Betina Krahn (15 page)

BEATRICE WAS MIDWAY
through a solitary dinner that evening when Richards appeared in the dining-room doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt, madam, but those two men in the private parlor were knocking and asking when they will be let out.”

“Good Lord, I forgot all about them.” Her fork hit her plate with a clang.

When she opened the door of the private parlor and
flipped the electrical light switch, the two miscreants shrank back and shielded their eyes.

“In the interest of confidentiality, I have convinced Detective Blackwell to leave your ‘correction’ in my hands.”

“What are ye gonna do with us?” Dipper asked, blinking.

What indeed? They were without a doubt the most deferring and apologetic criminals she had ever met. Not to mention the most inept. What was it about them that made her want to yank them up by the ears and send them to bed without supper?

Still, if they were of use against her, they could probably be of use to her. She turned to Richards, who stood in the doorway regarding them with a dubious expression. She was probably mad to even attempt it …

“Take them up to the third floor and give them a bath, a meal, and a bed.”

“Madam?” Richards look at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Ma’am?” and “Eh?” The miscreant pair seemed to share his opinion.

“I believe I have a job for you gentlemen. Something perfectly suited to your talents.” She watched their eyes widen. “On one condition.”

“What’s that, ma’am?” They didn’t even ask what she wanted done. It was little wonder they got themselves into trouble.

“That you never,
ever
gamble again.”

Horror bloomed on their faces and they looked at each other.

“Aw, please, ma’am … not that,” Dipper pleaded.

“Gambling or whiskey,” she said, shifting her strategy slightly. “Take your pick. One has to go.”

“No whiskey? Ever?” Shorty licked his lips with a hint of desperation.

“Much obliged, ma’am, but we can’t accept yer offer,” Dipper said, pressing his crumpled woolen cap to his chest.

“That’s fine,” she said, turning toward the drawing room. “Then just stay where you are until Detective Blackwell and his police arrive.” She was fairly certain they would see the light before she reached the door. They did.

“Wait!” Dipper lurched toward her with Shorty hovering at his shoulder. With one last, agonized look at his partner, he surrendered for both of them. “All right. No gamblin’.”

“Excellent.” She looked to the long-suffering Richards. “Get them some decent clothes. I’ll see them after breakfast tomorrow to explain their duties.”

“
I ALREADY KNOW
about Priscilla; the whole house is buzzing with news of her impending servitude,” Alice Henry declared that evening as she settled on the bench at the foot of Beatrice’s canopied four-poster. “You could probably forget Christmas bonuses altogether this year and nobody would care a whit.” She dumped the stack of papers and leather legal folios on the bench beside her, propped a stiff arm on either side of her on the edge of the bench.

“What I want to know is how it went with the congressman.”

“Better than expected,” Beatrice said as the laces of her corset gave and she felt the sweet release of blood rushing back through her skin. Rubbing her middle soundly, she slid into a dressing gown of frothy cream
silk and issued a sigh. “He agreed. Not without a struggle, however. By now, he’s probably wishing he’d never met me or his rotten cousin.”

Swinging by the tray on the table, she picked up a cup of chamomile tea and headed for a tufted silk chaise. She sank into the thick pillows, kicked off her shoes, and closed her eyes to savor the comfort.

“While I was at the bank, I asked a few discreet questions,” Alice said.

Beatrice popped one eye open and Alice smiled reassuringly.

“My friend Mrs. Hoolihan, the one I took the typewriter course with, she works in the back office and hears all sorts of things. Like about old Mr. Barrow, Hurst Eddington Barrow, that’s your congressman’s grandfather.”

“I believe I knew that.” Her eye closed.

“Did you also know the old man disowned him—and him the only grandson—because he married against the old man’s orders?”

Both eyes popped open this time. Beatrice was instantly alert.

“That I didn’t know. Who did he marry?”

Alice frowned. “I don’t know her name. Only that she was from the Lower East Side, poor as a church mouse, and Irish as shamrocks.” Alice paused, her eyes and voice softening markedly. “Defied his old grandfather and gave up everything for love of a woman.”

“Ye gods.” Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and flung an arm across them. “
Romance
again. It’s an epidemic of late. Alice, you must tell me the instant Richards starts to look good to you. I’ll get you the best help available.”

Alice’s voice contained a bit of a nettle. “Well, I thought it was wonderful. It is a rare man indeed who
gives up a fortune for the woman he …” When Beatrice lowered her arm and leveled a pointed stare at her, she halted. “Just because
you’re
not a romantic …”

“Back to the bank, Alice,” Beatrice said in a chastening tone. “Did you deliver the papers to Mr. Chase?”

“He wasn’t in so I had to deal with Mr. Eckles, the vice president, who always feels compelled to define every two-syllable word he uses in my company, as if he’s convinced I have probably left my brains in my other purse.” She shuddered with annoyance. “Then, to make matters worse, I stopped by a teller to make a deposit in my own account and the wretch refused to take the money.”

“Refused?” Beatrice sat up abruptly, sloshing tea into her saucer.

“He insisted that the bank had never issued account numbers that begin with a letter. When I finally got him to look it up, he had the gall to suggest that I wait and allow my husband ‘Henry’ to transact the business for me.”

It was too horrible. Beatrice laughed in spite of herself. “Henry?”

“Don’t laugh,” Alice said, obviously still stinging. “It took me a full five minutes to explain that ‘Henry’ was my last name, not my husband. He called over the head teller and, after some checking, they
finally
allowed me to make a deposit into my own account.” She began to pick up the folios and papers, then paused and looked at Beatrice. “It made me wonder what I’d have to go through if I ever tried to take money
out
of their blasted bank!”

Beatrice’s smile faded.

Alice’s words haunted her as she climbed into bed that night and lay in the moon-brightened shadows cast
by the lace bed drapes.…
what I’d go through if I ever tried to take money out of their blasted bank!

It was Alice’s money, in Alice’s account, but it was certainly not under Alice’s control. It was so much like what that girl at the Oriental—Annie—had said happened to her that it was a bit shocking. She scowled, vowing silently that President Harold Chase and every other man in the Chase-Darlington Bank would hear and heed Alice’s story.

She wished Connor Barrow could have heard it, along with every other politician in the state. Perhaps then it wouldn’t take another fifty years to pass a suffrage bill and achieve some level of equal rights for women. Fifty years? She held her breath for a moment. Well, it had already been forty. The thought of all of the fruitless years and work that lay ahead made her feel drained and dispirited.

If Connor Barrow came out strongly for women’s suffrage and was elected tomorrow, what difference would it make? It would take a hundred Connor Barrows in every state in the union to get the vote for women. Did that mean Alice had to wait fifty years before she could deposit and withdraw her own money without a man’s endorsement?

Not if she had anything to do with it. The Von Furstenberg name and fortune carried influence and she could use it to eliminate the offensive policies and practices at one of New York’s leading banks.

And then what? Another bank; another loathsome policy? Was that what her life was meant to be? The possibility left her feeling strangely bereft and empty … until Connor’s dark hair and sizzling blue eyes edged into her mind, and the ear he had poured honeyed words into earlier began to hum as it had in the drawing room.

That hum slowly condensed to whispers that teased the edges of her mind. There was more to life than causes and politics, it said. There was more to life than winning and losing, than being right or being in charge, than making a profit or even making a mark on the world. There were other things … to experience, to explore, to know, to delight in, and to share. Chief on that list were the tingles and lingering warmth that his lips …

She turned over onto her stomach, punched the fluffy bolster down into a hard little knot, and plopped her cheek down on it, feeling even more awake.

Romance. She groaned. It really was a contagion of some sort. And sweet-talking, blue-eyed Connor Barrow was a potent carrier.

SIX O’CLOCK CAME
all too early on Monday morning. Priscilla stalked downstairs wearing a sleepy look and a yellow organdy overlaid by a matching linen overdress embroidered with tiny purple pansies. It was all Beatrice could do to keep from sending her straight back upstairs to change into something more sensible. But, reminding herself that learning to be more sensible was the entire point of this exercise, she withheld her comments and offered her niece a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice instead.

“Oh, no.” Priscilla winced. “I couldn’t possibly. Not
this
early.”

Beatrice smiled, drank her own juice, donned her hat, and ushered her niece out the front door just in time to greet Jeffrey, who arrived on horseback, wearing jodhpurs, riding boots, a fitted tweed coat, and a silk top hat. He explained that early riding lessons had been his excuse to his mother for leaving the house. He tied his horse on behind the coach and climbed aboard, greeting Priscilla with a martyred smile and Beatrice with a nod.

A silent half hour later, they pulled up in front of a three-story brick structure with walls studded with windows of various styles and vintages, stuck in unusual places. Woodhull House was a former boardinghouse that had been enlarged several times to accommodate the ever increasing numbers of women and children who needed its services. The result was an eccentric but eminently approachable bit of architecture.

“This is it?” Priscilla said, holding her scented handkerchief ready as she peered out the carriage window.

“It is.” Beatrice put out a hand to keep Jeffrey from bolting out the door. “I expect you to work hard at whatever you are assigned and to give the residents of Woodhull House the respect and assistance they deserve. In return, you may find that they have a great deal to teach you.”

The carriage door opened and there stood two ruddy-faced men wearing painfully new clothes and hair brilliantined to a high gloss. “Oh, and these gentlemen, Mr. Muldoon and Mr. O’Shea, will be monitoring your work and reporting your progress to me on a daily basis.”

Jeffrey looked at Priscilla in horror, then back at the pair, pointing.

“I know them—they’re—”

“Your
former
employees,” Beatrice said. “Who now work for me.”

“I will not be spied on by a pair of—this is intolerable!” Jeffrey cried.

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “No more intolerable than being brought up on criminal charges and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

As they entered the building, they were met by a tall, sturdy woman wearing a simple gray dress and harried look. “Mrs. Von Furstenberg, thank heaven you’re here. And these must be our new volunteers.”

“Priscilla Lucciano, my niece”—Beatrice introduced them—“and Jeffrey Granton. This is Miss Ardis Gerhardt, the director of Woodhull House.”

“You’re an absolute godsend.” Ardis beckoned them along with her toward the rear of the hall as she explained: “We’re in dire straits this morning. One of our kitchen staff eloped last night and two others have children who’ve been taken ill. We’re desperately short-handed. Normally, I would pitch in to help, but I’ve got a board meeting this morning and an important tea for contributors this afternoon.”

She led them through a large dining room filled with long tables that were even now being cleared and washed down by children in smocks. As she turned to tell them about the meal schedule, her gaze fell on Dipper and Shorty, tagging along at the rear.

Her puzzled expression prompted Beatrice to explain: “Mr. Muldoon and Mr. O’Shea. They’re volunteers, too.” When Beatrice scowled at them, they finally took the hint and nodded.

The minute they stepped into the kitchen, the magnitude of the emergency became clear. Bowls and platters, trays of bread fresh from a bakery, and bags of potatoes, onions, and carrots were stacked all over the long worktables—in the middle of more dirty pots, kettles, and endless stacks of dishes from breakfast. Steam roiled up from giant kettles on the huge cookstoves on the far end of the long room and there was muttering and clanging from behind the tables.

“Nora!” Ardis called to a rotund, red-faced woman engaged in lashing orders at a wincing crew of two young women and a boy. “I’ve brought you some help!”