“Unsettled? Why?” Jo asked.
Sally refilled her teacup. “Because Stephen Smith had a secret. At least, that’s what Mrs. Kroger said. He found something out about his firm. Something terrible. And he felt he had to set it right. He sent Eleanor packets. They contained some kind of papers having to do with the secret. Manifests, I think they’re called. Mr. Owens wouldn’t allow correspondence from him to enter the house, so Mrs. Kroger would meet the postman, take anything from Mr. Smith, and smuggle it in to Eleanor. Mr. Smith wanted Eleanor to keep the papers safe until he returned.”
The hair on the back of Jo’s neck stood up.
Kinch had also talked about manifests—with Mr. Scully at Van Houten’s. There’s proof. There are manifests, signed and stamped, he’d said.
Kinch, like Smith, had a secret. He’d been in Africa, too. And he knew Scully. He called him Richard. And Scully knew Kinch, despite his tattoos. Your aspect is greatly altered. I would not know you but for your eyes, he’d said.
And Kinch, like Smith, had lost a her. Maybe a woman, not a ship, just as Jo had suspected when she and Eddie talked about Kinch at the waterfront.
Could it be? she wondered, with mounting excitement. Could Kinch be Stephen Smith?
He has to be, she thought. Africa, manifests, Van Houten, a secret—there are too many similarities for it to be coincidence. It makes sense. It fits together perfectly.
Except for one rather inconvenient fact, a voice inside her countered. Stephen Smith is dead.
Jo racked her brain, desperate to see if there was something she was missing, something that could make the impossible possible. If there was, it eluded her. She decided to take a different tack.
“Miss Gibson, did Mrs. Kroger ever tell you what terrible thing Stephen Smith discovered?” Jo asked bravely. She feared the answer to her question as much as she’d feared learning the identity of Eleanor Owens’s lover.
“No. Miss Eleanor never told her,” Sally replied.
“Mrs. Kroger had no idea what was in those papers?”
Sally shook her head. “She questioned Miss Eleanor about it. She even asked to see the papers, but Miss Eleanor refused. All she ever said about them was ‘The letters are safe under the heavens. The gods watch over them. And us.’ ”
“The letters were never found?”
“No. After Miss Eleanor went into the asylum, Mrs. Kroger looked everywhere for them. She thought if she could get Mr. and Mrs. Owens to read them, they might see that Mr. Smith was an upstanding man and change their opinion of him. But she never found them. And then Miss Eleanor died and there wasn’t a reason to keep looking.”
Jo gripped the arms of her chair, electrified by that last piece of information.
“This next question is very important, Miss Gibson,” she said urgently. “Did a man with very marked facial tattoos—black swirls and spikes—ever visit the Owenses?”
“I never saw such a person,” Sally replied. “And I can’t imagine Mr. Baxter opening the door to a man who looked like that.”
“Did Mrs. Kroger ever mention such a man visiting?”
“No, and she certainly would have mentioned it. She was the talkative type.”
“Was the Owenses’ house ever broken into?” Jo asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” Sally said.
Jo sat back in her chair, her mind working over what Sally had just told her.
Kinch and Stephen Smith are the same man—I don’t know how they are, but they are—and that man is a liar, she realized. He bluffed Richard Scully, and probably my father, too. He doesn’t have the manifests. They’re still wherever Eleanor Owens hid them.
Jo knew what her next step was: she had to find those manifests. They would certainly tell her what terrible thing Van Houten was accused of doing.
Jo regarded Sally Gibson coolly. “I’m told Atlantic City is much nicer than Coney Island,” she said.
“I’m sure it is, Miss Montfort. And a damn sight more expensive,” Sally retorted.
“I shouldn’t think that would be a problem for an enterprising girl like you.”
Sally raised an eyebrow. “Have something in mind, do you?”
Jo smiled. “As a matter of fact, Miss Gibson, I do.”
Miss Edwina Gallagher to Miss Josephine Montfort
October 24, 1890
Dear Jo,
Writing in haste … Bill Hawkins never heard of the Bonaventure and Jackie Shaw’s not in town, but I got myself into Van Houten’s office twice with the help of Tumbler. I’ve worked my way through half of the firm’s ledgers but haven’t found anything on the Bonaventure yet. I’m going to keep going back until I’ve gone through everything. I’m telling you this to keep you in the know, but you’re not to come downtown. Don’t even think about it. Sit tight. I’ll keep you apprised.
Yours,
EG
Letter from Mr. Joseph Feen to Mr. Edward Gallagher
October 24, 1890
Dear Eddie,
I’m sorry to hear that your time at Van Houten has not proved fruitful. You might be interested to know that Eleanor Owens is dead, but she had a daughter with Stephen Smith in 1874. Sadly, the child is also dead. Mr. Smith, it appears, believed something untoward took place at Van Houten’s. Just as Kinch does. In fact, there are many similarities between the two. Smith sent documents to Eleanor. Could they be the manifests Kinch spoke of? They contain answers we need, I’m sure of it. I’m going to try to find them. I’m telling you this to keep you in the know, but you are not to come uptown. Don’t even think about it. Sit tight. I’ll keep you apprised.
Yours,
JM
“The Phillip Montforts, ma’am,” Theakston said, handing Anna Montfort a calling card.
He bowed and left the drawing room. A few minutes later, Jo’s uncle, aunt, and cousin came in, all ruddy-cheeked. Phillip was rubbing his hands together and exclaiming about the crisp autumn air. Madeleine and Caroline had cashmere shawls wrapped about their shoulders. They joined Anna near the fireplace as Jo poured tea. It was a blustery Tuesday afternoon.
Jo greeted her relatives so warmly, they never would have guessed she was miserable.
Thirteen days had now elapsed since she’d last seen Eddie Gallagher, and she’d had only one very businesslike note from him. She was more worried than ever that she’d badly misjudged what occurred between them, and that the kisses they’d shared were nothing more than a pleasant diversion for him. Why hadn’t he written a more intimate note? Why hadn’t he tried to see her?
“Mrs. Nelson’s lemon wafers! My favorite!” Phillip exclaimed as Jo’s mother passed a plate of the delicate, buttery cookies. He ate one, then said, “Anna, I have some good news for you. Charles’s lumber mills are all but sold.”
“Oh, Phillip, that is good news!” Anna said, smiling.
Jo smiled, too, feigning enthusiasm for the conversation.
“The buyer is serious, and I expect to finalize the sale before year’s end,” Phillip added.
“And Van Houten?” Anna asked. “How is that proceeding?”
“The transfer of Charles’s shares to the remaining partners is under way. The paperwork should be completed next month.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Anna said. “I’m so grateful to you for handling Charles’s affairs.”
Phillip held up his hands. “Don’t thank me yet, Anna. There’s still the Standard to be gotten rid of, and that’s proving trickier.”
Jo was no longer feigning interest in the conversation. She looked at her uncle over the top of her teacup.
“How so?” Anna asked.
Phillip took a sip of tea and placed his cup back in its saucer. “The newspaper business had become a tawdry one, I’m afraid. No matter how hard I try to enforce a civilized tone at the Standard, I fail. The sooner we’re rid of it, the b
etter,” he said.
Anna sat forward in her chair, a concerned expression on her face. “Surely Mr. Stoatman isn’t following the lead of the Herald or the World,” she said.
“No,” Phillip replied. “It’s not Stoatman who worries me, but rather the quality of reporter he employs.”
Jo refreshed her uncle’s tea. She was listening raptly now.
“What do you mean, my dear?” Madeleine asked.
“I went to see Stoatman yesterday—we meet once a week—and he was on the telephone when I arrived, so I waited. And while I was outside his office, I overheard a pack of reporters talking, and by God, they were a pack—a wolf pack!” Phillip said, his face flushing with anger. “One of them, a strapping, dark-haired boy—Gleeson or Gilligan, some sort of Irish name—was bragging to the others about a story he was writing. He talked about a young woman who was helping him with the story in a most disparaging way. She was doing so because she fancied him, he said. And he, it was quite clear, was encouraging the poor girl for his own ends.” Phillip shook his head. “I tell you, I had half a mind to knock the arrogant young fool right on his backside!”
Jo froze, teapot in hand. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe.
“Papa!” Caroline scolded.
“I did!” Phillip said indignantly. “I want the Standard sold as quickly as possible. Journalism is no longer a business with which this family should be involved. The breed of man who now practices it wants only to claw his way to the top and doesn’t care who he steps on to do it. You wouldn’t understand, Caro. You either, Jo. You’re not parents yet. But I have a daughter and a niece, and to think that someone in my employ would talk about a young woman so makes my blood boil.”
Jo forced herself to breathe. She placed the teapot back on its tray Eddie had agreed to pursue information on her father because he knew the story of his murder would be a big one and could help him get a better job. Was he the reporter her uncle had overhead? Was she herself the poor girl?
“Papa, you’re turning into an old curmudgeon!” Caro teased. “Just like Grandmama.”
Phillip softened. He patted his daughter’s hand. “I suppose I am. I’ll have to get myself a walking stick and a dozen spaniels.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except Jo. She felt sick inside. She was a fool. An impulsive little idiot who knew nothing of men.
“Speaking of Grandmama … I hear there’s to be a small birthday supper for her soon. Just family and close friends. Here in the city,” Madeleine said. “A fortnight after the Young Patrons’ Ball.”
“I’m sure we’ll all be summoned,” Anna said archly. “Mourning makes no difference to her.”
“Will you go?” Madeleine asked.
Anna gave her a look. “We will not. I still can’t believe I agreed to let Jo go to the ball.”
“She’ll only be sitting, not dancing. It will all be very proper,” Madeleine said. She turned to Jo. “Has your gown arrived, Jo, dear?”
But Jo, staring into the fire, didn’t hear her.
“Jo? What’s wrong?” Madeleine asked.
Jo realized she was being addressed. “Nothing, Aunt Maddie. Nothing at all,” she said, her voice strained.
Anna and Madeleine traded worried glances.
“I’ve upset you, Jo, haven’t I?” Phillip said unhappily. “I shouldn’t discuss untoward topics in front of young ladies. I’m sorry.”
“Our Jo is such a sensitive soul,” Madeleine said soothingly. “Let’s talk of more civilized subjects, shall we?”
Jo pasted on a smile. She nodded agreeably. But Phillip’s words echoed in her head:
… and he, it was quite clear, was only using the poor girl for his own ends. … A strapping, dark-haired boy—Gleeson or Gilligan, some sort of Irish name—
No, Uncle Phillip, not Gleeson or Gilligan, she thought miserably. You got the name wrong. It’s Gallagher.
The beautiful girls in their silk dresses looked like a living garden as they whirled across the dance floor. From the chair in which she was sitting, Jo saw the pale pink of peonies, the dusky red of late summer roses—and the vivid larkspur blue of Elizabeth Adams’s sensational Paris gown.
“I’m just waiting for her to inhale,” Caroline Montfort said cattily as she watched Elizabeth waltz with Teddy Farnham. “The second she does, her bosom will burst right out of her bodice. Won’t that be a sight!”
“You are a wicked girl, Caro,” Trudy Van Eyck said. “If you have nothing nice to say”—she paused, then grinned devilishly—“then say it to me.”
“Her waist is only sixteen inches around. She told me so,” Jennie Rhinelander said. “Just look how that dress fits her!”
“It is a beautiful dress,” Jo said wistfully, eyeing Elizabeth’s magnificent gown. “It’s so long since I wore one. All of you look so fetching tonight, not just Elizabeth. Like rare birds of paradise. And me? I look like a sooty old pigeon.”
“You don’t, Jo. Not at all,” Addie said kindly.
“Addie, dear, I look like a serving girl and you know it.”
“Oh, miss, would you fetch me some punch?”
It was Bram, holding an empty cup. The waltz had ended. He’d danced it with his mother and had come over to join them.
“Aren’t you a funny boy?” Jo said, pretending to be put out.
“I’m only teasing you, Jo,” Bram said. “Black suits you.”
“Black suits no one,” Jo retorted.
“It suits a chimney sweep. Or a governess. Or a penguin,” Trudy said.
Bram swept a deep bow, took Jo’s hand in his, and kissed it. “Or a rare and brilliant star, sparkling brightly against a night sky,” he said.
“My word, what’s in that punch, Bram Aldrich?” Trudy asked. “And where can I get some?”
They all laughed at Trudy’s comment. Jennie left to join the dancers, and Bram and the three remaining girls sat out the next waltz to keep Jo company.
Addie, Caro, Trudy—they’re all so wonderful to me, Jo thought, surrounded by her friends. And Bram took pains to tell me I look nice, even though I don’t. They’re so good, so kind, and I’m so lucky I came to my senses before it was too late. Before I threw away everything for Eddie when he doesn’t care for me. Let him find Kinch. Let him solve the murder. Let him bring the whole ugly thing to the attention of the authorities. It’s not my place to do so. It never was.
Jo had been telling herself these things ever since she’d heard her uncle’s story about his trip to the Standard, and she was at the point now where she very nearly believed them.
Another waltz ended. The conductor announced there would be a quick break, followed by a quadrille. As he did, the couples left the dance floor to seek refreshments. Jennie returned to the group, trailed by Elizabeth Adams. Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed prettily. The blue of her gown set off her cobalt eyes. She said hello to everyone but saved her warmest smile for Bram. Addie caught it and glowered. Caroline rolled her eyes. Jo felt an unwelcome twinge of jealousy.
After a few minutes, the orchestra began to tune up. A Roosevelt and a Van Alstyne swooped in and asked Caroline and Jennie to dance—promising to pay handsomely for the privilege. Caro and Jennie marked their cards and followed the boys to the dance floor. Trudy drifted off to find Gilbert, who did not like balls. Or punch. Or museums. And Jo, Bram, Addie, and Elizabeth stood chatting awkwardly. Bram, a gentleman, did the polite thing and asked Elizabeth to dance since he couldn’t ask Jo.
“Don’t worry about Elizabeth,” Addie said as they headed off. “Bram’s only being polite. He bought out all your dances, didn’t he? The museum will make a bundle! Why, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if in a few months he were to—”
“Addie Aldrich, there you are!” It was James Schermerhorn, a relation of Jo’s. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Caro needs a fourth couple for
her quadrille. Would you honor me with a dance?”
“Oh, Jim, I can’t,” Addie said. “I don’t want to leave Jo all alone.”
“Go, Addie,” Jo said to her friend. “I couldn’t bear the look on Jim’s face if you turned him down.”
Addie hesitated. “If you’re sure you won’t be lonely …”
“I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Jo smiled as Jim led Addie to the dance floor. He bowed; she curtsied. They disappeared into a sea of swirling skirts.
The Metropolitan Museum’s enormous foyer, with its graceful arches, marble pillars, and soaring ceiling, served as a ballroom tonight. It glowed with the light of a thousand candles. Porcelain vases containing hothouse blooms stood on marble pillars. Waiters in white jackets served cups of punch on silver trays as a twenty-piece orchestra played.
And though Jo could not be part of the ball, she enjoyed watching the dancers. The scene they made was so breathtakingly beautiful, she wished she could press it between the pages of a book and save it forever, just like she used to do with flowers when she was little. The girls were so lovely with their hair swept up, jewels at their pale necks, arms lithe and graceful in white kid gloves, and the boys were dashing and courtly. Her heart filled with emotion because she knew that tonight many of her friends were pairing not only for a dance but for life.
Propose. That’s what Addie was going to say earlier, Jo thought. The knot of dread in her stomach—present ever since she’d overheard Grandmama talking about her wish for Jo and Bram to marry—tightened.
What if Bram does ask me someday? What will I say? she wondered.
A streak of blue caught her eye. It was Elizabeth, flashing by with Bram. Jo’s eyes lingered on them. They made a handsome couple, and again she felt a stab of jealousy. Her feelings confounded her. One minute she was frightened of encouraging Bram’s interest, the next she was scared of losing it.
“You might want to watch out for Miss Adams,” her mother had advised as Jo left for the ball. “I understand that she’s a girl who has no scruples about taking what doesn’t belong to her.”
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