brought in by the servants. Possibly your housekeeper and her husband aren’t to be trusted. Or perhaps it’s the older brother of one of Grace’s—”

“Don’t be naive. The man is supposed to be me.”

“No!”

But even as he said it, of course it was obvious. Who else could it be, but him? I’d been blinded by my affection for him; by my memory of Margaret. Certainty filled me like a blood surge: it was
him
—his body spread around me in pencil, each intimate delineation set down before me. All at once I remembered: Grace had shown me similar drawings, before we went to the fireworks at the exposition. Well, not precisely similar, but intimate drawings nonetheless: Tom with his vest unbuttoned; Tom in his paisley dressing gown. How easily I could imagine the move from one scene to the next.

“I think it fair to conclude that Susannah Riley did these drawings herself and brought them to you today so that you would bring them to me today,” Tom was saying. “To distract me.”

I forced my eyes away from the pictures. Rage filled me. I held myself in check by focusing on the wood grain of the table, forcing myself to remain calm. “And why would she do that?”

“You don’t know everything, Louisa, as much as you like to think you do.” The rebuke made me more convinced that he was the one at fault. “Susannah Riley may be a skilled artist, but she is also a fanatic. I know this, Louisa. She is not to be trusted.”

What else would he say, what else
could
he say, to defend himself?

He reached across the table and touched my shoulder lightly. I flinched away from him. “You don’t really believe this, do you?” He motioned toward the drawings. “Of me? You think I would do such a thing?”

I heard the shock in his voice. The anger and hurt. But I wouldn’t let them deflect me. “I’ll talk to Grace about it,” I said. “I’ll be careful how I approach her, of course, so she doesn’t feel threatened, but—”

“Oh, Louisa,” he said sadly. “Please don’t.”

“There’s no alternative. I’ll show her one or two of the … less explicit drawings and see if she denies them.”

“I would prefer that my daughter not see such drawings,” he said, his voice hard. He was closing himself off from me, and still, in spite of everything, I didn’t want to lose him. And yet … perhaps he was manipulating me as easily as Susannah Riley might have done. I didn’t know where to turn for the truth.

“I’ll believe Grace, if she denies them.” Tenuously my allegiance began to shift from Susannah to Tom: If he were guilty, would he have admitted so readily that the pictures were supposed to be of him? On the other hand, most likely his sense of honor would not permit him to allow his staff or associates to be falsely accused of hurting Grace. Nonetheless he would have no qualms about accusing Susannah Riley, falsely or otherwise. I felt unhinged; everything turned topsy-turvy: Was he worthy of trust, or not? How could I determine it? I who knew only too well what men were capable of. I had only one certainty: My sole loyalty was to Grace.

“Louisa.” There was still a gruff affection in his voice. “Something will happen here tonight which will prove Susannah Riley’s fanaticism. I would ask you to stay and see for yourself, before you rush to judgment.”

Only Grace could tell me the truth. Standing and gathering the drawings before my resolve could weaken, I said, “Certainly not. I’m returning to town, and I’ll go directly to Grace. I’ll be gentle with her, but I will learn the truth.”

“I can’t let you go alone—and that’s what Susannah Riley’s counting on. Don’t you see? She’s expecting I’ll return to town with you to set all this straight, and then she and her friends will have a free rein here tonight. Can’t you just trust me for a few hours?”

Anger and sincerity mixed equally on his face. Who was this man? Our backgrounds were completely different; our frames of reference, completely different. He had progressed so far, so quickly: I had no idea how he’d achieved all he’d done, or what he was capable of. Even now I could not shake the memory of his final meeting with Karl Speyer. Apart from the public litany of his achievements, what did I truly know about Thomas Sinclair? Only that Margaret, my closest friend, had loved him.

“What is it that’s supposed to happen?” I asked.

“Well, it’s difficult to explain.”

“Perhaps you should try.” That sounded crueler than I intended.

He took a deep breath. “If you must know, the self-proclaimed preservationists have managed to get themselves some dynamite and they intend to use it to blow up the powerhouse—or, rather, part of the powerhouse. The part I’ve chosen for them to blow up.”

“What?” I asked, shocked.

“I know it’s a bit unorthodox—”

“But dynamite? And how—”

“They’re walking into a trap. The damage will be only moderate. One generator temporarily out of commission, tiles torn up, a lot of dust. I’ve worked out the risks, and the rewards.”

“Is it safe to stay?” I asked doubtfully.

“There’s a small risk,” he admitted, “but I think the results will be worth it.”

“All right, I will stay,” I said slowly, keeping my focus on my own priorities. “But if I’m not satisfied, I’ll go to Grace afterward.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

About two hours later we knelt beside the balustrade on the balcony of Powerhouse 3. The building was apparently deserted, and the lights were off. Bands of moonlight lit the room. The generators gleamed in a black line below us, the Westinghouse-Speyer slightly larger than the others. The silence was absolute.