Dalliances & Devotion

by Felicia Grossman

  He blinked, over and over, willing himself to focus, to lead. Not for himself, but for the person he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Darkness. And shooting pain. All the way from her shoulder to her wrist. Amalia twisted as wetness dripped down her face, burning her eyes even as she squeezed them shut.

  “Shh...easy.” Meg’s voice hovered above her. A cool cloth flittered over her face. “I need you to hold still so I can check your dressings.”

  Dressings? What dressings? She wrinkled her nose as something putrid hit her nostrils. Fire radiated down her entire limb.

  Her arm.

  The hall.

  The man with the firearm and—David.

  “David,” she managed to gasp even as she winced. “David.”

  “He’s fine, thanks to you.” Meg was fiddling with her elbow now and the burning had changed to stabbing. She thrashed a little. “You took the entire bullet. It lodged near the bone and had to be removed.”

  Amalia moaned.

  “Can you do that a bit more gently?” Her mother’s voice. And a great deal of rustling. From crinolines and silk, no doubt.

  “I’m doing my best, ma’am.” Meg sighed but the pressure from her fingers didn’t stop stinging.

  More sweating. And whimpering. How did she make the pain stop?

  “Do better.” Her mother snapped, closer this time. A hand swiped tangles of hair off her cheek. “It’ll be all right, darling. You just have to heal.” Her mother’s voice was so soft, so gentle, so unlike her. Almost the same as when Simon—no. She wasn’t dying. She wasn’t. Certainly not without seeing David again.

  “David.” She repeated his name again and worked to blink her eyes open, but her lashes stuck together. “I want David.”

  “He’ll be back,” her mother said. “He’s been in and out for the last two days. The boy has barely slept—between nosing around in here and fiddling with every scrap of material in those damned files, wasting time, torturing himself with work. He seems rather skilled at that. We keep sending him away, but it doesn’t stick. He could use a bath though. As could you.” Her mother kissed her nose.

  “We’ll sponge her down in a moment.” Meg spoke again. “I’ll just need help lifting her. We need to change the bandages, make sure the infection doesn’t become worse.”

  The Pinkerton’s voice was soft now too. Dratted eyes. She had to see.

  With all her strength she forced her lids open. Grim lines marred Meg’s face. She needed to stop frowning like that, those wrinkles around her mouth would set in forever.

  Darkness edged around the sides of the other woman, framing her body, creeping closer to her mass of unkempt hair, not even properly pinned back and—was that blood in it?

  “When this is over, you really need to let me teach you about cosmetics...and to create a proper bun.”

  Meg might have said something, but the black waves turned into full clouds that wiped across her vision and plunged her back into sleep again.

  * * *

  No Walker.

  No Walker.

  No Walker.

  David pounded his fist against Jay Truitt’s desk as papers swirled around him. The name was in none of the pages of the dossier. It was the surname of the bailiff, just like Mrs. Truitt said, but it only appeared in a piece of her old correspondence, not anywhere else. So he couldn’t have seen it before.

  But he had. He knew he had.

  The man who tried to shoot Amalia was of no help. He wasn’t talking and instead cooling his heels in the Wilmington jail. The preliminary information indicated that he was from Indianapolis, like the man caught in Bedford. He had a note on him too. No name, just the Centerville address and the words two hundred dollars.

  Based on all the information he’d gathered, Louis Walker did not have two hundred dollars to pay anyone. Not even close.

  “Still nothing?” Will leaned against the door, surveying the area.

  “No.” David tugged at his hair. “The answer has to be in here somewhere.” And he had to find it, role in the mission or not. He had to.

  After all, Meg said it was the best way to help Amalia—do his job and let her do hers. He ran his hands over his shaggy scruff. Last time he’d checked on her, Amalia’s face had been so pale. She’d moaned, but hadn’t opened her eyes or even acknowledged he was in the room.

  “Well, you’re not going to like this.” Will threw another file on the table. It landed with a crack.

  “What’s this?” He rubbed his temple, not touching it.

  “Information from Pittsburgh.” Will’s voice was neutral.

  David snatched it and flipped it open, skimming the pages, before staring at Will, mouth open. “Unrelated? Completely unrelated? So no new information.” He pounded the desk again so hard that the paintings of some long dead Truitt ancestors on the wall rattled.

  “I’m sorry, David.” Will sank into a chair. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Damned if I know.” He took off his spectacles and wiped them against his most certainly too tight shirt. He unbuttoned another button. “I just can’t put together the pieces.”

  “Can we talk it out?” Will shrugged as he kicked his legs up on the edge of the desk. “I mean I know telling you to let the rest of the team handle it isn’t an option now so we might as well work together. Perhaps if you say it out loud, maybe it’ll spark something.”

  “I don’t know.” David pounded the table again. “I just think I’m missing something. I was so sure it had to do with her charity. She believed that. At least I think she did.”

  “She most certainly did.”

  The two men swiveled around to find Thad now leaning in the door frame, his nut-brown hair, so much like Amalia’s, flopping against his forehead. “That’s why she hasn’t asked my parents for money yet.” He sauntered into the room and sank into the seat next to Will.

  “What?” Will frowned. “What charity?”

  Thad waved a tired hand at him. “It’s for women who can’t afford divorces. She puts funds in the trust and lawyers with clients who need it can apply to receive them. Neither the giver nor the receiver knows each other’s identity. She’s been doing it ever since she ended her relationship with Ethan. She cares about it more than anything. Has made her do some damned foolish things too.”

  “Because she was desperate and afraid you’d all disapprove.” David gritted his teeth.

  “Which is ridiculous, but very much like my sister, who’s rather skilled with people but blind when it comes to herself. Especially her own worth.” Thad scowled. “Not that it isn’t our fault in many ways. We left her alone too much, made her feel too much like a burden, like she was taking up too much space.”

  The three sat in silence for a long moment. Poor Amalia, because that’s exactly what it was, wasn’t it?

  “But, back to this charity. Is it really that controversial enough to make her a target?” Will tented his fingers under his chin, his eyes pensive.

  “Is it? I don’t know.” Could it really be? David tapped a finger against his lips as the facts all flitted through his mind, combining and recombining in various combinations, now pushing facts that once seemed so unimportant to the forefront. “But she did everything anonymously, so...”

  Thad gave him a shrug, sinking a little lower in his seat, with a yawn. “Well, the family knows. Obviously. We make that sort of thing our business. Though even some rudimentary digging would yield information as she’s very involved. But I agree with David, could those things really be a motive? There’s always the Jewish thing, but the fund hasn’t received much attention. And yes, a single aggrieved husband might have it out for her, but this seems like much more than that. And yet, what else is there?”

  David froze. The column. But that was a worse motive than the charity. Wasn’t i
t? He coughed. “There’s her job, at the Inquirer. That’s engendered quite a bit of controversy, actually. Which is rather silly, but I suppose people have killed for less...”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I’d forgotten to tell Amalia. There’s a woman in Indianapolis on a mission to kill Amalia’s column. After writing a bunch of letters criticizing the writing and disputing the advice, she asked the paper to...how do you say it? ‘Sack’ her?”

  Where were those papers? He patted around the table. He’d planned to give Amalia the information after everything was over so she could take it to her publisher. The ones identifying the rival who thought she could shut down the competition—not as witty as Amalia’s by a long shot. All very proper society matron sort of things, advising women to stay indoors to keep their skin fresh and stay away from evils like cosmetics.

  “It’s around here somewhere.” What had gotten into him? There was a point where the desk had been organized by location and then by time.

  “You might be messier than Amalia.” A snicker from Thad, and another yawn. His friend had been up all night—post office, to jail, to the Centerville house, back and forth, over and over. At least his parents had approved of the plan—busy is better than brooding, whatever that meant.

  David returned to his search. “And I still have a system...it should be right...here.” He slapped his hand down over it. He plucked it, opened the binding and pulled out the first sheet. Her name was... Cadence Whittaker. Cadence Walker Whittaker. “Fuck.” He leapt to his feet.

  “Channeling the good general, rabbi?” Will smirked at him.

  “Maybe. He was the best of us.” He held the paper aloft and waved it around. “Let’s just say I’ve solved it, ahead of the boys in Chicago. Even if I’m just muscle. Well, at least I sort of solved it. I think, maybe. We need to send word to the agents in Indianapolis.” His mind raced. He glanced back at the paper.

  Louis Walker was Cadence’s brother and he might not have two hundred dollars, but his sister’s husband had made a fortune in munitions—had factories all over the Midwest. And since all the people who attacked Amalia were from Indianapolis, it made sense.

  Both letter writers were one and the same.

  “Come on, boys,” he called as he sprinted towards the door. “Let’s wrap this up so we can tell Amalia she’s finally safe when she wakes.”

  And she would wake—would get better, because there was no other option.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A scraping noise as well as a dull throbbing in her bones woke Amalia. She blinked into the light and groaned. “If that is one of your cats using any of my silks as a scratch post, Mother, I will catch them all and make them into a coat.” She pushed herself up and winced. “As soon as I get use of my arm.”

  “It’s Isis, not any of the kitties.”

  The elderly macaw, the least objectionable of her mother’s pets, flew from the curtains to one of the bedposts.

  In turn, her mother moved from a chair and settled on the bed, next to Amalia’s legs, which she gave a pat. “And your threats don’t frighten me. You’d never hurt anything smaller or weaker than you.” She smirked a little. “And you hate the sight of blood.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” Amalia glanced around the room at the bright sunlight and fresh linens. Empty. Just her mother and the bird. No David.

  Her shoulders slumped a little, causing another bout of pain. She’d have to remember not to move her right side. Blasted bullet.

  “Almost a week.” Her mother sighed, before reaching around Amalia and adjusting the pillows behind her head. “You had a bit of an infection, but Meg is very skilled. Better than the local doctor.”

  The door swung open. “I’m just more experienced.” Meg was at the bedside in a moment, her hand on Amalia’s forehead.

  “No, you’re brilliant. Thank you.” Amalia closed her eyes for a moment. Because it could’ve been worse, much worse. Her innards twisted at the memory of what David had told her about Simon’s last hours. Her poor, poor brother.

  Amalia’s mother gave her an expectant frown. Meg nodded, a half smile on her face while she proceeded to fuss over Amalia’s arm, pulling up the sleeve of her gown to inspect.

  “Don’t fully thank me.” Meg grimaced a little. “You may not have full use of the limb for a while, or ever. Your hand as well and I know you write with that one.”

  “But I’m alive.” Which was the important part. She drew in a deep breath through her nose. Lavender. Her mother must have ordered the sheets scented. Glorious. “And I can still dictate.” She could and everything would be fine. Somehow.

  “You have plenty of relatives with lovely penmanship,” her father added in a too-bright voice from the doorway. “Or several friends.” He drew into the room. “One of whom has been at your bedside over and over, especially since he solved the case.” The sunlight hit the silver in his hair so it glistened, illuminating what had to be new wrinkles on his brow and dark circles beneath his eyes. Still dapper as ever, but oh how he’d aged. A new wave of guilt washed over her.

  Amalia opened her mouth to apologize to her parents, when the information echoed in her brain. The case was finished? David had completed his mission?

  “He solved it?” she asked. “Who was it?” And did that mean he was gone? Without saying good-bye? Without giving her a chance to discuss a future together? Or had he decided already it wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it. Her mind raced.

  “A woman with a rival column. She wanted to scare you into hiding, disrupt your writing, and to make you too much of a risk for the Inquirer.” Meg smoothed the bandages and stepped back to inspect her handiwork. “He and Thad are out waiting for news that the arrest in Indianapolis was successful, but should be back soon.”

  Oh good. Soon. She settled back a little, her hair tangling with the headboard. “So she was the source of the negative letters to my editor?”

  “Some of them.” Her mother shrugged, smoothed her own deep eggplant silk skirts, a sharp contrast from the white-pink coverlet. “Some of them were from regular readers. Each with their own opinions.”

  “Some of them correct, no doubt.” And there was that throbbing in her temple again and the voice screaming failure in the back of her skull.”

  A vague noise from her mother. “You can’t please everyone, Amalia. And just because not everyone likes it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value, isn’t good.”

  What did she mean by that? Amalia opened her mouth to inquire but was interrupted.

  “And plenty of people enjoy your writing just fine.” Her father raised a hand, halting the conversation, before turning to Meg. “Can you give us a few moments, please?”

  “By all means.” Meg wiped her hands on her apron as she stood. “I should change.”

  “Or take a long, hot, relaxing bath.” Amalia gave her a smile. “With all the pretty oils and then, we can call in a dressmaker because I think someone needs a few new things.”

  “I’m not getting out of this house without you fiddling with my hair and putting powders on me, am I?” Meg grumbled but there was a teasing warmth in her voice as well.

  “Nope.” If only she could rub her hands together in glee without the pain. This was going to be so much fun. “You don’t have to always wear them, but we’re friends and friends try new things with each other.”

  “Fine. But nothing permanent, right?” Meg folded her arms and shifted from foot to foot, but there was curiosity in her expression besides a little fear.

  “Naturally.” Amalia had to bite her lip to contain her squeal of excitement. All the things she could do... “Though you are going to love using additional, pre-styled hair.”

  “I can’t wait.” Fine, a lot of fear in her tone, but the results would be fabulous.

  When Meg closed the door, Amalia turned back to her parents and gazed at their rat
her earnest, rapt faces. She had their full and complete attention. This was a sign. She needed to speak to them, ask them about the money, settle the matter and figure out what she was going to do about David.

  “I want access to the principal of the family trust, not just the income.” Her voice only shook a little.

  “For your charity. We know.” Her mother nodded.

  Wait? What did her mother just say? Amalia squinted. “You know? How do you know.”

  “We keep track of our children.” Her father sat down on the bed as well, next to her mother, and squeezed his wife’s hands. “I would normally say that we aren’t idiots, but, unfortunately...” He grimaced.

  “What your father is trying to say...” Her mother winced as well. “We didn’t quite take you or your other activities seriously enough over the years. We should’ve said something earlier, after we realized what had happened with Elias. But we were, well, embarrassed.”

  “Oh.” Was the only word she managed. Her lip quivered so she had to suck it in, because she would not cry over a thing like this. So what if every suspicion she had about her parents was true? It was fine. She’d be fine.

  “Not of you, never of you.” Her father’s eyes filled a little. “Of ourselves. We should’ve been better parents. We should’ve paid better attention and been present for you, so you wouldn’t have been so desperate.”

  “We’re so sorry.” Her mother sniffled a little. “And we’re proud of you. For everything. Your charity and for the column.”

  Her father leaned a little closer. “We read it all the time. It’s rather clever and enjoyable, especially when you directly quote your mother.”

  “You’re talented, Amalia. Very talented, and caring, and we’re proud of you. So proud. And we love you so much.” Her mother nodded as she emphasized each word. “We don’t show it enough and we certainly don’t say it enough, but it’s true.”