Katherine O’Neal (46 page)

“I
do
accept what I am.”

“It’s all an illusion. A belief that no
longer exists. If you were truly heartless, you wouldn’t care about
what you’d done. Besides, who has loved and comforted me, and given
me a sense of hope for the first time in so many years?” He gazed
at her with such gratitude, she was stunned. “You must do the same,
love. You must forgive yourself for being human, accept what’s
past. Allow your suffering to make you a more compassionate person.
Use the paper to help other women who suffer the same despair. Work
toward seeing that it doesn’t happen to others. Use your pain for a
purpose.”

“I’d like that. But children...” Her words
drifted off.

He pulled her back into the crook of his arm.
In a kind and careful voice, he asked, “What are you doing to
prevent becoming pregnant?”

“Mother taught me to chart fertile periods by
the stars.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not in the least. All you need to know is
the correct month, day, and year of the woman’s birth. There are
only about two hours every month when a woman is truly fertile—when
the sun and moon are exactly the same number of degrees apart as
they were at the moment of the woman’s first breath. So if you
calculate by the day and time of birth and add a day or two on
either side, you only have a few days every lunar month when you
must abstain. Of course, if you want to ensure conception, it’s
more complicated. You have to know the hour and minute the woman
drew her first breath.”

“Fascinating. Where did your mother learn
this?”

“From Madame Zorina. It was one of the
reasons she sought her out. She’d heard the Gypsy had the secret,
and hoped she’d share it.”

“And it works?”

“I’m not pregnant. Once, out of morbid
curiosity, I went back and charted the time of the rape—to see if
it happened during a fertile time.”

After the briefest of pauses, he asked, “Did
it?”

“Yes. Unlucky for me.”

He used his hand to brush the hair back from
her face in a gesture of supreme gentleness. “Didn’t you tell me
you believe there are no accidents in life?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened to you happened for a
reason. Both of us lost children tragically when we were too young
to fully appreciate or care for them. I’d like to think we shall be
better parents because of it. That we shall love our children more.
Give them all the love we have bottled up inside. No one knows
better how precious our time with them is.”

“I want to believe you, Mace. But I have
little confidence—”

“Then take some from me. It matters not if
you give me children. I shall love you all the same. But know this.
I believe in you. I believe your heart was stepped on at a tender
age, and that your fear because of it has kept you from realizing
how much love you have to give. But I make you this vow. I shall
happily spend the rest of my life showing you.” He swallowed hard.
“You may not believe this, Princess, but there’s a goodly amount of
love stored in this rusty heart, waiting to be given. All the love
I hoped to give Pilar and my child but couldn’t. It’s all there,
and it’s multiplied over the years. I just didn’t realize it till I
met you.”

“I
do
believe you,” she said
softly.

“Then do me one favor.”

“What’s that?” she asked warily, not certain
she could comply.

“Believe in yourself. You, too, have a great
deal of love waiting to be used. Let my devotion be your spark. Let
it show you how much you have to give.”

She looked at him lovingly. “You don’t ask
for much, do you?”

“Only that you see all the possibilities of
life... dare what others only dream about. That’s all I ask.”

She smiled, because when he said it, her
heart soared, and she believed it was all possible. “We’ve been a
sorry lot up till now,” she said.

“Ah, but that’s the wonder of life. We can
always learn from our mistakes.”

“You make me believe it.”

“Then marry me. Together, let’s forge a
different destiny for ourselves. A new life, a new love, a new
purpose.”

“Yes.”

He sat up. “You will?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “You sound
surprised.”

“You mean to tell me—knowing who and what I
am—knowing everything I said could be a flam—you’re still willing
to throw your lot in with mine?”

“Mace, I know a flam when I hear one. What
you just told me was no con. It was the real you, speaking from the
heart. Given all that, what woman
wouldn’t
want you?
Besides,” she added, lowering her head and kissing him joyously.
“You have other talents that I find irresistible. I should be a
fool to let you get away.”

“We still can’t live together openly,” he
warned. “But once I get the paper back and clear your name, I think
I can come up with a way to make you out a heroine in this
thing.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

“But don’t forget, they still think of me as
Archer. They may know you were a con woman, but they still believe
my story. Can you live with that for the rest of your life? Playing
Mrs. Archer instead of living out your life as Saranda
Blackwood?”

“You know me better than that. I would have
done so had Winston lived, and had I not fallen in love with
you.”

“You’d have fallen in love with me in any
case.”

“Is that so? Well, don’t forget, my smug
friend, the name Blackwood isn’t exactly one I’ve coveted in my
life. I can live without it just fine, thank you.”

She saw a flash of unbidden regret in his
eyes.

“The question is,” she added, “can you?”

“I shall have to,” he said. “I have little
choice.”

“You could always come clean.”

“And risk losing the paper? Our future?”

She went into his arms. “It doesn’t matter to
me what we’re called, so long as we’re together. You make me
believe anything is possible. I should play a role forever rather
than lose you.”

He hugged her close, settling back to look at
the stars. “Then tomorrow, Princess. Tomorrow, it begins.” They
fell asleep in each other’s arms, unaware of how easily their
dreams could be shattered.

Their trouble began midmorning when the wind
suddenly shifted north. Try as he might, raising and lowering the
balloon to different elevations, Mace couldn’t find a
south-easterly current. Over northern Pennsylvania, the wind picked
up, blowing them at a furious pace. Somewhere close to Albany, they
ran into a patch of thick black clouds that threatened rain. In
Vermont, the cloudburst was heavy and the winds gusting, forcing
them to rise to nearly six thousand feet in order to steady the
balloon. The air was thinner at that altitude, hearing and seeing
more difficult. Objects appeared distorted. Their ears ached.
Still, they blew north, away from their destination. Once again,
Saranda grew petrified.

Mace was more concerned with turning the
balloon back toward New York. He refused to land and wait out the
storm. There was no telling when the atmospheric conditions might
suddenly change. He wanted to be in the air, so he could take
advantage of every second of aid the wind could give them.

By afternoon, they knew it was hopeless.
They’d been blown so far north, even a cyclone headed for New York
would be hard-pressed to get them there in time for the five
o’clock deadline. Still, Mace persisted, long into the night when
flying conditions were all but suicidal.

They finally landed in a downpour of rain. In
the wet, it was impossible to keep the gas flame lit, so they had
to bring the balloon to the ground. They spent the night under a
grove of trees, soaked to the skin in spite of the protective
overhang, shivering in the cold. Mace held Saranda close for
warmth, but his mood was detached.

“I’m so sorry, Mace,” she told him
helplessly.

“Hush,” he replied, not looking at her. “Try
to sleep.”

Of course she couldn’t. It surprised her how
disappointed she felt. She could feel his despondency as if it were
a current flowing from him. She knew this was the end of his dream.
By now, Sander McLeod had bought the
Globe-Journal
. But
somewhere along the way, it had become her dream as well. A dream
of a useful future, with the man she loved working by her side.

Now it would never be.

Still, some ember of optimism refused to die.
“If we can prove my innocence,” she murmured thoughtfully, “and
implicate Sander McLeod, won’t the paper revert back to me?”

“You’re missing the point. McLeod owns the
courts. He has the politicians in his back pocket. The only thing
he didn’t own was the power of the press. With the paper, we had a
chance. We could print such a barrage of stories, the courts would
have to take note. We’d print the evidence for all to see so no
court or judge could possibly deny it. Without the paper, we
haven’t got a prayer. But with the paper in McLeod’s hands, we’re
all but dead.”

“Dead?”

“Even having secured the paper, we’re still a
threat to McLeod. He can’t afford to be implicated in the Van Slyke
murders. Besides Lance, you and I are the only ones who know the
truth. I can’t even take you in to the authorities for safekeeping.
Once McLeod realizes we have proof, he’ll be out to kill me. You he
can leave to the mercy of the courts.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be honest with you,
Saranda, it doesn’t look promising. In any case, we shall go into
the city. I’ll meet with my contacts at the paper while you hide
out. Is there a place where you’ll be safe?”

“I can try Stubbs’ friend, Sophie. She’s a
Madam by profession and half in love with Stubbs so I think she can
be trusted not to give away a fellow outlaw.”

“As long as you think you’ll be safe.”

“And then?”

He let out a slow breath. “Then we shall
see.”

Sometime during the long, wet night, she
dozed against his chest. But even in her sleep she was aware of
him, sitting rigidly with his back to the tree, scarcely blinking
an eye.

* * *

They navigated the balloon over the city
after nightfall, hoping no one would detect their descent. They’d
planned to land in Central Park, where there would be enough open
space to set it down without being seen. But just as they began to
drift down over the city, the burner began to fizzle. As Mace was
struggling to moderate it, the flame went out completely. Denied
fuel, the balloon sank at an astonishing speed, swooping down over
the tops of buildings, barely missing them on its course to a crash
landing. Frantically unwrapping the anchor rope, Mace hurled it
into the air, and after several tries, finally succeeded in
anchoring the hook to the corner of the Cooper Union Building. They
had just enough time to scramble over the side and out before the
basket bounced high and came crashing back down, dragging on its
side halfway across the flat roof.

Shaken, they searched for a doorway that
might lead them into the building. There was none. “Climb on my
back,” Mace instructed, “and close your eyes.”

She didn’t dare ask what he had in mind.
Obeying him, she closed her eyes and clung to his back as he
lowered himself over the side of the four-story building, sometimes
sliding several feet before finding a foothold.

Finally, they reached the ground. The streets
were deserted, although farther along they could hear the crowds
around the Bouwerie Lane Theater. Suddenly, the time of parting was
at hand.

Saranda was overwhelmed by feelings of
despair. She hadn’t been away from him in months. It troubled her
that she’d be spending her first night away from him in the city
that most wanted her dead.

“I can’t bear to say good-bye,” she told him,
holding him close.

He kissed her, encircling her with strong,
protective arms. For a moment, she felt safe, felt that in spite of
the horrendous odds, all would come right in the end. But when he
pulled away, the feeling left with him. She felt small and
frightfully alone. She, who’d been on her own since the age of
thirteen.

“You’ve spoiled me,” she confessed. “I don’t
know that I can live without you ever again.”

“Hang on to that thought. Hopefully, you
won’t have to.”

“Mace—”

He took both of her hands in his. “Listen to
me, Saranda. I can’t make you any promises. But know that no matter
what happens, I’m with you. I shall think of something. If I have
to die protecting you, I won’t let them harm you.”

“That’s small consolation. I wouldn’t want to
live if you weren’t by my side.”

He kissed her hands, which he still held in
his. “Somehow, we shall get out of this. Just remember, there’s
always a way.”

She knew he was saying it to comfort her. She
could read his unspoken doubts in his eyes.

* * *

Hurrying down an intricate maze of side
streets to make certain she wasn’t followed, Saranda moved with all
haste into the Bowery. There, she disappeared into the hordes of
transient immigrants. The stench of the river mingled with the
smells of food while somewhere she could hear screams coming from
an open window.

Going back to Sophie’s was like returning to
a past she’d hoped she’d left behind. She’d stayed at Sophie’s when
she’d first come to New York. Nothing had changed. The girls were
still turning tricks, and Sophie was still tucking the proceeds
into her ample money belt.

“So you’re back,” she greeted, rarely
surprised by anything life threw her way.

“Have you a room I might let?” Saranda asked.
“Just for a few days?”

“My rooms don’t come free, as you know—”

“I’ll pay you more than they’re worth. I just
need a little time to clear my name. When I’ve gotten my
inheritance, I’ll repay you with so much money, you can leave this
rathole for good.”