Words Spoken True (8 page)

“Don’t worry, Joe. I’m going to step easy till I know exactly which way I want to go with the
Herald
. But once I’ve got my facts gathered, I’ll slam them so hard and fast they won’t know what hit them.”

Joe shook his head. “It may be you not knowing what’s hit you. I’ve heard talk, and some of them Know Nothing fellows is ready to do whatever it takes to make sure their candidates come out on top. You know yourself there’s done been some riots in other cities. It could happen here.”

“Then we’d better make sure we’re on the right side.”

“The right side or the one that sells the most papers?” Joe peered at him across the desk.

“We have to hope they’re one and the same.” Blake pointed at the paper he’d given Joe. “Now if you don’t go on and get that story set up, Mrs. Wigginham won’t see her name in the
Herald
tomorrow and I won’t ever get invited to any more of her newsworthy events.”

Joe started to turn away, but then stopped to ask, “You been invited to this wingding tonight?”

“Not officially, but I’m sure Coleman Jimson wouldn’t mind if I decided to show up. He hasn’t given up on the idea of pulling me and the
Herald
into his camp yet.”

“I ain’t seeing that happen, but if you do go, you tell Addie hello for me, boss. Maybe if you make eyes at her, she’ll forget young Stanley.” Joe shot another grin at Blake before he moved back toward the galley table.

Blake watched him a moment and then let his eyes stray around the shop where the men were getting the press ready for the first run. He loved this part of putting out the paper, when all the words were ready and it was time to start cranking them out.

He even liked it when he was a boy helping his father put out their weekly back in Castleton, Virginia, and they’d done all the cranking by hand. His father would always grab the first sheet off the press and look at it with a hint of wonder. “By golly, it’s done it again,” he’d say. “Look here, boy. That press has transformed our ordinary old words into news.” Then he would lay the sheet reverently aside to run his hand gently along the frame of the press before they started in cranking out the copies again.

“A newspaperman can never break trust with his readers, boy,” he’d tell Blake as they worked. “He always has to print what he believes is the truth, no matter what the consequences.” And his father always had, up until the day an angry reader, taking offense to that truth, shot him out on the street.

Blake still missed him all these years later. Hardly a week went by that he didn’t wish he could ask his father’s advice about the stories he wrote. And there were times when he almost felt his father peeking over his shoulder as some long-forgotten bit of his homespun wisdom would surface in Blake’s mind while he was trying to get down the words of a story.

He wondered what kind of advice his father would have about Adriane. Blake smiled a little as he could almost hear his father’s words echoing in his mind. “A newspaperman has to gather as much information as he can before he can make the right decision about how to go with a story. If a man’s thoughts are fuzzy, his words are going to be like a pied tray of type.”

That’s just how Blake’s mind felt right now. Like a tray of type dumped out on the floor and scattered every which way. And Adriane Darcy was the sole cause.

He’d go to that party tonight. Adriane couldn’t have been as beautiful as he’d thought, and seeing her again would help him put everything in proper perspective. He wouldn’t let his thoughts just stay jumbled like that pied tray of type because of a woman.

That night when Blake arrived at the Jimsons’ house, the street was crowded with carriages and the party was already in full swing. Music and laughter spilled out to him even before a servant ushered him into the long, ornate parlor. Gilt-framed mirrors on every wall reflected the gay colors of the ladies’ dresses as they swirled among the dark suits of the gentlemen.

Meta Jimson stood just inside the parlor greeting late arrivals with a stiff smile that didn’t soften when Blake spoke of the happy occasion they were celebrating. He was relieved when she turned away from him to the next arriving guest and he could move past her on into the room where, at last, his eyes fell on Adriane.

He’d thought her beautiful that afternoon at Mrs. Wigginham’s, but now in a dress the same vibrant blue as her eyes with a neckline that revealed an enticing amount of creamy white skin, she took his breath away. Her dark brown hair was swept up in soft waves and caught high on her head, and his fingers tingled at the thought of pulling out the jeweled combs that held it there to let it cascade down around her shoulders. Blake had a sudden understanding of why men tried to pen poems. Not that he had the gift of poetry, but looking at her, he wished he did.

He was sure she saw him the minute he entered the Jimsons’ parlor, but she pretended to be unaware of him as she turned to smile at another guest. Wade Darcy made no such pretense. For a moment Blake thought the man was going to barge across the room and demand he leave, but after a whispered conference with Coleman Jimson, Darcy simply scowled and turned his back on him.

Coleman Jimson, on the other hand, came hurrying over to make Blake welcome. “Mr. Garrett, it’s so good of you to come to our little gathering.”

“I couldn’t miss an event of such note.” Blake did his best to match the man’s enthusiasm as they shook hands. “Even if I wasn’t invited.”

“You need no invitation, sir.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Darcy agrees,” Blake said.

“Don’t mind Wade. He’s never handled competition well, and you’ve been giving him a run for his money lately with Chesnut’s rag.” Coleman Jimson laughed as he clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Of course if you print anything unfavorable about his daughter tomorrow, he may call you out, and I must warn you he’s a superb marksman with a pistol.”

Blake’s eyes drifted over to Adriane. “He needn’t worry about that. It would be hard to write anything the least unfavorable about such a vision of loveliness. Your son is an extremely fortunate man.”

“Not everybody agrees with that, but it just so happens that I do. If anybody can make a man of Stanley, our Adriane can.”

Jimson noted how his words took Blake by surprise. He laughed and pounded Blake on the back again as he went on. “And if you quote me on that, Mr. Garrett, I’ll swear on my mother’s Bible you made it up. Every word. Now come along and I’ll take you over so you can congratulate the couple in person. That is why you came, isn’t it?” Jimson’s eyes were suddenly sharp on Blake.

“That and the chance for some free refreshments.” Blake pushed a bland smile out on his face.

“There’s plenty of that for the taking.” Jimson led the way across the crowded floor to where Stanley and Adriane were greeting people.

“We have a surprise guest, children,” the elder Jimson thundered in his booming voice, catching the attention of everyone in the room. “Blake Garrett from the
Herald
. I’m sure you know my son, Stanley, Mr. Garrett, and this is our Stanley’s lovely intended, Miss Adriane Darcy.”

Adriane smiled a little, but she refused to meet Blake’s eyes directly as she greeted him politely. “How nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Garrett.” She looked over at Coleman Jimson to explain they’d just met for the first time that very afternoon at Mrs. Wigginham’s gathering for the Library Aide Society.

When she glanced back at Blake, he was ready for her, and he grabbed her eyes before she could turn away. Caught by surprise, she met his look fully, hiding nothing, and something like an earthquake tore through Blake’s heart and mind, rearranging everything about his life.

By the time she lowered her eyes an instant later, Blake’s thoughts were no longer scrambled but crystal clear. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it.

W
ith the coming of the warmer days of April and May, everyone in Louisville who was anyone threw open their windows and doors to let in the fragrance of spring and to hold some sort of social to welcome the season. The snows and cold of winter were forgotten as blooming trees, bushes, and flowers transformed the residential streets, but in spite of the fragrant lilacs and the fresh white beauty of the abundant dogwoods, there was no spring in Adriane’s heart.

She went to the unending parties with Stanley. She smiled until her face hurt and admired countless gardens, but inside she felt cold and untouched by it all as the relentless passing of the days moved her ever closer to her wedding day.

Sometimes in the shop helping Beck put together the day’s issue, she could almost forget that anything had changed. There was still the news to gather as always and the need to beat the
Herald
to the headlines as the two papers fought for readers.

While no more Irish girls were murdered, a tragic explosion sank the steamship
Independence Day
, and the
Tribune
won the day when Duff rounded up an eyewitness. A few days later a storm blew the roofs off several houses on the outskirts of town, but both papers got out similar reports the same day. Helena Poteet, a renowned singer from New York, came to Louisville, and the
Tribune
ran stories about her, the concert, and the exorbitant price of the much sought after tickets. However, the
Herald
printed a personal interview with the diva that people talked about for days.

So in her next Sally Sees column, Adriane hinted of a possible relationship between the handsome
Herald
editor and the beautiful singer. Adriane rarely mentioned herself and Stanley in the column as if, by pushing the whole affair out of her mind, she could forget that each day brought September nearer. But then Lucilla would insist on taking her on a shopping expedition or she’d have to stand like a statue while Nora fitted her for a dress. Worst of all and what made her impending marriage hardest to forget, Stanley would put his arm around her and caress her shoulder on their carriage rides to this or that party.

There had also been kisses in spite of Adriane’s every attempt to avoid them, but as Stanley was wont to remind her, they were betrothed to be married. That certainly gave him a few rights of intimacy. At such times he’d look at her in that new way she so detested, and Adriane would pull her wrap tighter around her in an attempt to escape his eyes.

That wasn’t all she wanted to escape. The thought of marrying Stanley, of actually having to submit to a marital relationship with him, was haunting her sleep at night. The heart-pounding dreams of Henrietta shoving her in a dark closet had given way to nightmares of her wedding night. She could not bear the thought of lying down beside Stanley, allowing him the intimate touches that would be his right once they were married.

When one of those dreams jerked her from sleep, she would stare up at the dark air and whisper the Lord’s Prayer out loud. That’s what Beck had taught her to do years before whenever she was scared about something.

She had never been sure if Beck knew about the dark closets of Henrietta’s punishments. She hadn’t told him. Talking about it seemed to add to the shame. Her father wouldn’t talk about it either. Even to Adriane. He would simply let her out of the closet, roughly wipe away her tears, and tell her to stop doing whatever it was she kept doing to upset Henrietta. At last, he must have realized there was no way she could ever please Henrietta, and he began letting her tag along with him to the
Tribune
offices.

Her life changed there when Beck took her under his wing, introducing her to the newspaper business with gruff kindness. By that time, he was a confirmed bachelor and already seemed old to Adriane. He told her he’d been married once a long time before, but his wife had died in one of the cholera epidemics that swept through Louisville. He didn’t have any children. The
Tribune
was his life, perhaps even more so than her father’s. Not the gathering of the news, but the printing of it. He took pride in filling the galley trays and then seeing the words pressed out on the newsprint.

Adriane and Beck had taken to one another right away. A lonesome old man and a forlorn child who both needed love in their lives. But Beck had given her even more than that. After the papers went out and while he waited for her father to bring in the next day’s news, Beck liked to sit next to the window and read his Bible. She would sit on the floor beside him in the sunshine filtering through the grimy window and write stories on scraps of newsprint paper. Then when she finished her stories, they’d switch. Beck would read what she wrote while she would read some story he pointed out in the Bible.

She went to church with her father and Henrietta. She sat on the hard pew and tried to swallow her yawns while the preacher went on and on, but nobody had ever shown her how the Bible told stories sort of the same as newspapers. Not until Beck.

“You just keep it in mind, Addie, that the good Lord is with us everywhere. In the morning when we get up. And at night when we lay our heads down on a pillow to sleep. Daylight or dark, he’s there. So if you ever feel scared, you just whisper a prayer and reach right out and feel the good Lord holding your hand.”

“What if I don’t pray the right way?” Adriane had said. Henrietta was always telling her the Lord wouldn’t listen to her because she was so bad. She didn’t want to tell Beck that. She didn’t want Beck to know how bad she was.

“Ain’t no right and wrong ways, child. The Lord hears our very groans and knows our every tear. He’ll hear you. But there is a prayer he told us to pray.” He leafed through his Bible, making the pages whisper softly, until he found the verses of the Lord’s Prayer. “You learn this and then ever’ time you don’t know what prayer words to say but you’re needing some help, you can say this.”

She read the verses he pointed out to him. When she finished, he echoed the amen she read before he told her to read it all over again. This time he said the words along with her. Then he pointed to the last verse.

“You take a good look at those last words the good Lord give us there,” he told her. “It’s plain as the ink on my fingers that he must have known we’d be facing some hard times. That’s why he has us asking to be delivered from evil. He takes care of us. You can count on that.”

She must have looked doubtful, because Beck had put his big hand softly on her head and said, “Trust me on this one, Addie. He’s always took care of me, and if he’ll help an old geezer like me, I’m knowing for sure he’ll be helping a sweet, innocent little girl like you. Just remember to say the prayer if something scares you.”

The prayer had helped on the days when she had to stay home with Henrietta. But now whispering it in the night as she looked toward her future as Mrs. Stanley Jimson, the words just rang in her ears and didn’t soothe her heart.
Deliver us from evil.
Stanley wasn’t evil. It was simply that she didn’t love him. That she would never love him. That she couldn’t even bear to think of his lips touching her cheek, much less embracing him as a wife was required to do.

Worse was the feeling that she wasn’t going to be delivered from having to marry Stanley. There was no escape. She’d faced that fact the day their engagement had been announced. She kept telling herself Stan would make a wonderful husband and that she was truly fond of him. She thought that given a few more months she might even be able to convince herself it was true.

But every morning she went down to the pressroom and threw herself into getting together another issue of the
Tribune
the way a condemned person might attempt to absorb each new sunrise as the day of his execution drew nearer. At night she dutifully knelt by her bed to say her prayers, but the words seemed to mock her. That innocent faith she’d known sitting beside Beck while he read his Bible had been eroded by doubts. She had no hope of a reprieve. No right to ask one.

Honor thy father and thy mother
. How many times had Henrietta screamed those words at her as she locked Adriane in the closet under the stairs?

“The Lord can’t bear the sight of bad little girls,” Henrietta told her over and over as she shut the door and closed out the light. “Bad little girls who won’t obey their parents. Bad little girls like you.”

She could shrug off Henrietta’s words these years later. They hadn’t been true. She hadn’t been a disobedient child. She couldn’t be a disobedient child now.
Honor thy father.
Her father wanted her to marry Stanley Jimson. More even than that, her father’s future with the
Tribune
depended on her marrying Stanley Jimson. A good daughter obeyed her father.

And she would. That didn’t mean she had to think about what the end of summer would bring. In the shop as they worked on the paper, she and Beck never talked of the wedding. She didn’t even write in her journal about all the plans being made. Instead she wrote of the changing weather, the new steamboat Duff had smuggled her aboard, and the old black dog that now slept in a spot of sunshine out in the back and listened for her footsteps.

When her father caught her petting the dog one morning, he shouted and clapped his hands at the dog to chase it off. He minced no words telling her that showing affection for the stray mongrel was not something a lady would ever do. His frown grew darker when she claimed to not care about being a lady.

“I won’t abide such talk from you. You are a lady and you will behave like a lady. Lucilla would take the vapors if an animal like that got within three feet of her.”

“I’m not Lucilla, Father. I will never be like Lucilla,” Adriane said quietly. She didn’t bother to add that she didn’t want to be like Lucilla. She’d already upset him enough saying she didn’t care about being a lady.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Perhaps not, but that doesn’t mean you have to behave like some street vagrant with no breeding.” His voice softened a bit as he touched her arm. “You are going to be a Jimson. This is a wonderful opportunity for you.”

When she simply stared at him without saying anything, his face hardened again. “I will not let you squander this opportunity, Adriane. I will expect you to act like a proper lady. And you can be sure if I see that mongrel around again, I’ll have Beck shoot it. Do you understand?” He didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t give one as he went back in the house, slamming the door behind him.

Adriane waited until she heard him go out the front door, slamming that door too. Then she looked down the alley to see if she could spot the old dog. Beck wouldn’t shoot the dog. She had no worries there. And her father rarely came out in the back alley. He’d forget about the dog. As long as she kept playing her part as Stanley Jimson’s intended.

After she caught sight of the dog peeking out at her from the side of a wooden box behind the house next door, she went back in the kitchen to get another biscuit out of the warming oven. The old dog was there waiting when she stepped back outside.

Honor thy father.
The words whispered through her head as she let the dog take the biscuit out of her hand. But what possible harm could it do for her to scratch the old dog behind the ears and talk to him while he looked at her as if he understood her every word?

“I need somebody to understand,” she whispered to the old dog. “You know that, don’t you, old boy? You can’t change anything for me, but at least you can listen.”

The dog stared up at her. He cocked his head as if trying to hear her better.

“You’re right. Beck would listen too, but it would make him too sad. And maybe too mad at Father. That wouldn’t be good. Not for either of them. I just have to do what I have to do. What Father wants. Well, except for not petting you.” She ruffled the dog’s ears and gave his head another pat. He didn’t smell good and he probably did have fleas, but she didn’t care.

The dog wagged his tail back and forth once.

“You’re a smart dog. You just stay out of sight when he’s around and everything will be all right. You can do that, can’t you?”

He looked up and bared his teeth at her in a dog grin. She had to laugh. “I knew he was wrong about you. You come back tonight and I’ll give you another biscuit.”

She went inside and washed her hands before she headed to the pressroom to help Beck. Her father was wrong about the dog. It didn’t hurt a thing for her to feed him a few biscuits. He was wrong about Stanley too, but she had about as much chance of convincing him of that as convincing him to let the old dog come in and sleep in the kitchen at night.