Betina Krahn (3 page)

This was the true business of government. This was the way things truly got done. The people elected the men of Tammany Hall to provide for them and provide they did: public works, public safety, public services, jobs, and sometimes even the bare necessities of life. It was the system within the system, the informal agreements and tacit cooperation that kept the city—the entire state—running like a well-oiled machine. And that was precisely what the muckraking journalists and fiery-eyed reformers called it:
machine politics.

Soon they were interrupted by another petitioner, another young man. But, unlike Thomas Grady this one
was dressed in the height of fashion: black-tie evening clothes with an ivory silk scarf hanging around his neck.

“Which of you gentlemen is Connor Barrow?” The young fellow’s voice was barely a few years removed from a soprano.

“I am.” Connor turned in his chair to face him. “Who is asking?”

“Your cousin, sir. I am the son of Alicia Barrow Granton … Jeffrey Granton.”

Connor straightened. The boy clearly expected the name to work some sort of magic and it did. The sound of it, pronounced in those aristocratic tones—
Baaarrrow
—was enough to capture Connor’s undivided attention. No Barrow had claimed him as kin or contacted him in ten years; not since his wealthy grandfather disowned and disinherited him. Since then, he’d been a Sullivan in all but legal surname, and even that residual bit of “Barrow” was omitted on occasion, depending on his audience.

Now the Barrow side was reaching out to him in the person of this green kid, who was at the moment sizing him up with what Connor recognized as the fabled Barrow squint. That expression, perfected by his iron-willed grandfather, was seen by the rest of the world as evidence of great sagacity and superiority, when in fact, it was simply the result of the Barrows’ dogged refusal to wear spectacles, no matter how poor their eyesight.

“What can I do for you?” Connor asked.

“I would like a few minutes of your time,” Jeffrey Granton said, looking defensively at the others. “In private.”

Connor very nearly told him to get lost. Curiosity, however, got the better of him. He rose and waved the young man over to an unoccupied table in the corner.

As they settled into chairs opposite each other, he realized the boy was younger than he had first supposed. There was a fine blond fuzz on his upper lip.

“Something to drink?” Connor asked, beckoning to an apron-clad waiter.

“No … thank you.”

Apparently Jeffrey wasn’t a shaving man or a drinking man.

“How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in—oh—ten years at least.”

“She is fine.” The youth tugged at his collar as if the mention of his mother had somehow made it contract. “Busy. Her charities, you know.” Connor didn’t know, but it made sense. All women of social standing had
charities.
“She’s taking my sister on a tour of the capitals this fall. London in September, Paris in October, and November in Venice, of course.”

Connor smiled. It had been years since anyone from society’s vaunted Four Hundred had “of coursed” him. The kid was buttering him up.

“What can I do for you, Jeffrey Granton?”

“I’ve come to ask … to see if you can put me in touch with some people who might be willing to … um … work for me.”

“Work?” Connor frowned. “You’re in business?”

“Well, it’s not so much
work
as it is”—Jeffrey squirmed—“a
job.
”

“A job,” Connor mused, taking in the boy’s guilty flush. “And you’ve come to me because …”

“You know people. And I need a certain sort of man for this job. Someone with experience … and …”

“Muscle,” Connor offered.

The youth wilted slightly. “Yes. And a bit of …”

“Daring?”

“Exactly.”

Connor stiffened. It was now clear why the kid had sought out the Barrows’ black sheep. He needed help with something dangerous, disreputable, or at the very least, distasteful. He was tempted to tell Precious Jeffrey what he could do with his dirty little “job.” But curiosity again got the better of him.

“What kind of trouble are you in?” he demanded. “Gambling debts? An insult that cannot go unanswered? A servant girl in the family way?”

“Nothing like that!” Jeffrey’s voice cracked. “It’s just … a romantic matter.”

“Romantic?” Connor nearly choked on the word. It was so improbable it just might be true.

“The young lady and I wish to marry, but there is some interference.” Jeffrey lowered his voice. “I simply wish to … to …” He paused as if gathering the courage to say it.

“Elope.”

Jeffrey’s eyes widened then, after a moment, he nodded again.

“Yes, that’s it. I have to elope.”

Connor studied him, deciding that the situation must be desperate indeed for the youth to risk approaching a scapegrace of a cousin he’d never laid eyes on.

“There must be at least a dozen ways to arrange an elopement, none of which involve burly henchmen.” Unless the “delicate situation” involved more than just the garden variety of parental disapproval, he realized. “Who is this young lady you have your heart set on?”

Jeffrey looked away. “Someone from a wealthy and powerful family.”

“
Your
family is wealthy and powerful,” Connor observed.

“Yes, but … she is young.”

“How young?”

“Sixteen.”

Connor drew a deep breath and contained his urge to bolt from the chair. Sixteen. What the devil was he doing listening to this? He was running for the United States Congress, for God’s sake. But the blend of longing and desperation in the boy’s expression took on a strangely poignant appeal, and he couldn’t seem to raise himself out of the seat.

“You can’t be much older than that.”

“Old enough.” Jeffrey sat straighter and squared his shoulders. When Connor narrowed his eyes, the boy declared: “Eighteen is plenty old enough.” With a stroke of defiance, he added:
“Irish
marry at eighteen all the time.”

Unbidden, the memory of Thomas Grady materialized in Connor’s mind. The young Irish lad was scarcely older than Jeffrey here, and was already a father-to-be and a breadwinner burdened with eight hungry mouths to feed. Precious Jeffrey had no idea what responsibility was. Well, it might do him good to find out, starting with this marriage he was so dead set on plunging into.

“Is she that special?” Connor asked. Instantly, the youth grew so earnest and impassioned that Connor felt a surprising pang of guilt.

“She is the moon and the stars to me. She is so lovely and bright—if they send her to that convent school in France my life is over.”

“I see.” And against his better judgment, Connor remembered as well. It had been years since he had felt such fervent and all-possessing … That twinge in his chest, he realized irritably, was some part envy. “I take it she reciprocates.”

Jeffrey’s manly resolve dissolved.

“I am her moon, too.”

It was all Connor could do to keep from groaning aloud.

“Then, by all means, we must do what we can to get your blessed ‘moons’ together.”

“You mean it? You’ll help me?”

“I’d be pleased to help a fellow ‘romantic’ achieve the goal of his heart.” Connor looked to the tavern side and down the long, polished bar, where men with drink-reddened faces and arms too big for their sleeves were playing darts.

“Well”—Jeffrey sat forward—“I have a plan that—”

“No, no.” Connor raised a restraining hand. “Don’t tell me. It’s not wise for too many people to be privy to such a plan.” Much less, people who are running for national office. “I’ll put you in touch with some fellows and you take it from there.” He again scrutinized the men at the far end of the bar. “What you need is somebody with plenty of muscle and a dearth of ideas.” His mouth quirked up. “Too much thinking can ruin a perfectly good elopement.”

He spotted, in a far corner of the tavern side, two men who seldom showed their faces in O’Toole’s. They generally frequented places where the lighting was as bad as the whiskey and a man could go largely unrecognized. Dipper Muldoon and Shorty O’Shea weren’t bad fellows; just a bit too fond of drink and too unlucky at dice.

“I’ll put you in touch with two fellows. The rest is up to you.”

It was very simple, really, Connor thought as he sent Jeffrey out the side door to wait for Dipper and Shorty. Sooner or later everybody had a need they couldn’t fill for themselves, even society’s almighty Four Hundred. It
was then that they turned to government. To the well-oiled machine of Tammany Hall. To him.

His famously effective grin reappeared as he sent a waiter to fetch Dipper and Shorty to his table.

It was always a pleasure to be of service to the people.

ONE WEEK AFTER
her arrival in the city, Beatrice Von Furstenberg was again hurrying … this time down the stairs from an upper-level meeting room at the venerable Osterman Hall. Around her the members of the Executive Committee of the National American Woman Suffrage Association were arguing in muted, ladylike voices and fierce whispers, carrying the heated discussion of their recently adjourned meeting down the steps and out into the street.

Once again the women of the organization had refused to acknowledge a simple political reality: that securing the vote for women meant moving
men
to action. And motivating men with the power to make things happen would require that suffragists use the same tools as men: money, coercion, and compromise. When Beatrice pointed this out, the reaction had been heated.

In the ensuing chaos, the NAWSA’s leaders, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, declared that they would never stoop to “unsavory male practices
of persuasion.” Deal-making and vote-buying would reduce them to little more than “men in skirts.”

As Beatrice donned her gloves and manteau and exited the first-floor cloakroom, Lacey Waterman, a liberal-minded socialite and Beatrice’s longtime friend, fell in beside her with a grim expression.

“You tried, Beatrice. God knows you tried,” Lacey said, jerking on her gloves. “They’re determined to march into obscurity with their heads held high.”

“Hell-bent on being rational and noble minded and utterly doomed to failure,” Beatrice responded as they stepped out onto the pavement in front of the meeting hall.

“I still say we should publish the names of their light-skirts in the newspapers,” said wiry, frizzy-haired Frannie Excelsior, the resident civil agitator on the committee. “Or chain ourselves to their office doors until they agree to vote for suffrage. Or march arm in arm—
buck, naked
—down Fifth Avenue!”

Beatrice couldn’t help a wry laugh. As she gave Frannie a one-armed hug, she caught sight of the graying, rail-thin Susan Anthony behind them, descending the stairs amidst a covey of matronly activists.

“Most of the committee don’t have a clue what they’re up against,” she said with frustration. “But, you’d think Susan would know. After all these years, she
has
to know.”

After all these years.
As Beatrice climbed into her coach and settled back into the seat, the words haunted her. It had been over forty years since the convention at Seneca Falls, and what did women’s rights advocates have to show for all their hard work? Mostly fatigue, tears, and broken promises. It was a wonder that the
older campaigners like Susan Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton had the will to keep going after so many disappointments.

She was right, Beatrice told herself. The leadership just didn’t want to face it. Truth be told, who could blame them? Who would welcome the difficult conclusion that all men had their price and were motivated primarily by self-interest. She certainly hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Married off to the wealthy Mercer Von Furstenberg at such a young age, she hadn’t known what to think of men, even her own father. She had been raised by a governess and then disposed of as a family asset before she had a chance to form opinions on much of anything.

Seventeen years old on her wedding day, she had been little more than a curiosity in her husband’s house for the first year. She was largely ignored by her aging husband, who had no idea what to do with a nubile young wife once he acquired one. And she was superfluous to a household that ran like a well-tended clock. The staff weren’t intentionally thoughtless or cruel; they simply didn’t think of her as someone who needed to be considered. In that, they merely followed the lead of their employer, who treated her as a lovely thing that provided him a primarily aesthetic pleasure whenever he thought to take it down from the shelf.

What engrossed her husband, she soon discovered, was his businesses. Acquisitions, mergers, closing deals, putting one over on the competition, finagling a bit of legislation … those were the things that made his aging heart race. It was only when she began to show interest in his businesses that he began, with wry surprise, to take more than a dim and confusing carnal interest in her.

She had gradually become more a pupil than a wife to him. And it wasn’t until she turned her first thousand in profit from a stock transaction that he began to regularly take meals with her and to introduce her to his skeptical peers.