by Goodman, Jo
"Nothing for me," she said when Reilly looked at her expectantly as he poured his own tea. "Who is this man my stepfather hired?"
"No one to worry about. He's just a copper trying to earn some extra money."
"A copper?" Jenny found it difficult to swallow. "Someone local?"
"Yes. I don't think Mr. William realizes I say hello to Liam O'Shea two or three times a week while I'm out walking. O'Shea apparently did not mention that he is acquainted with me. He would not have been given the job otherwise. What's the matter? You don't look well." Reilly set down his cup and leaned forward anxiously. "Can I get you something?" When Jenny shook her head, Reilly's thin lips flattened in disapproval. "It's obvious that you're upset. I hope you don't think that I would be so foolish as to allow O'Shea to follow me here. That is precisely why I did not come yesterday. I could not get rid of him."
"And today?"
"I surprised him by changing my routine. I took a hack. He couldn't follow."
"Be careful, Mr. Reilly. Liam O'Shea knows me."
Reilly frowned. "How can that be? You were so rarely out of the house, and then you went to the hospital. How could he possibly know you? He has not been walking this particular beat for very long."
"Just a minute," Jenny said, raising her hand. "I don't think I understand something. Did you and the rest of the staff know I was in the hospital?"
"Well, yes," he drawled a trifle uncertainly. "Mr. William told us you were at New York Hospital. We were not allowed to visit, of course."
"Of course," Jenny said. She felt the stirrings of anger in the pit of her stomach. "Because I wasn't there. My stepfather had me committed to Jennings... the lunatic ward."
The butler paled. "When the last of the doctors came and you were carried out, he only explained that you were seriously ill. A fever, they told us. He said you would have better care in the hospital, which we all knew was untrue, but it never occurred to us that he was putting you away with the lunatics. We would not have stood for that."
"Don't you think he knew?" Jenny asked softly. She reached out to touch the butler's hand, laying her fingers across his white-knuckled fist. "When I escaped the ward, the body of some poor woman in the Five Points was mistaken for mine. That gave my stepfather the opportunity to announce that I had died as a result of my long illness. The long illness was his doing, but he truly believes I am dead." She withdrew her hand. "I've been staying with some very kind people who know next to nothing about me, Mr. Reilly. I met Liam O'Shea while I was living there."
"Then you've been living somewhere near Fifth Avenue, north of Thirty-fifth Street. That's the area O'Shea walks."
"I think you missed your calling," she said, smiling faintly. "You should have been a detective."
"You are not going to tell me who you were with?"
"No," she said firmly. "No, I'm not. I've left him... them." She corrected herself quickly, but it was not quickly enough. The butler's raised eyebrows warned her he had heard her misstep. "Please, Mr. Reilly, I want to keep it all separate. It's as if I have had two lives."
"What about Liam O'Shea?" he asked. "You said he knows you."
"But not as William Bennington's stepdaughter. Only as Jenny Holland. He thinks I'm a maid."
"Jenny Holland," he mused, raising his eyes to hers. The look he gave her was cautionary. "Don't be so clever that you set a trap for yourself."
"I've been careful."
"Not careful enough, I am thinking. Haven't you wondered why Mr. William has O'Shea at my back?" He told her about the encounter with Stephen after his first meeting with her. "I won't be able to come here often. The risk would be too great. If you require my assistance, then you will have to let me know through the Herald."
"I don't think I want to do that anymore. I am not as confident about the method as I used to be." Jenny found it difficult to focus her thoughts. It concerned her that Stephen thought for even a moment that he had seen her with Reilly. Then there was the incident at Amalie's in which she had almost been exposed. Just the memory of standing on the other side of Maggie's door listening to the conversation in the hallway put ice in her spine. Still, all these weeks later, it alarmed her to know she had been within a few feet of Stephen and William Bennington. Only Christian's quickly constructed lies and Maggie's balcony had saved her from being discovered.
Jenny poured herself a cup of tea. "It would be better if you wrote to me here. Get a box at the post office and let me know the number. I'll contact you that way. Then we don't have to worry that Stephen or William will open your mail." She sipped her tea slowly. "There is something else you should know, Mr. Reilly. My stepfather might have more than Stephen's sighting to give him cause to doubt I am dead." Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper as she related the events of New Year's Eve. She told the butler everything except Christian's name and what had occurred between them. That private memory she kept for herself.
Reilly listened to Jenny's tale and his consternation grew. When she finished, he was shaking his head and rubbing the bald spot at the back of it. "I don't like it," he said. "Don't like it at all. I don't know what you made of it, but it seems clear to me that Amalie Chatham thought she recognized you."
"Once I thought about it, that's what I concluded as well. But how, Mr. Reilly? I've never met Mrs. Chatham before in my life."
"I should say not," he said stiffly. "The tart."
Smiling faintly, Jenny set her cup of tea on the table. "I see you have no more of an idea than I do. Never mind. It doesn't really matter any longer, and I can't think that it's very important. I'm not likely to meet her again."
Reilly's agreement was offered reluctantly. "Is your equipment satisfactory?" he asked, changing the subject. "Do you have everything you need?"
She nodded. "I've gone through everything and it's all there—exactly what I wanted. You're quite marvelous, do you know that?" The ruddy color that flushed the loyal retainer's cheeks caused Jenny to laugh softly. "I mean it, Mr. Reilly. I wouldn't be able to set on this course without you."
"Do not remind me. I'm not certain I want to be responsible for whatever it is you've been scheming."
"You are not responsible," she said firmly.
The butler snorted lightly, his dark eyes skeptical. "That's not the way I see it." He glanced at the pendulum clock noisily ticking away on the opposite wall. "I regret I cannot stay longer and talk sense to you." He sighed. "It would probably be a waste of my breath. You were always softhearted and headstrong." His palms pushed against his knees as he stood. "Are there other items you require?"
"I have all the equipment I need," she said. "But I would be grateful if you would send some items from my wardrobe. I only have two dresses, a few undergarments, and one pair of shoes. The extra money my employer gave me at Christmas was spent on a cloak and a scarf. I'm afraid I didn't budget it very well." Her smile was rueful. "Having to worry about money has proven to be a humbling experience. And now that the night clerk thinks I am a prostitute, I will have to have some funds set aside just to keep him quiet."
Reilly blinked hugely and flushed bright red. "Heavens, what are you talking about? What would ever lead him to that conclusion?"
"Well, for one thing I arrived with virtually no belongings. For another, I did not know under what name I had been registered. I asked for Smith, but there were two. Then I simply asked for Room 212. That made the clerk suspicious."
"Just a moment," Reilly said, frowning. "Didn't the ad say C. Smith?"
"Yes, but as I said, there were two. I did not know which one I was."
Reilly shook his head, trying to clear it. "I don't think I understand the problem. Who was the other Smith?"
"Mrs. Norris Smith, I think."
"Then why were you confused? You were supposed to be C. Smith."
"But..." She paused, trying to make sense of their conversation. "Oh, you meant C. Smith, not see Smith." She laughed when she saw Reilly was still completely bewildered. "Never mind. It's
not important." She slipped her arm through his and escorted him to the door. Reilly opened it and they stepped out into the carpeted hallway. "I appreciate you coming this afternoon, Mr. Reilly," Jenny said gravely. "You've been very good to me. I won't forget this. I promise." Impulsively she stood on tiptoe and kissed the butler's cheek.
Embarrassed and not a little moved, Reilly cleared his throat. "I only hope I don't regret it. You know how to get around this old man's heart."
Jenny helped Reilly into his coat. "Not so old," she said, surveying him critically from head to toe. "You still cut a fine figure." Jenny realized she was reluctant to see him go. She would be alone again and lonely. "You won't forget the clothes?"
"No. You will have them within the week." He reached in his pocket, withdrew some bills, and thrust them at Jenny. "For you," he said gruffly.
"But you already left me money."
"It's not enough." He raised his hand and cut off her argument. "Don't. We both know you will be needing this." He wrapped his scarf about his neck, adding a roguish flourish as he tossed one fringed end over his shoulder. "Besides, it rather makes me feel like Robin Hood."
Jenny smiled, relieved that it was not his own money that Reilly had forced into her hands. She wondered what he had stolen and sold to come by it. "That's all right then. As long as you can give me this, you're welcome to anything I have." Jenny lingered in the hallway until Reilly turned the corridor toward the stairs. Once he was gone she could not find an excuse to stay outside her suite. Slipping inside, she promised herself that she wouldn't dwell on thoughts of Christian Marshall—at least not for more than an hour or so.
* * *
Christian Marshall bent to pick up the hat he had purposely dropped on the stairs. Wilton Reilly passed him and continued on his way without a glance in his direction. Christian paused a beat, then followed. Once outside the hotel, Reilly hailed a hack.
Joe Means, who had been waiting for Christian with the carriage, took up a leisurely pursuit at his employer's curt order. Joe wanted to know if Christian had found Jenny Holland, but one brief glance at his tense, shuttered expression warned Joe that questions would be unwelcome.
Christian sat back on the leather cushions of the open carriage and unfolded a blanket across his legs. He raised his scarf over the lower part of his face to ward off the bitterly cold wind. Trusting Joe to maintain sight of the hack, Christian let his thoughts wander back to the bits of conversation he had overheard.
The stairway had not proved to be the most advantageous of positions, but Christian, familiar as he was with the hotel, knew his options were limited. Friday morning, in anticipation of Butler's arrival, Christian had tried to rent a suite near 212, only to discover they were all occupied. He returned in the afternoon with a sketchbook and pencils and used the excuse that he was looking into some design problems to gain access to the upper floors. Once the clerks at the St. Mark realized who he was, they were eager to assist him in any way they could. They found nothing odd about the fact that he spent most of the afternoon hovering about the second floor lobby dining room or pacing the stairway between the first and third floors. The intensity of his expression, the perpetual tightness of his mouth as he studied the structure and made sketch after sketch led them to believe the St. Mark was in imminent danger of collapsing. It was rather remarkable that the rumor never circulated beyond the registration desk. It was less surprising that no one summoned enough courage to ask him about it. His thoughts on Jenny Holland, he was particularly unapproachable.
On Saturday his mood was not improved. He arrived at the St. Mark knowing that if Butler did not appear, he would have to go to Room 212 himself. The suite was registered to a Mrs. Carlton Smith. See Smith. C. Smith. Christian recognized the connection immediately and did not accept it as coincidence. Jenny had to be there. He was certain of it. If only he were so certain that he wanted to see her. Each time a door on the north wing of the second floor opened, Christian found himself tensing with equal parts dread and anticipation. Never were any of the people who stepped into the hallway his Jenny.
His Jenny. He heard himself think it but did not let himself think what it meant.
Christian wanted to know about Butler. He was disappointed when the man—and Christian knew in his gut that Butler was going to be a man—did not appear at the St. Mark on Friday. It was clearly a case of being careful what one wished for, because when Butler arrived and the door to 212 opened to him, Christian was devastated.
Jenny's sweet, husky voice had carried as far as the stairs.
"When you didn't come yesterday I began to worry." Christian didn't remember what the man had replied—indeed, if he had said anything at all. Jenny's words echoed in his ears. There was affection in her voice, a touch of anxiousness that was reserved for someone she cared about. Christian was unfamiliar with the jealousy that wound through him. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Then he collected himself and concentrated on thinking with at least some measure of rationality. Butler was an older man, balding, rail thin, staid, and severe. There was nothing about the man that reminded Christian of Jenny, but he did not rule out the possibility that Butler could be a relative. Far from ruling it out, he clung to it. During the half hour that Butler was in Jenny's suite Christian constructed a half-dozen scenarios that explained their relationship. He was an uncle twice removed or a second cousin. Christian even allowed himself to go so far as supposing that Butler was a longtime friend of the family, a mentor, or an old business associate.
Then Butler left the suite and Christian heard Jenny's throaty voice again. "I appreciate you coming, Mr. Reilly." The man's name wasn't Butler, it was Reilly. Butler was Reilly just as Jenny was Princess. The subterfuge was wearing. He was tired of wondering about Jenny's secrets and equally tired of her clever little games. "You've been very good to me." He wished he hadn't heard that. "Not so old. You still cut a fine figure." What had she meant by that? "As long as you can give me this, you're welcome to anything I have." Reilly had given her money. Christian had not seen the transaction in the hallway but he knew what had happened. "You're welcome to anything I have." It would be a long time before he forgot she had said that. "Anything I have. Anything." A long, long time.
It was a measure of his dark mood that he could think of only one thing Jenny had to give. It was also unfair and without foundation. He wondered if the plunge bath at Jennings Memorial was the cure he needed, and he wondered it with more seriousness than scorn.
"Do you have the hack in sight?" he asked, leaning forward and shaking Joe by the sleeve.
"That's the hack a few carriages ahead of us, sir. Your man's changed cabs three times now."
Christian realized how far afield his mind had been wandering. He wasn't aware of what Reilly had been doing. "Do you think he suspects we're following him?"
"Can't say for certain, Mr. Marshall. But it doesn't look that way. He's not trying to elude us."
Christian thought it over but didn't understand if his quarry was using method or madness. "Where are we?"
"We're coming up on Forty-second."
"What are we doing so far uptown?"
Joe knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Since he was merely following orders as well as the cab, he remained silent.
Christian slumped back into his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His mother would have said he was glowering. His father would have said he was spoiling for a fight. They both would have been right. At the moment Christian had the temperament of a ten-year-old, and he refused to give it up.
"The hack driver's pulling up, sir," said Joe.
"Proceed slowly. I want to see where Reilly goes."
Joe did as he was told. He and Christian both watched the man alight from the cab, pay the driver, then cross to the other side of the street in long, hurried strides.
"Damn it," said Christian. "Can you follow him without drawing attention to us?"
Joe nodded confidently. He drove
north a half block before he swung the carriage around while Christian kept his eye on Reilly. The man they were following never noticed them. When Reilly stopped in front of one of the massive private palaces along the avenue and opened the iron gates as if he owned the property, Joe's eyes widened a little. "Does he live there?" Joe asked, turning in his seat so Christian could hear him. "I thought this is where the Benningtons live." As he spoke, Reilly sprinted up the front steps, paused briefly to catch his breath beside one of the Corinthian columns flanking the main entrance, then disappeared inside.
"Good day to you, Mr. Marshall. Joe." Liam O'Shea lifted the brim of his hat with the rounded tip of his club, offering them a jaunty salute. "Right brisk day it is," he said. He matched his stride to Christian's slow-moving carriage.
Christian lowered his scarf. His smile was polite but not inviting. He did not want to engage O'Shea in conversation.
Liam accepted Christian's coolness philosophically. He was more comfortable talking to Joe Means than he was conversing with one of the top hats anyway. "How is Mrs. B. doing, Joe?"
"She's chompin' at the bit. Wants to be up and about."
"I can understand that. Tell her I want the same. No one else thinks to offer crullers unless she puts them up to it."
Joe chuckled. "I'll tell her."
"Haven't seen Miss Holland lately."
"No, she left," Joe said.
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Sure, and I'll miss the colleen. Enjoyed our walks together." He shrugged, swinging his club in rhythm with his stride. "Will you give Mary Margaret a message for me?"
Joe risked a glance back at Christian and saw that his employer was impatient to be gone. "Come by yourself with it," said Joe.