The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (32 page)

He thought about her words, blinking, considering, and then he pulled on either side of his brocade coat and settled his shoulders in obvious frustration. 

“You do make sense, Miss Kennedy.  It is unhappy for me, but you do make sense.  I want Miss Sharland to heal, not to fall back into illness because of my boyish impatience.  Yes, you make all the arrangements, Miss Kennedy, and I will arrive the first thing in the morning.”

And then Albert Harringshaw wandered over, and Eve tensed with revulsion.  John Allister turned cold and irritable, as if his brother had just awakened him from a magnificent dream. 

“What do you want, Albert?” John Allister said, sharply.

Albert looked at his brother with superb indifference.  “What are you plotting, dear brother?”

“Nothing that would be of interest to you or to any of your hired ruffians.”

Albert shined his crafty eyes on Eve.  “Miss Kennedy, what a most pleasant surprise to find you here, and looking so very ravishing in that elegant gown and wig.  I find, Miss Kennedy, that every time we meet, I am stimulated and fascinated by your craft and your ingenuity.  It is really quite extraordinary.  Are you and my brother conducting some kind of business?”

“It is not any of your affair, Albert,” John Allister said, tartly.  “I don’t blunder into your business and I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of mine.”

Albert chuckled.  “John, oh John, how you do go on about things.”

Albert looked at Eve.  “Did you know, Miss Kennedy, that when we were boys we often played blind man’s bluff?  I easily found John because he was so transparent, boring and unimaginative.  He would often hide in the same places.  He presented no challenge; no challenge at all.  I could read little John like a book, a very simple book.”

Eve spoke to Albert on reflex, as if nudged by some unseen force.  “And I bet your brother, Mr. Harringshaw, could also read you like a book, a book containing only four words: ‘You first, after me.’”

John Allister laughed.  “Well said, Miss Kennedy.  Well said indeed.”

Albert narrowed his cold, offended eyes on Eve.

“Perhaps, Miss Kennedy,” Albert said, “You should learn to hold your clever tongue when you are in the company of your superiors.”

Eve felt a volcanic rage she had been suppressing for weeks.  She couldn’t hold it back any longer.  “Superiors, Mr. Harringshaw?” Eve said, her eyes burning.  “You, sir, are not my superior in any way, nor are you anyone else’s superior, as I see it.  Just because you were born into a family that possesses more money than you need or know how to spend wisely, doesn’t give you the right or privilege to think you are anyone’s superior.  I have met better breeding on a subway car in the middle of the night.  Your supposed superiority shows, sir, that
you
are inferior because you lack sensitivity and depth of feeling, and you have no consideration for anyone else other than yourself.  You, sir—in short, sir—are a bully.”

The two men stood in a stunned silence.  John Allister stared at Eve first in utter shock, and then in swelling admiration.  He began to laugh, his entire body shaking from it.

Albert’s face was red with rage, his eyes pointed at Eve like threatening weapons. 

“No one talks to me like that, you silly woman.  No one.  You will regret your caustic, insulting and impudent words for the rest of your life, Miss Kennedy, you can be sure of it.”

He swung about and retreated, leaving Eve trembling with emotion, but not regret.

“Hurrah, Miss Kennedy!” John Allister said.  “Hurrah, indeed!  No one has ever had the courage to dress Brother Albert down like that.  No one, not in his entire life.  I, myself, never had the courage.  Well done, Miss Kennedy!”

Eve turned quiet, the anger and adrenalin draining out of her, weakening her.  The false strength was now being replaced by fear and dread.  She’d just made a colossal mistake.  A stupid mistake.

“Don’t worry about him, Miss Kennedy.  He’s harmless.”

Eve knew better.  She knew that Albert Harringshaw was anything but harmless—quite the contrary.  Eve knew he meant everything he’d said to her and more.  If she stayed in New York, he would make her life a living nightmare.  She had just sealed her own terrible fate. 

And then she thought of Patrick and San Francisco.  He was somewhere nearby and he was waiting for her answer: would she marry him and move to San Francisco with him?  He wanted to leave as soon as possible, the sooner the better, before something unseen happened to him and before she was trapped. 

Eve’s mind was whirling, one thought bouncing off another.  Patrick had surprised her with his declaration of love and his wish to marry her, and at first, she had been thrilled by the news, indulging in delicious thoughts of making love to him, and of the two of them getting acquainted, as only newly married lovers do, in both simple and intimate ways.  But now she wasn’t sure.

Did she love Patrick?  She was certainly physically attracted to him—more to him than to any other man she’d ever met.  But marriage in this time and place?  Move to San Francisco in 1885 and start a new life?  She just wasn’t sure.  She was a modern woman and, even though Patrick had said he would give her all the freedom she wanted or needed, did he really understand what that meant?  And even if she lived with someone who gave her her freedom, women in 1885 had little power and she was unlikely to gain much more, even if she did become a doctor.

Eve had boxed herself in.  If she stayed in New York, Patrick would leave and she’d wind up as Albert’s sex slave, or rotting in some women’s prison. 

Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she saw the lantern.  Could she find it?  Did Evelyn even know where it was?  Did it exist?  Eve had to find out, and fast.

John Allister turned to her, deep in thought.  “Miss Kennedy, what is a subway car?”

At that moment, Eve caught movement out of the corner of her eye.  She turned, hearing gasps, seeing faces stretched in fear, shock and fascination.  The room turned to ice as people stood transfixed, all eyes focused on a woman who stood near two marble statues.   

Eve stared at the woman in disbelief.  She wore a bright red dress, a black cloak and a hood covering her head, obviously dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.  She was only 10 feet from Albert Harringshaw.  Eve watched in disbelief as the woman pulled a derringer from a black muff and pointed it directly at his chest. 

Eve was close enough to see the derringer’s silver blue finish and pearl grip panels.  In that stunned silence, the lilting strings of a distant string quartet filled the space, its haunting music wafting down from some upper room, as if the gods were serenading these startled mortals, frozen in a tableau.

The woman spoke in a harsh, threatening contralto.  “Mr. Albert Harringshaw!”

Albert stood stark still, alone, everyone near him having escaped to the periphery.  Fear was slowly creeping into his eyes.  His body was stiff, his eyes shifting, calculating escape.  But there was no escape.

“You have ruined me, Mr. Harringshaw, a virtuous woman who has been deprived of her virtue and then tossed aside like some tarnished buckle.  Well, sir, I will be the last woman you ruin.  I, Mr. Harringshaw, will put you where you belong: in the lowest grave in the lowest rung of hell!”

When the woman removed her hood, there were gasps.

Eve drew in a stunned breath.  It was Helen Price! 

Albert held up a pleading hand.  “Miss Price, please lower that derringer.  You are quite mistaken about me and my intentions.  They are honorable, I assure you.”

“No, sir, I am not mistaken and your honor, sir, is a sham, a twisted, selfish perversion.  I have had you followed, sir.  I know what devilish business you are up to.  Now say a quick prayer, Mr. Harringshaw, before I send you straight to the devil, where you belong.”

Albert’s face was white, drawn and grim.  “Madam, please,” he said, his voice pinched with appeal.  “Please, I am not the man you think I am.  Please spare me.  I beg you.”

Then Eve saw him: Patrick!  He was too far away to reach Helen Price.  Eve saw he was edging his way toward Albert Harringshaw.  Did Helen see him?  No, her cold, dark stare was only focused on Albert, her target.

Helen leveled the derringer just as Patrick sprang for Albert.

Eve screamed “No!”

The derringer POPPED.  Women screamed.  Men ducked away and Eve watched in horror as Patrick pounced on Albert and they tumbled onto the floor. 

Then there was chaos, as two men charged Helen, snatching the derringer from her trembling hand.  They held her by her shoulders, and as she looked at Albert and Patrick lying on the floor, she burst into tears, screaming.

“Is he dead?  Tell me he’s dead!  Tell me he’s dead!” she wailed.

Eve broke for Patrick, falling to her knees on the marble floor before the two men, both lying dead still.  Dr. Eckland was by her side in seconds, slowly lowering to one knee. 

“Who took the bullet, Miss Kennedy?  Can you see?  Who took the bullet?  We must first find it and stop the bleeding.”

And then Albert’s eyes opened, still filled with shock.  He looked at Patrick, and in a kind of panic, he pushed back away from him on hands and feet, freeing his body and legs.

Without moving him, Eve frantically scanned Patrick’s body—and then she saw it: a small red hole in the upper right of Patrick’s black coat revealed that he had taken the bullet. 

“It’s Patrick!” she exclaimed. 

John Allister quickly appeared.  “Is there something I can do?”

Dr. Eckland said, “Get my carriage.  We’ve got to get this man to a hospital.”

“No, I’ll get mine.  We’ll take him in my carriage,” John Allister said.

John turned to a servant and gave his command.

The crowd moved in for a closer look.  Dr. Eckland waved them back.  “Stand back, for God’s sake.  Stand back and find me some water and clean bandages.  For God’s sake, stand back so we can help this man!”

Patrick was lying on his stomach, his head turned so that half of the left side of his face was visible.  When he opened a milky eye, struggling to look at Eve, she leaned in close.

“Patrick, take it easy.  We’re going to get you to the hospital.”

He managed a half grin.  “Marry me?” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

CHAPTER 28

Patrick was unconscious when he arrived at Gouverneur Hospital, and was immediately operated on by Dr. Long, with Dr. Eckland and Eve assisting.  The derringer Helen Price fired was a single shot .41 caliber.  Dr. Eckland had seen similar wounds when he was a physician in the Civil War and so his assistance was invaluable.  With his help, Dr. Long explored the muscle near Patrick’s right shoulder, found the lodged bullet, and then carefully removed it.

Eve’s job was to ensure the wound was cleaned and bandaged.  Patrick was then wheeled to one of the hospital’s two private rooms, and covered with warm blankets.  Eve wished she had an IV drip, monitors and, most especially, antibiotics.  What worried her was the possibility not only of infection, but also of blood poisoning.  Either could kill him.  Without antibiotics, Eve could only hope and pray.  She pulled a chair up next to his bed and sat there, monitoring him, tucking in the blankets, spooning water between his lips and wiping the beaded perspiration from his forehead.

Hours later, both Dr. Long and Dr. Eckland came by and ordered Eve to bed, but she refused.  Dr. Eckland finally laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, sighing heavily.

“My dear Miss Kennedy, we have done all we can for him.  Dr. Long performed a difficult and delicate operation with great skill.  I was quite impressed and I told her so.  She is a talented surgeon, as I saw with my own eyes, so let us be grateful for her good hands.  Mr. Gantly is young and strong and it is not a mortal wound.  Now we must leave it to Almighty God.”

It was after 4am when Dr. Eckland left.  Eve sat by Patrick’s bedside watching him breathe erratically and talk incoherently.  She fought back tears and anger.  Why did he take the bullet intended for Albert Harringshaw?  Why didn’t he let Helen Price shoot the bastard
? 
He’s the one who deserved to be lying there fighting for his life, not Patrick. 

Albert had been so scared after the shooting that he didn’t even bother to drop by and ask about Patrick’s condition.  He fled the house, taking a back entrance, even leaving his fiancée to find her own way home.  So much for the chivalrous, courageous gentleman, Albert Harringshaw.  To Eve, he was a feckless, blowhard chicken shit.

As the first early morning light crept into the curtain-covered window, Eve’s chin slowly lowered onto her chest and she fell asleep.  When she awoke an hour later, she checked to see that Patrick’s condition was stable, and then she reluctantly moved to a temporary cot in the nurses’ quarters.

She slept just a few hours, until 9am.  She washed, dressed, ate a small breakfast and began her rounds, starting first with Patrick.  There was little or no improvement.

As Eve stepped into the hallway, she was met by Dr. Long, who promptly handed Eve the morning paper.  She made a small twist of a frown. 

“You won’t like it.”

Eve hesitated before taking it.

“Don’t let yourself feel anger over this,” Dr. Long said.  “It’s not worth it.”

Eve held her eyes for a moment before she read the big, bold headlines.

ALBERT HARRINGSHAW NARROWLY ESCAPES DEATH AT THE CELEBRATED HARRINGSHAW BALL

CRAZED WOMAN FIRES SINGLE SHOT BUT MISSES

MR. HARRINGSHAW STANDS BY BRAVELY

Eve read the first two paragraphs of the story.  There was no mention of Detective Sergeant Gantly taking the bullet for Albert and saving his life.  It said that Albert Harringshaw was brave, and that the crazed shooter had entered the ball under false pretenses, singling him out because he was from
the famous family
.

Eve dropped the paper to her side, feeling a sudden anger that flushed her face scarlet.  “Stood bravely!?” she said, shaking the paper in outrage.  “Albert Harringshaw brave!?  He’s an egotistical coward!  What kind of journalism is this?  It’s all a bunch of lies, and there’s no mention anywhere of Detective Gantly, who saved the bastard’s life!”