by Jen Turano
To her extreme annoyance, the gentlemen remained on the ground . . . until the sound of gunfire rang through the air. Before she could do more than jump in her seat, the two men were on their feet and bolting directly her way.
“Gertrude, open the door,” she yelled as her horse, a temperamental beast by the name of Mr. Merriweather, suddenly bucked and jerked forward, almost causing her to lose her seat.
Just as Mr. Merriweather’s front hooves hit the ground again, the side door of the milk compartment flew open and one of the men jumped in as the other man, one who turned out to be Asher, flung himself onto the seat beside her, and . . . they were off.
“Where are the reins?” Asher yelled.
She nodded toward where the reins were flapping out of reach, having been torn out of her hands when the gunshots had sent her horse into a frenzy.
Asher leaned forward, stopping when Permilia flung out a hand in front of him. “Don’t, you could lose your seat,” she yelled. “Besides, Mr. Merriweather will calm down soon enough, and he’s quite used to being given his head. Just hold on. And if you’re the praying type, I’d think about praying for a clear path ahead.”
Asher looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, as Mr. Merriweather bolted to the right, a direct result of another bullet being fired their way, this one nicking the side of the delivery wagon.
The bolting, unfortunately, had them trundling straight off the groomed path and directly into a wooded area, the denseness of the trees a clear sign that wagons were not actually supposed to be driven through this particular part of Central Park.
With every bump, rock, and bush they ran over, grunts erupted from the interior of the wagon, but except for closing her eyes and whispering a rather frantic prayer of her own for protection, Permilia was helpless to do anything other than hold on. Her only solace was that with every gallop forward, Mr. Merriweather was delivering them farther and farther away from the person who’d been trying to kill not only Asher, but apparently anyone else who happened to stand in the way of that killing.
Quite honestly, if she’d been the one to hire the man, she’d be a bit concerned over his lack of discretion, especially since the man she’d overheard the night of the Vanderbilt ball—a murderer-for-hire, no less—had demanded additional pay in order to maintain that discretion.
Any other thoughts on the matter were pushed firmly aside when Mr. Merriweather reached the end of the trees and burst back onto one of the groomed trails that circled Central Park. To her relief, he immediately slowed to a canter, and then a walk, tossing his head as if to say he was quite proud of himself for getting everyone to safety.
Leaning forward when she decided it was safe to fetch the reins, she grabbed hold of them and sat back on the seat, turning to find Asher watching her with an unusual expression on his face.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“What are you wearing?”
“We’ve just barely made an escape with our very lives and the first thing you have to ask is what I’m wearing?”
Asher leaned to the right and looked behind them, then turned back to her as he resettled himself on the hard seat of the wagon. “I don’t see anyone chasing after us, and I’ve always been of the belief that ladies enjoy being distracted when they’re plunged into a disturbing incident.”
Wrinkling her nose, Permilia tightened her grip on the reins. “Do you know many ladies who’ve been plunged into disturbing incidents?”
“None that spring to mind at this moment, but again, my thoughts are going every which way right now, probably due to all the excitement I’ve just experienced.”
“Then perhaps I should be trying to distract you, instead of the other way around.”
He smiled and inclined his head. “Perhaps you should. So . . . explain your outfit.”
Finding herself unable to resist his smile, Permilia flipped back one of the braids of the wig Mrs. Davenport had insisted completed her disguise. “I’m a milkmaid, of course, complete with braids for my hairstyle, a lovely apron that apparently all milkmaids are supposed to wear, and . . .” She held out a foot. “Serviceable boots that Mrs. Davenport insisted I needed to complete the look.”
“Mrs. Davenport provided you with your costume?”
“You don’t really believe I keep a milkmaid disguise at the ready, do you?”
“Excellent point, but . . . she didn’t have this milk wagon simply lying around for you to use as well, did she?”
“Curiously enough, she did, as well as an entire building filled with other conveyances, one of which I do believe was a wagon decked out for a grand funeral, complete with glass in the windows and polished to a high shine.”
“Any idea as to why Mrs. Davenport has such a collection of peculiar items?”
“I’m not certain, although I’m coming to the conclusion that Mrs. Davenport is one of those unusual ladies who seems to enjoy collecting all manner of objects, such as . . .”
“Figurines of cats,” Gertrude suddenly said as she slid open the conversation panel that separated her from Permilia. “She has all sorts of glass cats, although, oddly enough, she has no interest in obtaining a real cat.”
“That is odd, Miss Cadwalader,” Asher said, swiveling around on the seat right as Permilia did the same.
Gertrude’s eyes, practically the only part of her that could be seen through the conversation panel, crinkled at the corners. “Please call me Gertrude, Mr. Rutherford. It seems appropriate considering the less than formal atmosphere we currently find ourselves in.”
“I would be honored to forgo the usual formalities, Gertrude, and please feel free to call me Asher.”
“Thank you,” Gertrude returned. “And now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, as well as agreeing, I’m sure, that Mrs. Davenport does seem to embrace a highly interesting attitude when it comes to her wide variety of possessions . . . allow me to broach the subject of the gentleman back here with me.”
Asher blinked. “Is something the matter with Harrison?”
“Harrison is the gentleman who jumped in here with me?”
“Oh, forgive me, Gertrude,” Asher said. “That’s Mr. Harrison Sinclair, but did he not bother to introduce himself?”
“I’m afraid he’s incapable of that at the moment. He was knocked in the head with one, or perhaps more than one, of the milk bottles that came crashing off the shelves when we launched into that wild ride in order to escape. I fear the gentleman’s been rendered somewhat . . . woozy.”
“Is he bleeding?” Permilia asked.
“Hard to say since the battery lights Mrs. Davenport installed back here don’t afford the best light, and the milk bottles have only recently stopped rumbling around the back.”
“I’m fine, barely bleeding at all,” a voice yelled from somewhere behind Gertrude.
“What do you think you’re doing, sir?” Gertrude demanded, turning from the panel. “Sit back down right this minute.”
“It’s Harrison, not sir, and . . . you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? I must say, those trousers are simply delightful. Although . . . why do you look as if you’ve been dipped directly into a sunset?”
Asher turned to Permilia. “Harrison has obviously taken quite the blow to his head, because he’s not one to wax poetic or call a lady a pretty little thing. He’s evidently hallucinating as well, since he seems to believe Gertrude is orange.”
Gertrude stuck her face back up to the window and let out a snort. “I really am orange, but I’ll leave Permilia to explain the reason for that.” Gertrude switched her attention to Permilia. “Perhaps we should consider swinging by a hospital and having a physician take a gander at . . . Mr. Sinclair, did you say?”
“Mr. Sinclair is my father. I’m just Harrison.”
“Fine, Just Harrison,” Gertrude returned. “I’m Miss Cadwalader, but you may call me Gertrude.”
“Gertrude is my favorite name.”
Gertrude released a sigh
and caught Permilia’s eye again. “May I suggest you urge Mr. Merriweather into a bit of a trot? Mr. Sinclair . . .”
“Just Harrison,” Harrison corrected.
“Just Harrison,” Gertrude continued, “must have sustained a far greater injury to his head than I first thought, so I’ll keep an eye on him while you drive us to the hospital. The one off Broadway is probably the closest, and it’s not too far from Asher’s store.” With that, Gertrude slid the panel shut again and disappeared from sight.
Setting Mr. Merriweather into a trot, Permilia directed him out of Central Park and onto Fifth Avenue a short time later. Relief slid down her spine as she maneuvered the wagon through the busy street, knowing that it would be next to impossible, not to mention exceedingly foolish, for any would-be assassin to make another attempt on Asher’s life in full view of so many people.
“So . . . how’d Gertrude get orange skin?” Asher asked after she’d gotten Mr. Merriweather headed in the right direction.
“Mrs. Davenport, of course.” Permilia shook her head. “She became a little obsessive and decided that Gertrude, what with her pale skin and all, looked less than authentic as a milk wagon driver. The next thing you know, before either Gertrude or I had the presence of mind to protest, she’d whipped up a concoction that we believe she made out of tea, sugar, and some type of beechwood stain she happened to have on hand, which she then proceeded to slather over Gertrude’s face, neck, and arms. Unfortunately, instead of giving her skin a weathered tint, it turned her orange.”
“Do you suppose it’ll wash off?”
“Hard to tell at this point, but it didn’t even fade when Gertrude washed her hands before we left Mrs. Davenport’s house, which is why she’s not currently driving the wagon.” Permilia smiled. “At least Gertrude can take a little solace in the fact that the social season has wrapped up and society is leaving town in droves.”
“I suppose if there’s any solace to be found in being orange, that would be a leading one, but—tell me this—how is it that you and Gertrude were on hand to rescue me and Harrison from that assailant?”
“I’ve been following you for two days.”
Asher blinked. “Why would you do that? Because, forgive me, but after we parted ways at the Vanderbilt ball, I was of the belief you were beyond annoyed with me.”
“I’m still annoyed with you, but that’s no reason to stand idly by and allow someone to kill you.”
“I realize that you’re a most unusual lady, but it’s hardly a lady’s place to intercede on a gentleman’s behalf simply because she’s of the belief someone is determined to kill that gentleman.”
Permilia’s lips thinned. “And here I was hoping that you might have a more progressive attitude toward women, what with the number of them you employ in your store.”
“That has nothing to do with anything,” Asher argued. “I employ those women in positions that are acceptable for women to hold—positions that only demand they present merchandise to customers in a pleasing manner, which certainly doesn’t see them placed directly in harm’s way.”
“What about the women who are not fortunate enough to obtain employment in environments such as your store provides, who are forced to labor in the shirtwaist factories and laundries?”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this conversation.”
“No one bothers to concern themselves with those women or the dangers they face every time they go to work.”
Asher’s brows drew together. “Have we moved on to a discussion of the suffrage movement now, because I must caution you to have a care with that type of talk, Permilia. It will not endear you to society in the least if it becomes known you’re a supporter of that particular movement.”
Drawing herself up, Permilia narrowed her eyes at him. “I am a staunch supporter of the suffrage movement, and I’ve never been one to hide that, especially since that type of clandestine behavior would do a disservice to our cause.”
“You don’t actually believe it’s a serious cause, do you?”
“Why is it that men always believe that any cause a woman may support is anything but serious, as if the abuse we’ve suffered while petitioning for basic rights could ever be considered a frivolous matter?” She lifted her chin. “You have a workforce made up of a great deal of women. I truly cannot believe that deep down—very deep down, apparently—you don’t feel that those women are just as capable of doing their respective jobs as the men you employ.”
“Of course they’re just as capable in some capacities, especially since my sales would certainly suffer in the unmentionables department if I tried to hire men to sell the goods there.”
Her hands tightened on the reins. “Would you ever consider hiring on a lady in a managerial capacity?”
“I’ve already attracted unpleasant attention for paying my workers higher wages, Permilia. I’d be run out of the city if I took to hiring women in positions that are always reserved for men.”
“I really should have let at least one arrow hit you, directly in the head.” When his eyes widened, she hurried to clarify. “Not to kill you—just to knock some sense into that unprogressive mind of yours.”
“My mind is fine, thank you very much. But how is it that we got caught up in such a ridiculous conversation to begin with?”
“You’re only finding it ridiculous because you’re not winning any points. Although, given that you found my conversation to be ridiculous the night of the ball, when I was trying to deliver to you what turned out to be a most prudent warning, one has to now wonder if you find most conversations you have with women to be ridiculous.”
Asher simply looked at her for a long moment before he completely changed the subject again. “I tried to call on you, twice in fact, over the past two days to apologize for upsetting you the night of the ball. I was told by your butler on both occasions that you were not receiving callers.”
“I couldn’t very well receive you, or any callers for that matter, since I was trailing behind you both times you stopped at my home.”
“You were . . . behind me?”
“I told you I’d decided to watch over you. And watching over a person who more than likely isn’t going to like that watching over requires a great deal of stealth—stealth I was obviously successful in achieving since you never noticed me.” She smiled. “Yesterday I was garbed as a widow, all in black and driving a small pony cart—one that Mr. Merriweather absolutely loathes to pull, finding it, I believe, much too small and simple for his tastes.”
“Your understanding of your horse is somewhat disturbing, although I’m certain Mr. Merriweather will be absolutely delighted to learn that you’ll no longer be taking him out on stealthy endeavors, which instead should see him only attached to stately carriages or . . . ridden sidesaddle.”
“Mr. Merriweather prefers for me to ride him astride, which is why I never ride him in Central Park, but travel up the Hudson when I want to allow him to really stretch his legs.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just divulge that to me, since the idea of you riding at what must amount to breakneck speed chills me to my toes, as does the thought of you trailing after me, something you’re now going to promise you’ll cease doing.”
“As soon as I have your promise that you’ll take the proper precautions in order to stay alive—such as hiring on a few guards and notifying the appropriate authorities about the attempt on your life—I’ll do just that.”
“I’m a man.”
She reached over and patted his leg. “How very good of you to realize that, Asher, but being a man does not guarantee you’ll be able to keep yourself alive. Men are killed on a daily basis, and I will not allow you to go that way simply because you’ve decided to be a bit of an idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“You may continue telling yourself that, but since you didn’t even bother to disrupt your very rigid schedule, after I disclosed a murder plot against you, I’m not going
to agree with your declaration.”
“I don’t keep a rigid schedule.”
“From what I’ve been able to learn through following you as well as doing some sleuthing around your store—asking some innocent questions while I’ve been pretending to shop—you maintain an exceptionally rigid schedule. You arrive at your store at precisely eight in the morning every day—except for Sunday, when you’re closed. You then spend the next four hours doing whatever business you need to attend to inside your store, before leaving at exactly twelve noon to travel to either the Astor Hotel or the Union Club in order to get a bite to eat. You then travel to Central Park and ride around for forty minutes, returning to your store precisely at two, staying there until six in the evening. You then ride home, usually on your horse, unless it’s raining, which means you’ll take one of the store carriages, and then depart two hours later to attend the opera, dinner, or a ball.”
“You found all of that out through . . . your sleuthing?”
“That and following you around for the past two days.”
“Weren’t you bored?”
Since she certainly couldn’t tell him that she’d spent a good portion of her first day while he was attending to business writing her column about the Vanderbilt ball, she settled for sending him a smile and a shrug. “Why do you think Gertrude’s with me?”
“She’s hardly much of a companion, being stuck in the compartment because she’s turned orange and all.”
“True, which is why you’re going to promise me here and now that you’ll seek out proper protection by alerting the authorities and hiring on men to watch out for you. If you’ll promise me that, I’ll promise that Gertrude and I will abandon further surveillance missions, which will allow us to discontinue whiling away our days in boredom.”
“You’re very annoying.” Asher shifted on the wagon seat, his shifting coming to an abrupt end when he leaned forward, his gaze sharpening on something in the street.
“Is that . . . the Huxley sisters?”
Craning her neck, Permilia saw an old-fashioned buggy weaving a bit dangerously in and out of traffic, as was often the case when one of the Huxley sisters was driving it. “That is their buggy, but it’s not unusual to see them driving toward Broadway, especially since they live just past your store.”