Words Spoken True (18 page)

The next morning Blake Garrett read the printed words and knew Adriane had sent the message. He would have known even if one of the hands hadn’t seen Duff Egan slipping away from the building early that morning. Blake stared at the note and imagined her hand forming the letters of the words. Was she really concerned about him, or was this just a clumsy attempt to frighten him into taking the fire out of his editorials? It was really too late for that. The election was the same as over. Even though no one had yet cast a vote, there was little doubt of the outcome. Coleman Jimson had won. Blake had lost.

John Chesnut had just left the
Herald
offices. The old man had been so upset he’d had to keep pausing to recover his breath so he could continue his tirade. It was one thing to attack the
Tribune
and Wade Darcy. It was quite another thing to alienate every businessman in Louisville. People would refuse to buy a paper that published such unpopular opinions. Not only that, but how did Blake expect to keep the
Herald
going without selling any advertisements? It couldn’t be done.

Mr. Chesnut had wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead and insisted Blake moderate his attacks on Coleman Jimson and the Know Nothing party. Of course he’d been going through the same tirade every morning for weeks, and Blake had been able to talk him around to his point of view. But today, Blake hadn’t had the words to convince him. Had not even tried.

He’d seen his defeat the night before as he watched the parade file by. And then when he’d spotted Adriane finally out of seclusion and so tight in with the Jimsons, all the fight had drained out of Blake.

It was over. Chesnut was ready to renege on his promise to let Blake buy into the
Herald
, and even if he did hold true to their bargain, Coleman Jimson was determined to prove there wasn’t room in this city for any views opposing his.

Blake had known what he was risking when he took Jimson on, and though he might have lost the battle, he had no doubts his position was the only right one. Coleman Jimson lacked the character and proper morals necessary for public service. It appeared the constituents in this district were determined to learn that truth the hard way.

All that was bad enough, but it wasn’t what had Blake thinking about going back to New York. He could keep the
Herald
going. New stories, new headlines would pull back his readers even if they did disagree with his politics. And he wasn’t worried about the advertisements. The way Louisville was growing, he could find plenty of new businessmen anxious to take out advertisements to replace any businessmen who might be coerced into boycotting the
Herald
.

What he couldn’t fight, what he couldn’t stay in Louisville and watch, was Adriane becoming Mrs. Stanley Jimson. Blake leaned his head in his hands and tried to keep from seeing her so close beside Stanley the day before. It was one thing to say he’d kill Stanley Jimson before he allowed him to marry Adriane. It was quite another thing to actually do it.

If she wanted to sacrifice herself to Stanley Jimson to please her father, to keep the
Tribune
going, for the security of the Jimson money, for whatever reason, there was no way he could stop her any more than he could stop Jimson winning the election. He raised his head and looked at Adriane’s printing on the note once more. It might be over, and if so, he was ready to admit defeat. But first he’d be sure. First he’d confront her one more time. He’d make her look him in the eyes and tell him face-to-face that she was going to marry Stanley Jimson.

When that happened, he’d give John Chesnut a couple of weeks to find someone to take his place at the
Herald
, but he’d make sure to be far away from Louisville long before September 15. Else he might really find himself holding a loaded gun pointed at Stanley Jimson’s chest.

“Hey, boss, are you all right?” Joe asked, coming up behind Blake. “You ain’t letting Chesnut get you down, are you? All that old man’s worried about is numbers. He’ll come around.”

“I don’t know, Joe.” Blake looked up at him. “I think maybe I fell on my face with this Jimson thing.”

“That ain’t so, boss. You’re right as rain about that scoundrel, and you know it.”

“Trouble is, nobody else wants to believe it.” Blake blew out a long breath.

“So you lost this round,” Joe said. “Ain’t no editor anywhere ever won every round.”

“No editor’s ever lasted long losing every round either.”

“You ain’t fought but one that I can tell. And even if Wade Darcy and the
Tribune
did win this one, in the long run, it’ll be better to be right.”

“Wade Darcy thinks he’s right.”

“I ain’t so sure about that.” Joe shook his head. “I talked to old Beck the other day.”

“You talked to Beck?” Blake’s eyes sharpened on Joe.

“Yeah. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he hunted me up on purpose,” Joe said. “Anyhow even he’s a little worried about the way Jimson’s pulling the strings over at the
Tribune
.”

“Beck said that?” Blake asked.

“Not in so many words, you know. He wouldn’t never be that disloyal to Wade Darcy, I don’t reckon, but he got to talking up this really weird idea. Something about how the
Tribune
and the
Herald
combined would make a paper that nobody or nothing could ever bring down.”

“He said what?” Blake stared at Joe.

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. I asked him if he’d had his head under a barrel these last few weeks while the two papers had been going after each other. He just laughed.” Joe shook his head again. “I never knowed Beck to drink, but I figured he must have had a cup or two too many that night even if I couldn’t smell it on him.”

Blake looked thoughtful for a moment. “The
Herald
and the
Tribune
merged. Old Beck may have something.”

“Yeah, it’s called getting funny in the head. Chesnut and Darcy ain’t spoke in ten years, maybe more. You ain’t never gonna get them two to shake hands on nothing unless’n it’s just before they plan to have a shooting match.”

“You could be right there, Joe, but then surprising things sometimes happen.” Blake laughed, surprising himself already. Maybe it wasn’t completely over. Maybe there was still hope and time to fight another round. Beck hadn’t hunted Joe up for no reason. That was sure.

M
onday, Election Day, dawned clear and hot. Adriane was downstairs when the newsboys came in wide-eyed and full of wild talk already about what might happen that day. They could hardly wait to grab their papers and get back on the streets to be part of it all.

Adriane caught Duff and pulled him aside before he could make his escape. When he cast an anxious eye at the door, she promised, “I won’t keep you long.”

“I wasn’t worrying none. Me papers will be easy enough to sell today what with the men out on the streets waiting to vote.” The boy pushed his cap back to a jaunty angle on his dark hair.

Adriane couldn’t keep from smiling as she remembered overhearing Duff bragging to the other hands about how the new cap was a sure girl-getter. The other hands made unmerciful fun of him, but they liked him. Even her father seemed to almost forget from time to time that the boy was Irish.

Adriane’s smile faded. The men out on the streets didn’t forget. Twice in the last week Duff had been set upon by bullies who scattered his papers and tried to steal his money. So now she said, “Promise me you’ll be careful out there today.”

“Don’t you be fretting about me, Miss Adriane. I’ll stay clear of them bullies for sure and certain.”

“But today there may be more of them out there than usual.”

“There’ll be trouble. You can go ahead and write that down. That’s all anybody could talk about out on the streets around home last night. Plenty of folks is looking for a fight on both sides.”

“Just make sure you’re not in the middle of it.”

“You can count on that,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be running in so many reports for you and Beck all day that I won’t be having time to get in no trouble.”

Adriane gave him a quick hug. “If I had a little brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”

Duff’s grin got broader. “And there’s plenty of times I might be wishing me own sisters was more like you. They don’t always see me best qualities especially now that I’m making them tell our mother everywhere they go and who they might be stepping out with.”

“Your sisters are all older than you, aren’t they?”

“That they are.” Duff’s grin disappeared. “But me da told me to look after them before he died, and I ain’t aiming to let them be taking any chances with this river slasher still on the loose.”

“It’s been a long time since poor Dorrie was killed. Maybe she was the last.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t feel safe for me sisters till I see the murderer swinging from a rope.”

“The police will catch him,” Adriane said.

“I ain’t putting too much faith in the likes of them, but I am thinking that Mr. Garrett at the
Herald
might yet smoke him out.” Duff looked at her and quickly added, “I don’t mean to be upsetting you by saying that, Miss Adriane, but he isn’t letting the whole thing be forgot like some others.”

“I know.” Adriane looked down at the floor and hesitated a moment before she asked, “Did you get the message delivered?”

“I did just like you said, Miss Adriane, and didn’t let nobody see me when I slipped it under the door,” Duff said, guessing which message she meant.

“Thank you, Duff.” Adriane kept her face down to hide the blush burning her cheeks.

“And I got your other letters sent and delivered.”

“Delivered?” Adriane asked faintly.

“Aye, I took that one to Mr. Jimson by his house this morning. I thought it’d be quicker than posting it,” Duff said. “Now if you don’t need nothing more, I’d best be on the streets before people start to missing their papers.”

As she watched Duff go out the door, she thought of how Stan might be reading her letter at that very moment and a disturbing uneasiness crept over her. She hadn’t wanted him to get the letter until after the election was over. Then again, perhaps it was better this way. Stan might be too busy today with everything else going on to make a scene, and with the passing of enough hours, he might come to accept her decision as best for both of them.

She could hope that, but she didn’t really believe being rid of Stanley Jimson would be that easy. Besides, she owed him a face-to-face explanation, even if she didn’t exactly look forward to it any more than she looked forward to telling her father what she’d done. Adriane drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders in anticipation of her father’s anger as she went in search of him.

He wasn’t in his office, and the breakfast she’d left out for him was untouched. Beck told her, “He left before daylight this morning. Some kind of strategy meeting for the party. He says some of the men are worried the Irish and German immigrants are going to try to stuff the ballot boxes against the Know Nothings.” Beck looked up from the type he was cleaning. “Something wrong, Addie?”

“Sort of,” Adriane said with a frown. “I needed to tell him something.”

“Bad news?”

“He’ll think so.” Adriane sighed. “I sent Stanley Jimson a letter telling him I can’t marry him.”

Beck didn’t smile, but a few of the lines around his eyes eased out. “Good,” he said before he turned back to his type.

“Father won’t think so.” Adriane stared down at the type and put a couple of letters back in order before she said, “And I’m not sure what Stan will think.”

“You worried about him coming around here?” Beck looked up at her again. “I can always send him packing.”

“No, I’ll have to talk to him. I owe him that much.”

“You don’t owe him a thing, Addie. You changed your mind, and that’s the end of it.”

“I rather doubt he’ll agree. I’m not exactly sure why, but he did seem bound and determined to marry me.” Adriane paused before she went on thoughtfully. “He may not want to take no for an answer.”

“I can fix that.” Beck wiped his hands on his grimy printer’s apron and went back to his room just off the pressroom. He came back carrying an ancient-looking pistol and laid it on the table next to the trays of type.

Adriane stared at the gun. “I don’t want to shoot him.”

“It don’t hurt to be ready for whatever might happen,” Beck said.

“I didn’t even know you had a gun, Beck.”

“I ain’t never found much cause to bring it out. A man like me tends to look for the peaceful way.” Beck went back to cleaning type as though the gun there beside him was nothing out of the ordinary. “But I carry it on occasion.”

“What occasions?”

“One like today.” Beck looked up at her. “You can be sure there won’t be a man on the street today without a gun or a knife in his pocket.”

A tremble raced through Adriane at Beck’s words. It was a day primed for violence. “You’re scaring me, Beck,” she said.

“It’s a day to be scared, Addie. To maybe send up some extra prayers for our town, but you don’t have to worry about young Jimson. If he’s fool enough to come by and try to give you any kind of trouble, we’ll just use this to persuade him to go back out the door.” Beck tapped the gun with an ink-stained finger. “There ain’t nothing in the Good Book that says a man can’t protect hisself. Or herself.”

As the sun came up and began pushing its heat through the dirty windows into the pressroom, Adriane did her best to ignore the gun on Beck’s table. But she couldn’t. Its very presence in the pressroom signaled unease, the same unease that seemed to be settling over the city as reports began coming in. Early on, Duff brought in the news that armed Know Nothing party men were standing guard at the polls all over the city.

“They ain’t letting none of the Germans or the Irish vote,” Duff told Adriane and Beck. He was still panting a little from his run through the streets back to the offices.

“They can’t keep qualified voters from voting,” Adriane said.

“A gun in your face is a pretty powerful discourager,” Beck said with a glance at his own gun.

“Some of the men ain’t being scared into giving up so easy,” Duff said. “They’re lining up in front of the polls to wait. One of me sister’s friends told me he’d wait all day to cast his vote if he had to. That he was entitled. He said he didn’t care how hot the sun got, and it is hot.” Duff wiped the sweat off his face.

“Where are the police?” Adriane asked.

“I didn’t see none,” Duff said. “You can’t hardly be blaming them. There’s an ugly feel out there on the streets.”

“Any fights yet?” Beck asked him.

“Some pushing and a lot of yelling, but it could be things might get worse before long.” Duff looked out the window. “That sun could burn the patience out of a saint.”

“Did you see my father?” Adriane asked.

“No. He’s probably down at the Know Nothing headquarters on Jefferson Street. I’m hearing that they’re running everything from there.” Duff headed for the door, his eyes alive with excitement. “I’ll be back.”

As they watched Duff lope off down the street, Adriane said, “I wish I could see what’s happening for myself.”

Beck frowned at her. “You ain’t stepping foot out of this house, Addie. You understand?” There was no give in his voice.

Adriane sighed. “I understand, but I don’t have to like it. I wish I were a man.”

Beck laughed. “It ain’t the first time you’ve wished that. You recollect the time you chopped off your hair and wanted to be called Jim. What were you? Ten? Eleven?”

“Eleven,” Adriane said.

Beck chuckled as he turned back to his work. “You were a sight.”

Adriane didn’t laugh. Even now all these years later, the memory of that time was cold and hard inside her. Her father had raged at her, then at Henrietta, who took to her bed after telling Adriane’s father no one could control Adriane. She’d moaned over and over that his wayward daughter would be the death of her.

A month later, the poor woman had stirred two weeks’ worth of sleeping powders and some arsenic into a glass of milk and gone to sleep for the last time. Adriane was consumed by guilt. So much so that she was sometimes drawn to the hated closet under the stairs where she stared at the door while Henrietta’s words echoed in her head.
The good Lord doesn’t listen to bad little girls’ prayers.

Adriane wasn’t sure which had frightened her most in the days after Henrietta died—that Henrietta was right and the Lord didn’t hear Adriane’s prayers, or that Henrietta was wrong and he did. Hadn’t she prayed often enough to be rescued from Henrietta and her dark closets? Perhaps she
had
been the death of Henrietta. It wasn’t until years later that Adriane could completely believe the woman’s death had more to do with the baby she’d lost six months earlier than with anything Adriane had ever done or prayed.

The loss of that last baby had been the reason for Adriane’s rebellion against being female as well. Henrietta had carried that child months longer than any of her other poor lost babies. Hope had brought new life to her face, and she’d even attempted to be nice to Adriane. Then the tiny boy baby had been born dead after a difficult confinement.

Afterward, any time Adriane was alone with her, Henrietta would fix a piercing stare on the girl and tell her that someday she’d suffer the same fate. That babies brought their mothers nothing but grief. Hadn’t Adriane’s own mother died giving her life? And wouldn’t it have been better if one of Henrietta’s sweet babies had drawn breath rather than Adriane? But God had preordained all women be punished for the sin of Eve. No woman could escape that punishment. It was written so in the first book of the Bible.

Henrietta would open her Bible to Genesis and point at the page. “In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children,” she’d say without looking at the words. Then her eyes would burn into Adriane as she said, “We’re all Eves. All of us.”

After a while Adriane decided not to be an Eve but an Adam. It was a matter of a few snips of the scissors to chop off her waist-length hair. A boy down the street gave her an old pair of trousers, and Adriane happily discarded her petticoats.

That night when her father came home, she’d actually run to meet him, sure he’d be glad to have a son instead of a daughter. He wanted a son to carry on the
Tribune
someday. She’d heard him say as much often enough.

But he was not glad. Instead he had banished her from his sight. He not only stopped taking her to the newspaper offices, he ordered her to stay in her room whenever he was in the house until her hair was a respectable length again. As the days dragged by and her hair showed no sign of growing, her room began to shrink around her and changed from a once welcome haven to a room of confinement almost as bad as the punishment closet.