Cora
Southern Hearts Series
Book Three
By
Felicia Rogers
Cora
Southern Hearts Series
Copyright © 2014 by Felicia Rogers
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Contact Information:
Website: http://feliciarogersauthor.weebly.com
Email: [email protected]
Published by:
Felicia Rogers
Cover Design: Dingbat Publishing
http://dingbatpublishing.weebly.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Author's Note
Excerpt from Irving, The Board, book 7
Excerpt of The Ruse
Excerpt of Maralie by F. A. Rogers
Dedication
This book is dedicated to those with an adventurous spirit …
Chapter One
The wax seal disintegrated, the pieces littering the surface of the polished desk. The finest piece of furniture in her small place and she had covered it in garbage.
Sweeping the bits into her hand, she swiveled her chair and dropped them out the open window.
"Hey!" came a shout from below.
"Hey, yourself!" she replied as she peered over the sill.
"What did you throw at me, Cora?" yelled Little Tommy Watkins. The boy was six feet tall with broad shoulders, wooden teeth, one eye, and a downright brutish appearance. He had been in more skirmishes than she could count, but yet the nickname coined by Mimee, the neighborhood grandmother, had stuck into adulthood.
"I didn't throw it at you. It just kind of landed on you."
"Pshaw," he said and waved her off.
She returned to her seat and bent her mind to her task. The letter carried multiple stamps. It had traveled to each of her past residences until finally arriving at her current home. She glanced around her place. Newspapers lined the planked walls. Ceiling panels sagged. The ancient floor rug was riddled with stains and frayed around the edges. A string attached to two walls in one corner held her gowns off the floor. Her mother and sisters would be appalled. The thought made her smile.
The pages crinkled as she unfurled the letter. She whispered under her breath, "Get it over with, girl."
Amelia's fine scrawl glared at her. Humph, no surprise there. She is the letter writer of the family.
Settling back in the chair, Cora read:
January 13, 1838
Dearest Cora,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and happy spirits. Time has flown since last we heard from you. Father and Mother mention you constantly. They hope one day you will return, at least for a short visit.
As for family news, Charles and I are celebrating the birth of our third child, all three boys, much to mother's chagrin. Millie continues to be disheartened over her inability to conceive since the birth of the twins. At seven, they are like two monkeys. They keep Stephen and Millie hopping.
The house continues much the same as before. Mother insists I change things to suit myself, but I'm satisfied without the added disruption.
I hesitate to mention this, but the truth must be told—I miss you. Often at night I lay down to sleep, and I think of you. While I knew you would never stay close at hand, I had hopes you would live in Louisiana. Perhaps in Bayou Sara or New Orleans, from where you could drop by for a visit, or a nice cup of tea.
I've rambled and perhaps upset you in the process, so I will come to the purpose of my letter. The truth is I'm writing to invite you to a party for Mother and Father's thirtieth wedding anniversary. We hope to hold it close to September as the weather beings to cool.
Millie will be here, but it won't be the same without you. Please try to come.
Longing to hear from you, your sister, Amelia Beaumont Vincent
Cora set the letter aside. She leaned back in the chair and studied the ceiling. Today was August 1, 1838. The party was less than a month away. If she'd known sooner she could have planned, saved funds, something. Admittedly, Amelia had tried to reach her. Of course, if she'd been more forthcoming with her new address the letter would have arrived in a more timely fashion. But then Amelia would have known where she was staying. Which would have led to questions about her employment and the answers wouldn't have been well received.
She leaned against the window sill. The streets of New York City radiated heat and filth. Kids threw balls and played tag until their mothers called. Black smoke from factories filtered across the cloudless sky.
Her stomach growled. When was the last time she'd eaten? The funds she made from her employment filtered through her fingers like water.
The desk clock chimed. Cora used the cracked looking glass as she wrapped her hair into a bun. The reflection caused her pause. She swallowed and continued with the arrangement. If her mother and sisters were appalled at her living arrangements they would be positively horrified that she'd used potassium lye to lighten her hair. The once tawny locks were a pale blond and almost reached her waist. She grabbed her gloves, and covered her delicate hands. The act must be perpetuated. She placed a hat upon her head and sighed as a strand of hair peeked from beneath the edges. If she was truly dedicated to working at the fish house she should have cut her hair, but she hadn't been able to do it. No matter how many times the knife pressed against the strand's length, she always hesitated.
She exited the apartment. The paper thin door couldn't keep out a cat much less a burglar, but she locked it anyway.
On this hot summer's day the stifling hallway was virtually empty. Inhabitants leaned out their windows or settled on the porch steps in hopes of catching a cool breeze.
A small adjustment straightened her hat, and Cora was ready. She stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Headed to work?" yelled her neighbor.
Cora had affectionately labeled the elderly woman Mrs. Nosey Bottom, because she refused to give her real name to anyone, insisting they call her Mimee.
"Yes," said Cora avoiding her direct gaze.
"Don't forget, today is going to be a hot one."
"I'll remember."
Words followed as she hastened forward. Mimee was slightly stooped with graying hair that was constantly arranged in a high bun. Since her husband’s passing two years ago, Mimee had taken up
residence on her front stoop and proceeded to mother the entire street. Why she continuously told Cora that she needed to shed clothing or she might swoon. Or she told her she needed to marry and stop roaming the streets. The woman persisted in bossing her every chance she got.
Picking up the pace, Cora left her street and entered the dock district. Dark alleys ran the length between dilapidated buildings. After a quick check to make sure she was alone, she slid inside and scooted her feet. A box flipped over, and the contents scattered. Fussing under her breath, she bent and retrieved the items.
Her hands shook as she changed clothing. Too bad she didn't have a mirror to double check her appearance. She patted herself to assure everything was in place.
With her gown stuffed in a brown sack and placed back in the box, she straightened and strutted from the alley. A few yards away workers gathered. With a tug on her cap to keep it low, Cora sauntered over to join them.
Wheels squeaked as two large doors rolled open. Shuffling along with the crowd, Cora entered the dimly lit warehouse.
The first week working in the fish market, she'd been sick every day. Now the familiar odors wafted up her nose and her eyes didn't even water. No doubt the strong noxious scents had singed her smell receptors.
"Good work," said the floor manager.
Cora averted her eyes and studied the fish entrails covering her hands. Hot air struck her neck and she forced herself not to shiver.
"Cory, Cory, Cory, you're wearing more fish than your preparing," said the manager.
Gruffly, she replied, "Sorry."
The manager moved away and she forced herself to relax.
"I don't know why he picks on you. Every day the same thing."
Cora examined the fish in front of her. She knew why the manager berated her. She was terrible at her job.
Michael Doyle was a fellow employee, a broad-shouldered man with muscular arms and gentle hands. Curly red hair poked from beneath his hat to stroke the nape of his neck. Green eyes cast a sympathetic stare in her direction. In a defensive tone, he said, "Always picking on those weaker than him, the bully."
"Who said I was weaker?" asked Cora with false bravado.
Michael slapped her back, hard, and she stumbled. Fish innards squished against her chest. She groaned and Michael covered his mouth to stifle a guffaw.
"Sorry, my friend."
Cora righted herself, drew her shoulders back, and shrugged. It was going to be a long night.
****
Newspaper clippings lined the walls of their office. Articles touted the abilities of two law officers that had captured a multitude of criminals and brought them to justice.
"Staring at the wall of fame?" asked Josh Woods as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.
"More like the wall of shame," Frederic muttered under his breath. Thirty years old and all he had to show for it was a musty office, a wall full of clippings, and his partner.
"You're too hard on yourself. We've made more arrests than another other team along the eastern seaboard. Why, that raid we pulled on Miles Jones—what was that? Six years ago now—why, I still hear people talking about it."
Oh, yes, the capture of Miles Jones. They'd been vacationing in New Orleans when the telegraph arrived from President Jackson. The Nullification Crisis of 1832 allowed some South Carolinian landowners to avoid paying their taxes. Miles Jones was such a landowner, but few would snitch on a tax evader. The murder of a young slave girl in Washington D.C. had provided itself as an appropriate guise to question Miss Beaumont's affiliation with Mr. Jones.
He would never forget Amelia Beaumont's expression when Josh revealed the man's sin of murder. Pale, her lip trembling, she'd wrung her petite hands and spilled her entire life story. With knowledge of Miles’s precise location, they had left the Beaumont Estate, traveled to South Carolina, and arrested him on multiple counts of tax evasion and one count of homicide. President Jackson had been elated, and Josh and Frederic had gained a positive reputation.
For a time they did well. They enlisted in the army and engaged in minor skirmishes with Indians. When that activity died down, they settled in New York City. With a population over two hundred thousand there should be plenty of crime to thwart.
Without wives or families and only their careers to drive them, Frederic and Josh had rented office space and prepared to be flooded with cases. Deliver papers, arrest criminals, they were willing to do it all. Yet no orders came. Slowly, requests from wealthy citizens filtered in. Although the jobs were beneath them, they accepted anyway. After all, they had to eat.
Frederic twiddled his thumbs as he said, "Of course you do. It was the last big thing we did." He loosened his hands and tapped his fingertips on the desk. He was so tired of running after petty thieves. Why didn't he just tell Josh that their careers were going south and get it over with. Staring across the desktop, he said, "Last week I received a report on a jewel robbery."
"You didn't tell me," interrupted Josh, sitting straighter.
"No, I didn't. It turned out the lady who hired me just misplaced a diamond the size of a pinhead, and her cat ate it."
"Ah, glad you left me out of that one." Josh leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk corner.
Frederic rested his elbows on the table. "The world is changing, Josh. People are changing. We just aren't needed as much anymore."
"Now, I know something is wrong with you."
"The wars are over. We worked for the President, we served the military, and now we're stuck as law for hire." The last words left a bitter taste in his mouth and he wished for a drink.
Josh rose from his position and mimicked Frederic's pose. "We could join the New York City Sheriff's office. I hear they're always hiring good men."
"Maybe," said Fredric as he stared out the window. Their shoddy office faced the docks. The rank smell of rotted fish permeated the room. No amount of fanning helped clear the air. Off-handedly, Frederic asked, "How did your meeting go?"
Josh cocked a brow. "My meeting? Are you attempting to indicate my date with Miss Rhonda Tomkins?"
"I might be." He smirked.
"If you must know, it was interesting."
"Share. I need the entertainment."
Josh returned to his leaned back position. "Rhonda Tomkins is fair to look upon and a right smart companion."
"How is that interesting?'
"Slow down, Frederic. You must let me build the background before I share the story."
Frederic opened his palm. "By all means, build."
"Thank you. As I was saying, Rhonda is an intelligent companion, perhaps too much for our day in age."
Frederic cocked his brow.
"The young lady has distinctly developed ideas about certain volatile issues."
"Slavery?"
"She attends abolitionist meetings, which was revealed last night for the first time, during dinner."
"Ah, I see."
"Her father rose, kicked his chair back in his haste, and swore until sweat dripped from his chin." Frederic stifled a laugh and Josh sat forward, a smile covering his face. "At the time humor was furthest from my mind. Rhonda's mother choked on a piece of bread, Rhonda shrieked and turned red, and her father's spittle covered the food like fog on a cold morning."
"What did you do?"
"I did what any self-respecting gentleman would do, I retrieved a servant."
Frederic threw back his head with unrestrained laughter.
Josh stood and poured a cup of coffee. "Giles entered and dislodged the bread from the mistress' throat, fanned Rhonda, ordered the food removed, and patted Mr. Tomkins until he calmed."
Frederic blinked. "And you just sat there?"
"But of course, at least until the new food arrived. Then I indulged until I felt ready to pop." His lips twitched at the corners, with restrained mirth.
"Did Mr. Tomkins excuse his behavior?"
Josh crossed his arms over his chest. "No. He spent t
he rest of the evening shooting daggers in his daughter's direction."
"Will you see her again?" Frederic leaned forward, anticipating the answer.
"Absolutely not."
They shared a hearty laugh and Frederic almost forgot his feelings of uselessness.
Chapter Two
In the wee hours of the morning, Cora shuffled out of the warehouse. Her steps echoed along the moonlit boardwalk. Fellow workers exited, commenting on their nightly plans.
"I gotta girl waiting on me."
"Where? At the local brothel?" Hearty laughter and backslapping ensued.
"You idiot! Those are fighting words. Slow down so I can catch you."
A scuffle ensued, and Cora hurried to move away.
"Good idea, don't want to get caught in the fray."
She jumped.
"I didn't mean to startle you."
"I wasn't startled," she said, trying to deepen her voice through the lie.
"Sure you weren't. Everyone knows jumping off the ground and grabbing your chest ain't a sign of being startled," said Michael, a smile tilting his lips.
"Ha, ha, very funny."
"Thank you, I try." Michael followed her quietly as they walked toward the cheap tenements that many of them called home.
She folded her hands in front of her. Michael treated her like he would a younger brother, constantly protecting her. She bit her lip. She wished she could tell him her secret, but it was too dangerous. She shuffled her feet.
"What are your plans for the remainder of the evening?"
She lifted her head. "Sleep."
"You're no fun." Michael punched her arm playfully. "Why don't you come to the pub and share a drink with us?"
She forced herself not to rub the now aching spot. "No, thanks."
"Ah, come on. The guys are always asking why you don't come. 'Course I defend you, even though I don't know your reasons."
"Thanks for your defense but the fact is I don't drink."
Michael stopped, and Cora silently hoped he wouldn't continue to follow her. They had already walked past the alley where her clothing was hidden, and she needed to return and retrieve it. However, Michael didn't comply. Instead he grabbed her arm and twisted her to face him.
Cora (Southern Hearts Book 3) Page 1