Betina Krahn (22 page)

He quit reading and groaned silently.

Upon a nod from Murphy, the beefy Del Delaney picked up that paper, chose a spot and in his whiskey-hoarse voice, read aloud.

“‘The visit was arranged by Mrs. Beatrice Von Furstenberg, widow of industrialist Mercer Von Furstenberg and a major contributor to the Woodhull Settlement House. The handsome Mrs. Von Furstenberg, who was considerably younger than her late husband, cleverly teased agreement from Mr. Barrow on several key points … including a request that he help secure a state charter for a new women’s bank to be named in honor of his well-known banking family.’”

Delaney paused and trained an accusatory look at Connor over the top of the paper. Connor looked around and the others’ expressions ranged from disbelief to disappointment to outright disgust.

“‘It is not known whether or not his statements represent a major change in Tammany Hall’s opposition to female suffrage,’” Delaney continued reading. “‘Either way, Mr. Barrow’s flirtation with women’s rights may draw interest back to what had promised to be a onesided race.’”

Connor felt as if his collar were shrinking. “Well, that just goes to show,” he declared with a desperately casual air, “if reporters don’t have something real to write about, they’ll make up something.”

After a tense moment, there was an audible sigh and several of the men sat back in their chairs. Others, however, remained huddled over the table.

“You’re saying you didn’t declare yourself a ‘suffragette’?” Murphy asked, rubbing his chin as he regarded Connor.

“You and Boss Croker were both present when I was challenged to go to this settlement house and listen.
Listen
is precisely what I did. A man would have to be made of stone not to respond to their stories. Even so, a bit of sympathy is a far cry from declaring support for suffrage.”

“Yeah, well … if we weren’t sure, you can bet the voters won’t be,” Delaney said with a glower. “Not a man in th’ Society o’ St. Tammany would stand fer havin’ women at th’ polls. Flirtin’ with suffrage is flirtin’ with disaster.”

“And what’s this about a bank?” underboss Murphy spoke up. “The
Barrow
State Bank.”

Connor looked at the mistrust in faces around the table … the same faces that only a few days ago were beaming with confidence in him.

“It’s a scheme this Von Furstenberg woman cooked up while we were looking the place over. The women’s talk upset her and she started talking about doing something to help them. I never said I would be involved, and I certainly didn’t give permission to put my name on the damnable thing.”

Murphy studied him for a moment. “So you’ve got nothing to do with this
women’s bank
?”

Connor looked back at that damning headline.

“Not a thing. I will confess to a bit of flirting, gentlemen.” He prayed there was a libidinous glint in his eye. “But, it sure as hell wasn’t with
women’s suffrage
.”

They looked at each other, then at the insinuating look he wore. They followed his gaze to the articles spread before them and one by one, their eyes began to widen in comprehension. One of them snatched up the
Herald
article and read aloud: “‘The handsome Mrs. Von Furstenberg.’” Another read from another paper, “‘The stately and elegant Mrs. Von Furstenberg.’”

“You dog,” another said in apparent horror. “You’d use the sacred trust of the votin’ public to get next to a bit of skirt?”

There was a long pause in which his heart all but stopped.

“That’s our boy!” Delaney crowed, slapping him on the back.

Laughter broke out and smiles returned. Several of the men were on their feet and shaking their heads as they made for the door. They clapped him on the shoulder and, as they exited, muttered to each other about the lengths some men would go to for a slip of muslin. But Connor noticed visual exchanges between several of the departing men and Charles Murphy. Clearly, he was being left in the underboss’s capable hands.

When the door closed, he braced, sensing that what had just occurred was only a preliminary round. Now came the main event.

Murphy, generally taciturn, sat looking at Connor for a while, examining him, considering his version of what had occurred at the settlement house. Then he glanced at Delaney and rose to look out the window.

“What the hell were ye thinkin’, lad?” Delaney stalked close and ripped an unlit cigar from between his teeth. “You’ve got a platform an’ a party that can carry ye straight to Congress. Take a bit o’ advice, man. Ferget women ’til
after
the election. Save yer sweet talk for th’ voters.”

Connor studied the threat in Delaney’s opaque eyes and bulldog-tight jaw. Then Murphy turned from the window and sent Delaney out to have a word with some
of the news vendors in the area and buy up the rest of their papers. When he was gone, Murphy crossed his arms and sat back against the windowsill.

“I was assigned to oversee your campaign, Barrow,” he finally said. “And I’ll do my best to get you elected. But you have to cooperate. No more visits to almshouses or hospitals or settlement houses. The people in those places don’t vote.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered if maybe they should?”

Murphy’s scowl deepened. “They got to you, didn’t they?”

He considered his words carefully. “They made a few points.”

The underboss issued an irritable sigh. “Don’t be thickheaded, Barrow. You have to know that you haven’t risen this quickly in the organization’s ranks just because of your charm and political instincts. Boss Croker’s been grooming you for office because you’re something of a compromise. You’ve got the blue bloodlines and Harvard credentials to satisfy the swallowtail coats in the party and the common touch that makes you acceptable to the beer-drinkin’ regulars in Tammany clubhouses. We need both sides to win an election. But neither side will support a candidate that’s soft in the center. Don’t let your heart run away with your head, or you’ll end up throwing away a promising future.”

Again, Connor chose his words judiciously.

“I’m no bleedin’ heart, Murphy.” His smile had a boldness to it that passed for determination. “The fact that I listen doesn’t obligate me to act on everything I hear. That’s the first principle of politics: listen to everything, promise nothing. I have no intention of throwing this election or my future away.”

Soft in the center.
The words hung in Connor’s mind
as he left Tammany Hall with Murphy, headed for his first campaign stop … an association of small, independent merchants. Between reminders of whom to remember and what issues were likely to come up, he tried unsuccessfully to purge the tension caused by his dressing down.

He had worked in Tammany-led Democratic party committees for years. Tammany had taken him in when he had nothing and had sent business and influence his way. They had groomed and developed him into a candidate with major political potential. What the hell was he doing letting his attraction to Beatrice Von Furstenberg interfere with his political obligations? How could a promise to a woman he’d met barely two weeks ago possibly compete with his long association with Tammany Hall?

Soft in the center.

At first, he had told himself he had agreed to Beatrice’s bit of blackmail to keep her from going to the newspapers. But it was painfully clear to him now that the true source of his cooperation was an unabashedly personal interest in Beatrice herself. How had the boys in the upstairs room put it? “Usin’ the sacred trust of the votin’ public to get next to a bit of skirt.”

Too damned close to the mark.

As he listened to Murphy describe his schedule for the rest of the week, his stomach began to tie itself into a knot. He had to finish up this business with her as quickly and quietly as possible. He had campaigning to do. No more public “persuasion,” no more wrenching excursions into poverty and injustice …

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that her precious “bank” just might be the answer. If he helped her get her blasted charter—discreetly, of
course—then he would be free of his obligation to her. Free to concentrate on his campaigning. And once the campaign was done and he was a U.S. Congressman—he smiled to himself—there would be plenty of time to get better acquainted and, just perhaps, change her mind about men and romance.

BEATRICE HAD BEEN
closeted with accountants and financial specialists for the better part of two days and was still working on her bank proposal for the next day’s board meeting, when Priscilla came home that evening. There was no explosion in the hall this time. No tantrum. No tears. Her niece exchanged a few words with Richards, handed off her hat, then climbed the steps to her room looking a bit forlorn.

Soon Dipper and Shorty appeared in the doorway for their nightly report.

“Well, we ain’t in the kitchen anymore,” Shorty told her.

“We got a ‘pro-ject’ now.” Dipper took over the explanation. “Puttin’ together th’ new women’s dormitory. And they’d be doing right well”—he glared at Shorty, whose neck disappeared into his collar—“if
Master Jeffrey
would ever turn his hand.”

“He’s right—them things in the attic is junk,” Shorty declared.

“That little bureau was just like one my old ma had
back in th’ old country,” Dipper countered. “With a mite o’ soap and water—”

“An’ who’s gonna use that soap an’ water?” Shorty argued. “Us. And our hands is parboiled as it is.” He held out his water-reddened hands in evidence.

“Aw, quit yer bellyachin’. You’re gettin’ to be just like him.” Dipper turned to Beatrice. “He’s always duckin’ out, old Jeff … he was out in the yard, playin’ kick ball when he was supposed to be taking out th’ slops.”

“A fellow’s got to have a rest now an’ then,” Shorty protested.

“What gets me is th’ way he’s always flirtin’ with the young gals.” Dipper crossed his arms and looked down his nose in disapproval. “Always got a smile for this one and a wink for that one. And don’t think
she
don’t see it.”

“Well, if she did somethin’ besides glare at him an’ nag …” Shorty laid out his charge’s viewpoint: “She’s always checkin’ up on him, and whenever he gets a little frisky, she gets all mad an’ hoity-toity.” Shorty sniffed with indignation. “He’s a’ready
got
a mother.”

“Well, if he was any kind of a man he’d talk to her reasonable … help her get things done … instead of sneakin’ out and dodgin’ ever bit of work that—”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Beatrice broke in forcefully, intent on avoiding fisticuffs in her drawing room. “I can see you take your work quite seriously. And I appreciate your efforts.”

Through the open drawing-room doors came the sounds of someone at the front door. Alice, who had just come down the stairs, spoke briefly with whoever it was, then hurried into the drawing room carrying an envelope. She stood by anxiously while Beatrice opened it.

“What is it?” Alice asked. “It can’t be good news, this time of night.”

Beatrice broke into a beaming smile and read it aloud.
“Mrs. Von Furstenberg. You have a lawyer. You’ll soon have a bank. C.B.”

Her eyes twinkled as she showed the note to Alice. “Just in time for the board meeting tomorrow.” Then she looked back at Connor’s terse message and hurried script and chuckled. “The man does have a way with words.”

ARRIVING AT THE
Consolidated Industries offices on Sixth Avenue the next morning, Beatrice went straight to her office and closed the door. She stood looking at the great desk that had been her husband’s and thought of all he’d taught her. “Never go into negotiations unless you’re willing to give as well as take.” “Never let them see you’re worried.” And “in negotiations, if you can get your opponent to concede something small early on, you can get him to concede something larger, later.”

She drew a determined breath. She would need all of those lessons today if she were to get the start-up money she needed to organize her new “Barrow State Bank.”

She removed her stylish hat and checked her man-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit in the mirror behind the door. Deciding that she looked as businesslike as it was possible to look without resorting to male trousers, she tugged down her jacket and headed for the boardroom.

The large, walnut-paneled boardroom was slightly overheated and smelled faintly of mentholatum and mustard … which said clearly that reedy old Leonard Augustine and choleric old Ben Haffleck, both contemporaries of her late husband’s, were having their seasonal maladies and were likely to be short on patience. As she proceeded to her seat at the head of the table she passed portly, ruddy-faced William Afton and was assaulted by a
powerfully astringent cologne mixed with brilliantine. It was a relief to reach the peppermint schnapps emanating from N. T. Wright, the secretary of the board, and the merciful lack of odor surrounding Wilberforce Graham, the vice president.

As she took her seat, only two directors remained standing … Harry Winthrop and Archibald Lynch, two recent and frequently contentious additions to the board. She asked them to take their seats so the meeting could begin and they did so … very slowly.