But Jess could not shake the feeling that from the newspaper morgue, from that repository of things long dead, had come this folder with one resonating voice that refused to die. The voice of a Samaritan never identified, a hero never thanked.
Jess knotted the shoestring around the bulging folder and wondered idly if the man still lived. If saving the lives of twenty young women had changed his life in any way.
Beyond the balcony the rumble of heavy-wheeled market wagons and trolleys had given way to the pleasant rhythm of carriage horses and the occasional sputtering vehicle motoring up Broadway. It was getting late. As the city sounds abated, the rumbling of his own stomach finally wrestled his attention away from the folder. Best attend to supper.
Jess organized the files on the empty half of an already cluttered marble-topped chest. His fingers ran back and forth over the word ‘Samaritan’, and even as he backed away from the table, he felt the thickening air that hung between his hand and the musty pages.
The story had him now. He knew that. He could no more disregard it than he could his empty stomach.
Jess snatched his Stetson from the hook beside the door and descended the three floors of Sutton House. With garish images from the gruesome stories still tumbling in his mind, he strode out into the night looking for food.
. . .
The tantalizing smell of pot roast kept Jess from walking further down the block to his new favorite sidewalk café. He followed the scent into the Warwick Hotel dining room and gave his name to the hovering maitre d’.
His table for one was a bit near the kitchen, and the clattering of spoons and plates set up an annoying barrier between Jess and thoughts of the compelling files he’d just left behind. But even as he settled into his chair, Jess found himself drawn to yet another sound, a sound he was surprised his habit of a lifetime hadn’t managed to completely block out.
Beneath a draperied arch at the far end of the dining room, the small women’s orchestra that had captured his ear accelerated into the finale of a catchy folk rhythm. Something unusual in the intensity of the chamber group kept Jess from assigning them his usual label. This group was, to his surprise, definitely not ‘ear clutter’.
Jess looked for the limp-wristed, pale-faced mannequins that usually plodded through hotel dinner music and saw none of what he’d expected. These were young, intent, lively faces of women who must, he assumed, be playing technically well, because the sound was actually interesting. But it wasn’t their correctness that set his toe tapping. It was their spirit. Or perhaps more accurately, it was their athleticism.
There they sat in their starched shirtwaists and gray gabardine over primly crossed ankles, playing with the spunk of a gang of hooligans. Jess doodled on a scrap of paper, trying to draw the costumes their music brought to mind. His first bold slashes of dancehall ruffles were entirely wrong. And that’s when he realized that his fountain pen wouldn’t be able to do justice to the design.
Because the thing that was missing was color.
This women’s orchestra made a demure picture in their muted dove grays, alright, but they played like they were gowned in scarlet and gold.
Jess tucked the pen back into his pocket and studied the ensemble. He counted three cellists modestly hidden behind six violins, flanked by a majestic harp. A small group to be making such a robust sound.
Amusement over the contradiction between sight and sound kept Jess interested, and he slid a glance over the trio of violins in the front row. Seated furthest from him was a black-haired wraith of a girl whose eyeglasses and excruciatingly thin face gave her a far greater seriousness than he’d seen elsewhere in the group.
Next to her was as complete a contrast as one could conceive. Even from a distance the girl’s pug nose and riotous red curls announced her as a tomboy. Her peaches and cream complexion was flushed nearly orange with the exertion of playing. The girl bit her lip intently as she muscled her instrument through the score.
And then a movement on her left drew his eye. Jess felt his breathing still as he took his first impression of the concert mistress, the girl who occupied the first chair of the first row of violins. He’d seen her before, that proud, swanlike neck below a high tumble of rich auburn curls. Could it really be her? The auburn-haired beauty with the spine of steel he’d seen from his office window, with three little girls in tow?
He watched as she tumbled through the lively music, changing from woman to girl to goddess to imp. Yes. It had to be her. And in seconds he knew that she was the leader of this group. The signals she threw with a lift of the head or shoulder spoke as clearly as if she’d whispered some magical fairy language only the musicians could hear.
Right on cue, the music swept upward into a gypsy ballad. The young lady’s thick piles of auburn curls began to bob as her shoulders swayed and leaned into the passionate, virile piece, and Jess could not have pulled his eyes away had he tried.
As the orchestra continued to play, the girl slipped from her chair to stand in the center half circle created by the seated musicians. Her violin never left her chin as she moved into place, and now her intense notes soared over the Hungarian tune. She was taking a solo turn.
Her over-sized amethyst ring seemed almost too heavy for the delicate fingers that flipped her violin bow with tantalizing speed and grace over the strings. The rich purple gem left ribbons of color hanging before his eyes as Jess watched her hand vault back and forth, up and down in furious swipes across the violin. Perhaps the colorful gem was her own small rebellion at their quiet attire.
The music dipped into languid hollows and then taunted with a maddeningly slow progression toward the ripping tempo with which it raced toward its finale.
Jess didn’t know which was more surprising. The realization that his heart was actually trying to keep pace with the primal tune, or the fact that he’d just spent the last few minutes drinking in the music rather than trying to shut it out.
He watched the violinist’s fingers fly faster and faster up and down the fingerboard of her richly polished instrument. This girl seemed to know instinctively where and when to drop her fingers on the strings, just like he did with the Blick. He recognized the magnitude of her skill that made the mechanics so much second nature that she could give her whole attention to simply flirting with the music.
The orchestra dived into the final eight chords and held the last one in a tremolo as the girl he watched zoomed through a mind-numbing flurry of notes and plucked the final stinger.
Applause erupted from the room. Jess lifted his hands to join their eager approval and dragged his cuff through mashed potatoes and gravy. When had his meal arrived?
He saw her taking her bows as he wiped clumsily with his napkin. Her eyes were black and piercing, her cheeks suddenly flushed. Her smile, he noted, was at an odd tilt, as if she were surprised to discover they liked what they’d just heard. No, as if she were surprised to discover they were even there.
Her violin was tucked between her waist and left elbow now, and her violin bow dangled from the fingers of her left hand. She flung her free right arm in a half circle indicating her sister musicians, then swept it back out to the audience of diners.
Her long fingers curved delicately as she brought the hand gracefully to her heart and dropped her head slightly. The amethyst glittered prettily against her high-necked white shirtwaist.
Pride. Gratitude. Humility. Jess saw all three communicated in her stance and gestures. But her eyes were alive with fire and challenge. Like a warrior who’d just proven his worth on the battlefield.
Jess tore his eyes away from her and caught a dollop of whipped potatoes that was about to slide off his cuff. He’d best repair the damage he’d done to his coat sleeve before he tried to meet the girl.
But he would meet her. The passionate musician with the blazing eyes and piles of auburn twists had captivated him. He wanted to know her story.
He dipped the linen napkin into his water goblet and took enough
stabs at the most stubborn gravy spots to remove the worst. Satisfied that he could walk across the room without leaving a trail of mashed spuds in his wake, he stood, dropped the napkin on the table, and turned toward the orchestra.
But he was too late. Even though the music still seemed to be bouncing off the walls, the players’ chairs were vacant. At the keyboard tucked into a corner of the room an old fellow was already slipping into a Viennese waltz.
. . .
Adelaide Magee wasted no time getting from the hotel to her apartment. She was exhausted.
Six hours at the bank and four hours playing at the hotel made for excruciatingly long days. Days that most young women her age wouldn’t put up with.
But the smile that lingered on Addie’s face proved that it was just the kind of day she relished. Her Avalon Strings, the women’s orchestra she’d put together in a mere two months, had been more ardently received than she had dared dream.
It was that plucky bunch of girls that had made it happen.
“Look like St. Agnes and play like Beelzebub and we might get our foot in the door,” she’d said at their first rehearsal. And they’d taken it to heart.
The hardest part had been finding a performance venue. But the manager of the Warwick Hotel who’d been so staunchly opposed to women entertainers was now begging her to extend their contract from three weeks to three months.
Addie dropped her hair brush onto the vanity and checked her starched cuffs. Still clean. She’d wear them tomorrow. But the shirtwaist would have to be rinsed out. She hoped no one had seen the gauzy fabric sticking to her sweaty shoulders when she played the gypsy piece.
Particularly not the handsome fellow who sat alone near the kitchen. She’d botched three full measures when he made visual contact with her, drilled her with his eyes that she’d decided were cobalt blue. Not that she could really tell from that distance, but what other color could have made them so piercing?
Knowing a man watched her was nothing new. But his wasn’t the usual leer to which she’d become accustomed. This fellow’s gaze held intelligence. And surprise.
Addie caught the look on her own face and laughed at the mirror. Well, it had been surprise on his face. And she liked that. Liked it very much.
Addie twirled the cuffs on a lazy finger and realized she wanted to see him again. Not just because he filled out his western-cut suit coat so admirably. But because something tangible had lived in the space between them while their eyes were locked. Whatever it was, she wasn’t ready to name it just yet. It was just...something.
She dropped the cuffs into the cuff box on top of her dresser and poured a pitcher of water into the white porcelain bowl. One quick chore and she could crawl into bed.
Addie plucked an errant curl off her brow and vowed she’d find a better room with running water before summer. If the Warwick really wanted to keep her string group on contract, that might actually be possible.
She rubbed a stubborn spot in the wet fabric and promised herself she’d double her wardrobe as well. In the two months she’d been here, she was certain everyone had figured out that she owned only two shirtwaists and three blouses—two ecru and one white.
She hung the lightweight blouse over the wire she had strung from her bedpost to the top of the window casing. The light fabric would dry before morning. And it wouldn’t need pressing, so she wouldn’t have to warm up her little room by stoking the little coal stove to heat up the flatirons.
Addie smoothed the wrinkles out of the sleeves and fingered the unique embroidery along the collar points. They were some of the last stitches her mother had sewn—another reason why it was the perfect thing to wear tomorrow.
She’d wear it to work at the bank, and since the orchestra didn’t play on Thursdays, she’d have the evening free to attend to the one last errand she’d been putting off since moving back to New York City.
She knew the shirtwaist showed off her long neck and slim waist and gave her the look of a modestly successful, independent woman. Exactly the way her mother had taught her. Exactly the way she wanted to appear when she met the father she hadn’t seen since she was four years old.
Chapter Three
Addie swung around the last street corner before reaching the bank and grabbed her hat brim as a gust of wind caught it. Morning in New York City was a far cry from morning on the smelly outskirts of Chicago.
Windy, yes. And colorful. Though here, the color was merely painted onto the side panels of horse-drawn trucks. In Chicago, the streets were made bright by actual mounds of tomatoes and squash and every conceivable vegetable jouncing along in the backs of open wagons.
New York City, it seemed, was much too civil to parade its produce through Battery Park, much less the middle of Manhattan. Everything here was concealed.
The breeze died down for a moment and allowed the city smell to creep up once again from alleyways and gutters. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe that’s why goods traveled in enclosed panel wagons — to secure them from taking on the odor as they passed through.
But she did love mornings here, in this city so purposefully striding into its day. She joined a cluster of women crossing the boulevard and stepped up onto the wide walk that would take her directly to the bank. It had been a good walk. Her shoes had stayed fairly clean and wouldn’t need to be buffed before she stepped into her cage.
Chase National Bank occupied most of the block at Cedar and Greenwich. It was the bastion of financial authority in the city. And, for that matter, many parts of the world. Aristocratic to the core and provincial in the most minute detail, it was a hallowed place. Its fortressed walls told the people of the sprawling city that their money was safe.
As it had each day for the past two months, the click of her heels on the granite steps signaled that it was time for Addie to switch roles. Check the independent impresario attitude at the door, and don the pleasant smile of subordinate to the men who actually ran the institution.
Here women, like children, were to be seen and not heard. As Addie had learned the hard way, deviating from the prescribed procedure was not an option. Whether slow or cumbersome, or downright antiquated, the bank’s way was the only way.
Once she became accustomed to the idea, she found it had one very nice benefit for her. She wasn’t required to think overmuch. Just do the job and follow the rules, and save all that creative energy for the other job to which she could truly give her heart and soul at the end of the day.
The tails of her hair ribbon tickled her neck as the heavy doors closed with a rush of air behind her. The rhythm of shuffling papers and thumping hand stamps had already begun, and Addie welcomed its calming effect as the grandness of the place descended upon her.
And so did Hamilton Jensen.
The moment she saw him approaching, Addie veered to the left to put an additional rank of desks between herself and the fellow who was closing fast. Addie hoped her move looked as though she were simply attempting a more direct route to the women’s coat room.
It was clumsy at best. Surely Hamilton had seen through it. But her maneuver worked. If he were to adjust his path to meet up with her now, it would be a most obvious and embarrassing display. She knew Hamilton would never pursue her so blatantly.
A vicious bite to her tongue kept the smug smile from her face. It was satisfying to have escaped this most persistent fellow. She had precious little time for herself these days, but if Hamilton Jensen had his way, she’d have none at all.
Addie walked as quickly as she could without swinging her arms or losing her composure and made it to safety beyond the louvered doors of the women’s “robing room”. It took just seconds to unpin her hat and hang her summery shoulder cape in the narrow cubby assigned to her.
She checked the bow she’d pinned at the base of her curls and straightened her grandmother’s opal brooch at her neck. The efficiency of her movements, the routine, always helped cement her transformation as Addie began another day at Chase National.
As always, it stuck on the right side, and Addie had to bend down to watch the runner as she lightly jostled the temperamental tray to the exact angle it needed to achieve before rolling into place.
“Here. Let me help you with that, Miss Magee.”
Addie did her best not to groan at the solicitous tone coming at her over her left shoulder.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Jensen, but I’ve just got it now. Thank you.” She gave an angry little tap and the runner clicked into place and the drawer slid closed.
“Well, then. Very good. But Ridley should really see to getting that repaired. I see you wrestling with it every morning.”
“I hardly wrestle, Mr. Jensen.” His choice of words embarrassed her, and her tone bristled out cold and hard. Surely she hadn’t made a spectacle of herself as she teased the drawer into place.
“Of course not, Miss Magee, I only meant...”
“My apologies, Mr. Jensen, I know you meant to commiserate. Please forgive me. Now if you’ll excuse me...”
“Ah! Certainly.” Hamilton’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved further into her station. “I shall forgive you if you accompany me to hear Scott Joplin this evening, Adelaide.”
Scott Joplin! Could it be possible?
“Mr. Jensen,” she whispered, bent on refusing and trying to find a way to do it cordially. “I’ve seen nothing announcing Mr. Joplin’s presence in the city this week. Surely you’re mistaken.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, “Hamilton. It’s time you called me Hamilton. And it’s a private affair. By invitation only. Now, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Seven o’clock tonight. May I call for you at home?”
THE DEVILS DIME Page 3