by Cathy Gohlke
Joshua took her in his arms. She beat against his chest and struggled to go free, but he held her and walked her down a side street, letting her cry and cry.
“Whatever has happened between the two of you?” Mrs. Melkford asked, very near tears herself.
But Maureen shook her head sadly, her eyes filled with such weariness and concern for Katie Rose that it made Mrs. Melkford’s heart ache. And yet, as she watched Joshua cradle Katie Rose against his chest as an older brother would comfort his young sister, she could not see the same familial love in Katie Rose’s face or in the fierce grip with which she clung to him.
Joshua motioned, above Katie Rose’s head, for the two ladies to go on.
“Come, dear. He’ll bring her along.” Mrs. Melkford tucked her arm in Maureen’s, squeezing her young friend’s hand, and guided them slowly to church.
As they climbed the steps toward the vestibule, Mrs. Melkford turned once. Her heart caught at the sight of a familiar figure, a face she’d seen weeks before, staring from outside her window. “Do you see that man, Maureen? The one in the checkered cap, there, beside the tree?”
But as she pointed, the man stepped back, the tree between them, and the two ladies were swept with the tide of the congregation into the church.
Mrs. Melkford, unsettled by the stranger, was grateful that Maureen seemed to regain her sense of purpose and take charge of them both, shepherding her up the balcony stairs to their seats.
Such a strange and too-eventful morning. Mrs. Melkford sighed, sinking thankfully into their familiar pew, willing her heart to steady its beat.
The call to worship, the opening prayers, even the first hymn had finished by the time Joshua quietly ushered Katie Rose into the pew beside them. Neither removed their coats, and neither made eye contact with the women to their right. One glance told Mrs. Melkford that Katie Rose’s eyes, though dry, remained glassy and that the girl’s knuckles whitened as she gripped Joshua’s hand beneath a shared hymnal.
Maureen took the chair beside Joshua, explaining to Curtis, as best she could, Sunday’s fiasco with her sister and Mrs. Melkford’s account of the man who’d watched them enter the church.
Curtis nodded as he spread a New York map across half the desktop between them. Madame Sevier, who’d returned to help Maureen and Joshua with their disguises, spread her wares across the other half.
“I understand your concern—” Curtis thumped weights on the map’s corners—“but her outburst may work to our advantage. Unless I miss my guess, Mrs. Melkford’s checkered cap man was your Jaime Flynn—and Katie Rose’s nickelodeon predator. If he’s been following you ladies, hoping to ascertain your current circumstances—your daily patterns—perhaps he’s scheming to pressure you into working for him. Or more likely he’s working for Darcy’s, keeping an eye on you. They’re probably uncertain how much you know and how far your interest into the disappearance of your friends goes. It’s just as well he caught sight of Joshua and Katie Rose together again rather than the two of you. We don’t want to supply fodder for any suspicion that you’re especially connected.
“When he realizes Joshua is not with your sister, Flynn may keep himself busy trailing her for a few days rather than looking for you—at least if he thinks pestering her might give him or Darcy’s some sort of insurance for your silence. They won’t touch either of you, certainly not while you’re living under Olivia’s roof. The attention and scrutiny would be too great—the last thing they want. In any case, it might throw him off your trail just long enough.”
“Olivia’s agreed to demand that Katie Rose limit her comin’s and goin’s to daylight, but I’ll not leave the city thinkin’ Jaime Flynn will be pesterin’ after my sister,” Maureen retorted.
“I’ve got a man on it—a good man following her, someone neither Katie Rose nor Flynn will see or recognize. He’ll not let Flynn get too close, and he’s not afraid to step in if necessary.”
“You’re askin’ me to trust you with my sister’s life.” She sighed. Perhaps that will be safer for her after all. If I’m not at Morningside, at least she won’t be leavin’ early and returnin’ late to avoid me. But how resistant to Jaime Flynn’s wiles are you, Katie Rose?
“Ouch,” she protested, jerked from her reverie as Madame Sevier, wielding tools surely made to torture her clients, twisted and pulled Maureen’s hair tightly into a bun, pinning it mercilessly against her scalp.
“Do not complain, mademoiselle. Were it up to me, I should cut it off.” The fingers of Madame’s right hand made one sharp snip in the air.
Maureen clamped her mouth. Joshua raised sympathetic eyebrows.
“That might be the most practical disguise, Madame Sevier—” Curtis smiled—“but we may need Maureen to reappear in the city at any time. She must have her normal hair.”
“Her ‘normal’ hair, monsieur, would, in all events, twist high upon her head. To cut it eight inches or ten . . .” She shrugged, spreading her fingers. “No one would be wiser, and yet it would fit more securely beneath the wig.” She pulled pins from her mouth. “If flaming tendrils spill from beneath these raven tresses—how do you say?—the jig is up!” Her finger swiped sharply across her throat.
Joshua pulled the pair of scissors from the table and placed them squarely in Madame’s hand.
Maureen challenged Curtis, “I’d feel much better about havin’ my hair cut if I understood the point of this disguise.”
“There’s a very good chance we’ll encounter some of the gentlemen frequenting Darcy’s fourth floor. They must not recognize you. Each of our lives—yours, in particular—depend on it.”
Maureen bit her lip and nodded once. My hair will grow back; my neck will not.
Madame whipped the pins from Maureen’s hair, brushed it sharply, and began to snip.
Maureen cringed, watching locks of hair fall around her. You snip, snip with relish, Madame, and your “eight inches or ten” look more like a baker’s dozen!
“With a bit of financial persuasion—including the outrageous purchase of two more tenements I neither wanted nor needed—last week I convinced Drake Meitland to introduce me to the man above him, a Victor Belgadt.” Curtis leaned back in his chair. “I’m not certain if he heads the organization or is just another rung in the ladder. But I’ve convinced Belgadt and Drake that I’m an asset—that I can match any financial backing he can cultivate and that I already oversee lucrative mines—and moles—in Washington from which he can glean property.”
“Property?” Maureen’s mouth felt suddenly dry.
“Girls, women. Either kidnapped outright or more likely lured in with promises of good jobs, marriage, bribes—whatever it takes. Then they’re sold to the highest bidder to be used in brothels, sold as sexual escorts here in New York, or shipped to private buyers elsewhere.” Curtis stopped, nearly breathless from his intensity. “You do understand this is what’s been happening?”
Maureen nodded solemnly. I do understand. But I’ve never heard the words said aloud, as though it’s some master, manipulative plan—all supply and demand. Her spine pressed into the rungs of her chair. Madame gave her hair a tug, making her sit up straight once more.
“And they trust you?” Joshua asked.
“Enough that Belgadt’s invited me to an event he’s hosting at his estate outside Cold Spring—a few days of wining and dining other potential investors.” Curtis pointed toward the map. “The estate lies sixty, possibly sixty-five miles from Manhattan, just off the Hudson, opposite West Point.”
Joshua nodded. “Far enough to be out of the city’s news and patrol, but close enough to make a river run out and back before daylight.”
“Exactly, which is what I’m guessing happened with your friends from Darcy’s.” Curtis glanced at Maureen. “I can’t say for sure, but I’m banking on a hunch that he holds women captive somewhere on or near the estate until they can be transported. No doubt it’s rigged to look like just another night fisherman or something entirely legitima
te. In and out, no questions asked.”
“Or someone there is on the take.” Joshua crossed his arms.
Curtis shrugged. “There are enough tributaries in the area to mask any method. But this is the plan.” He leaned forward. “I’ve convinced Belgadt that I never travel without my own manservant and chambermaid because I trust no one else to attend me or my rooms, no one else to oversee my food over any period of time. Distrust is something Belgadt understands.”
“Enter us,” Joshua confirmed.
“He considers me an eccentric, but that, too, is something he understands. You’ll need to attend me as if I’m as strange as I’ve portrayed, but I also want you to fraternize with the other servants. I’m assuming they know whatever goes on at the estate—especially those who’ve been there longest. Do what you can to get close, get them talking. Keep your eyes open for anything we can use in court. If we’re able to prove they’re selling or transporting women over state lines for purposes of prostitution, we can nail them.”
“The Mann Act against human traffickin’,” Maureen remembered, as Madame swatted wisps of hair from her shoulders. “The girls at Darcy’s spoke of it.”
“I’m just hoping it’s enforceable—it’s new legislation, so we’ve no precedent to predict success.” Curtis frowned. “There’s no way to guess the extent of political or police involvement in human trafficking; we only know it exists. Even if we compile sufficient evidence to make a case, I don’t know what will stick or what kind of ruling we can realistically expect. No doubt the judge appointed will carry the day.”
“The risk—” Joshua began, but Curtis cut him off.
“If we gain enough evidence to bring them to trial, and if, through exposure, we can raise a public outcry, that might just be enough to shut them down—ruin the operation at the source of its power and money and begin to bring down those in office who are criminally involved. For them to fall like dominoes—that’s the best, the highest hope. Though it may not be realistic.” He sighed. “It’s all a gamble.”
“Suppose we gamble and fail—suppose they discover us . . . what will stop them from comin’ after us?” Maureen couldn’t hold back the question any longer.
Curtis met her eye. “Nothing.”
“Then she’s out of it,” Joshua stated flatly. “I’ll not have Maur—”
“We need a woman in the house,” Curtis insisted, “to search places neither you nor I could gain access to. The more of us there are, the less able Belgadt’s people will be to keep tabs on each of us—especially with all the coming and going during these events.”
Madame pulled a stocking cap over Maureen’s scalp, then a wig over her eyes, and jerked it back to her hairline.
“I’ve no idea exactly what we’re looking for or where we’ll find it. But if they’re keeping captives at the estate, they must be feeding them,” Curtis went on, “which might be noticeable in the amount of food prepared by the kitchen each day.”
“If they’re feedin’ them well,” Maureen cautioned.
Curtis nodded. “If their purpose is to make the women’s existence totally dependent on complying with their jailer’s demands, they’re not likely being treated well.”
“No,” Maureen replied quietly, remembering. “They’re not.”
“But whatever they’re feedin’ them,” Joshua said, “they must be carryin’ food somewhere—if not within the mansion itself, then somewhere on the estate. And that’s somethin’ to look for.” He frowned again.
He doesn’t like this any more than I do. At least there will be three of us there, and, Joshua Keeton, I’m more than glad you’re one of those three.
“The house is huge and, from Belgadt’s boasts, probably riddled with hidden passageways and false cupboards,” Curtis continued.
“He told you that?”
“He told me—boasted, in fact—that the mansion and surrounding area, with its hiding places and tunnels, were built by a slave smuggler early last century when it became illegal to import slaves. Belgadt claims it’s the perfect place to keep his ‘merchandise in storage’ until he’s ready to transport.” Curtis sat back, his shoulders suddenly rounded. “Finding the captives he’s holding there now is one thing and perhaps, after all, will be the easiest. But we mustn’t forget the bigger picture. We need documentary evidence to present in court—Belgadt’s records. That’s as much our goal as finding the women. Otherwise, we’re only saving a handful at best.”
“Records?” Joshua objected. “The women can’t be more than inventory to him.”
“Which is why he’s bound to have details regarding when and where he bought or picked up his goods; his contacts for buying and selling; costs in feeding, clothing, transporting. He’s a businessman, and white slavery is, for him, a very lucrative investment. There may be no actual names, but Belgadt’s a man who keeps his fingers on everything and everyone.” Curtis leaned forward again. “And we must consider just how and where we’ll find such documents. I’m assuming he keeps them under lock and key.”
“A desk? A safe?” Joshua suggested.
Curtis opened a bag on the table between them, pulling out three flat pouches of thin tools and three small, thick bottles with stoppers and seals. “These are the tools of our temporary trade in the event we come across such a treasure.”
“For pickin’ locks, are they?” Maureen asked, opening one of the pouches, certain she was in over her head and yet somehow thrilled to be part of something daring.
“That would be ideal. If it’s a combination lock, we’ll likely need to use acid—a risky but quiet method of entry.” Curtis handed each of them a bottle and pouch. “Not something you want to open on a whim.”
Maureen picked through her slender tools. “I’m more adept with a long hairpin.”
Joshua’s brows shot up.
She smiled in return, happy to have surprised him.
“If Belgadt’s kept records of the women he’s trafficked—anything at all—then we stand the added chance of finding those women and helping return them to their families, even if they . . . even if they’ve been heavily drugged or badly used.” Curtis stopped, as though the intense energy of his mission had suddenly blown away, and said quietly, “And if we can’t find them, perhaps we can determine what happened to them.”
Maureen glanced up at Joshua, whose concern for his employer was etched on his face. What have they not told me? She was vaguely surprised by the thought. And what happens if we find them—if their families don’t want them back or if they have no families? What will we do with them then?
“Whatever happens, we must each maintain our roles at all times. I’m sending Drake on a wild-goose chase for women in Washington. If he comes to the dead end it is before we find what we need . . .” Curtis looked up and, imitating Madame’s earlier gesture, mimicked, “Then ‘the jig is up.’”
Curtis had secured a private railcar, both to continue their ruse of an eccentric millionaire traveling with his trusted domestics and so they might continue laying their plans.
Maureen had never ridden a train, nor had she seen such a vast land. Paved streets, concrete buildings, and all semblance of energy fell quickly away once the tracks left the city. The thrill of the ride itself was more than enough.
But Curtis demanded her attention and recitation from each of them detailing their fabricated history as siblings who had immigrated to America four years before. Backward and forward, much as she and Joshua had practiced their new duties, they rehearsed their background stories.
“It’s hard-pressed I am to be thinkin’ of you as my sister.” Joshua half smiled.
“Better than as your wife,” Maureen responded dryly.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He grinned.
She felt herself blush.
Curtis passed each of them a packet of letters, written as if from family members still in Ireland. “Easy to falsify. Not so quick or simple to check. Read them, trade, and read them again, then pack your own group
among your belongings. Your luggage will certainly be searched sooner or later. You’ve an hour to come up with a half-dozen family traditions and stories based on your new parents and siblings.”
“Who would be askin’ such questions?” Maureen would rather look out the window, so new was the experience.
Curtis pulled the shade, shutting out the swiftly passing landscape and capturing her full attention. “We don’t know, and that could be the very slip that ruins us—all of us.” He stared at her for a moment. “Watch what you say—remain in character at all times. You never know who might be listening or how. Be especially careful of Harder, Belgadt’s butler. There’s something in the man—something that takes pleasure in cruelty. I’m sure he and all there stand vigilant. Belgadt would have it no other way.”
Maureen sobered and opened the first letter.
After they’d read and traded letters, Joshua prayed aloud for the success of their venture and God’s protection on each one. Curtis prayed for the safe restoration of the women to their homes and families, nearly choking, so earnest were his pleas. Maureen prayed silently that the Lord would hear the prayers of these good men. She doubted He would hear or heed her own. But just in case, she prayed for Katie Rose, for Eliza, for Alice, trusting them to a God she barely knew and equally feared.
Half an hour before the train slowed, Curtis opened a bottle and poured three drinks. After handing them round, he raised a toast. “To Mary and David Carmichael, émigrés of Dublin, oldest children of Keith and Ailene Carmichael, and first in their family to set foot in this fair land, with the hope of bringing younger siblings along. Hence—” he smiled—“your strict devotion to a wealthy and eccentric dandy. May your lucrative employment be short, safe, and accomplish its purposes. May your wits be sharpened, your powers of perception clear, and all our exits swift.”
Three crystal flutes clinked.
“Welcome to Sedgebrook, Mr. Morrow.” The too-young, broad-shouldered butler in full uniform bowed smartly, stepping back from the doorway.