Words Spoken True: A Novel

by Ann H. Gabhart

  They were almost back to the beginning of the parade’s circuitous route through the city when at last she spotted Blake. The charge of excitement that had been playing over the marchers seemed to concentrate and sear the air between them as their eyes met. For a moment she thought Blake would push out into the street and grab her. For a longer moment she wished he would. Then his eyes shifted a bit to the left and took in Stanley close beside her, and his face turned hard.

  “He should be shot for staring at you so brazenly,” Stan muttered into her ear as he moved closer to Adriane.

  With a heavy heart, Adriane forced herself to look back to the front of the parade. The strength drained out of her legs and arms in such a rush she thought she might have to sit down in the middle of the street and let the parade pass around her.

  But somehow she managed to keep moving her feet, although she allowed the transparency she carried to droop as she answered Stanley. “If you mean Mr. Garrett, I’m sure he wasn’t staring at me but at Father.” She nodded slightly toward her father, who was walking directly in front of them. “No doubt he’s considering his next attack.”

  “Perhaps, but it’ll do him little good,” Stan said with a short laugh. “He took on the wrong family when he took on the Jimsons, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we were soon to see the last of our Mr. Garrett.”

  “Really?” Adriane glanced over at Stan. “Mr. Garrett doesn’t impress me as the type to leave town because of a little opposition.”

  “A little opposition?” A furrow formed between Stan’s eyes. “The man’s turned everyone who matters in Louisville against him. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave town now. Tonight. Before the election. It would be much safer for him.”

  “Safer?” Adriane stared at Stanley as her throat tightened. She could barely get out her next words. “What do you mean safer?”

  “Why, my dear, you sound almost distressed.” Stanley smiled at her. “I can’t believe you’d waste your compassion on the likes of Mr. Garrett after the things he’s printed the last few weeks in that travesty he calls a newspaper.”

  Adriane kept her voice level and free of the trembles that were awakening inside her. “I’m hardly worried about Mr. Garrett. I’m sure he is quite capable of taking care of himself, but I would hope nothing is being planned that would reflect badly on the Tribune.” She slid her eyes across Stan’s face and added somewhat belatedly, “Or you or your father.”

  “I’m touched by your concern, my dear.” Stan’s smile changed, twisted a little until something about his perfectly shaped features became almost alarming. “I had begun to fear you didn’t care for me at all. It’s such a relief to see how mistaken I was.”

  Adriane looked down at the street and chose her words carefully. “I wouldn’t want to see you do anything foolish that might end in you getting hurt.”

  “Jimsons don’t get hurt. People who try to hurt the Jimsons are the ones who live to regret it. Remember that, my dearest.”

  On the other side of Adriane, Pauline turned from her sister Hazel in time to hear Stan’s last remark.

  “For heaven’s sake, Stanley,” she said. “You sound positively grim and on a night when there’s no reason for anything but celebration. Father has won the election every way but at the ballot box and that is just a matter of a couple of days. Monday night Father will be our new state senator, and with this exhausting campaign over, we can turn our thoughts toward preparing for the wedding.” Pauline squeezed Adriane’s arm. “It’s going to be the perfect finale to a wonderful summer.”

  “Perfect,” Stan agreed. A confident smile chased the strange threat from his face.

  Adriane was relieved when they reached the end of the parade route and she could plead exhaustion and escape from the midst of the Jimsons. Later in the quietness of her room, she sat in front of her open journal. For the first time in days words were ready to flow from the end of her pen, even if they were words she was almost afraid to write.

  Honor thy father. The words slipped through her mind as she glanced over at her Bible on the corner of her desk. Those words were there. She couldn’t deny that. But other bits of verses came to mind. For love is of God. Blessed are the pure in heart. Walk in truth. And the truth shall make you free. Nothing about her life would ever be true again if she promised to love, honor, and obey Stanley Jimson. The Lord was showing her the answer. The only answer.

  At last she allowed her hand to begin moving the pen to form the words.

  I cannot marry Stanley Jimson. Even if Father loses the Tribune, I cannot marry Stanley Jimson. Even if Father completely disowns me, I cannot marry Stanley Jimson.

  She stared at the words and felt as if she’d just pushed open a door that had been locking her into this small corner and now light was flooding in to surround her. Her heart felt free to beat again. Her mind could take wing and leave the darkness behind. She laid her hand on her Bible and whispered a grateful prayer as another Bible verse came to her mind. And the light shineth in darkness. Beck had shown her that in the first chapter of John years ago and she had embraced the light.

  She pulled another sheet of paper to her and once more wrote a letter to Grace in Boston, but this time she didn’t tear the letter up as soon as it was written. This time she folded it and stuffed it in an envelope. She’d stay with Grace until she found some sort of position. She was not totally without talents. She would find something. Perhaps there would even eventually be some way to continue writing. It would not be like helping her father and Beck get out the paper. Nothing ever would be, but the Tribune would survive without her. She would survive without the Tribune. She could not survive as Mrs. Stanley Jimson.

  She dug through the papers on her desk to pull out a piece of her finest stationery. She studied the smooth whiteness of the page a moment before she carefully dipped her pen into the inkpot.

  Dear Stanley,

  I am deeply sorry to be writing this letter, but after a great deal of thought and much soul searching, I realize I will not be able to marry you on September 15th or on any other date. I beg your forgiveness for the unforgivable, and deeply regret any pain my decision may cause you. You are a fine gentleman and I rest assured there are any number of young ladies much more worthy of your affection than I.

  With deepest regret,

  Adriane

  She stared at the written words. She was sure Stan had guessed weeks ago that she did not want to marry him. Worse, she feared he had guessed her feelings for Blake Garrett, though she hardly dared to admit them even to herself. That’s why he had tried to frighten her with his threats against Blake. And he had. They weren’t idle threats.

  Adriane pulled yet another sheet of paper to her—this time the plainest she could find—and in large block letters printed,

  PLEASE BE WARNED! THERE ARE THOSE WHO THREATEN TO DO YOU HARM DUE TO THE STRONG OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN YOUR PAPER. A CONCERNED CITIZEN.

  She folded the sheet of paper and tucked it in her pocket. Tomorrow she would get Duff to deliver the warning and post the letters.

  The next morning Blake Garrett read the printed words and knew Adriane had sent the message. He would have known even if one of the hands hadn’t seen Duff Egan slipping away from the building early that morning. Blake stared at the note and imagined her hand forming the letters of the words. Was she really concerned about him, or was this just a clumsy attempt to frighten him into taking the fire out of his editorials? It was really too late for that. The election was the same as over. Even though no one had yet cast a vote, there was little doubt of the outcome. Coleman Jimson had won. Blake had lost.

  John Chesnut had just left the Herald offices. The old man had been so upset he’d had to keep pausing to recover his breath so he could continue his tirade. It was one thing to attack the Tribune and Wade Darcy. It was quite another thing to alienate every businessman in Louisville. People would refuse to buy a paper that published such unpopular opinions. Not only that, but how
did Blake expect to keep the Herald going without selling any advertisements? It couldn’t be done.

  Mr. Chesnut had wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead and insisted Blake moderate his attacks on Coleman Jimson and the Know Nothing party. Of course he’d been going through the same tirade every morning for weeks, and Blake had been able to talk him around to his point of view. But today, Blake hadn’t had the words to convince him. Had not even tried.

  He’d seen his defeat the night before as he watched the parade file by. And then when he’d spotted Adriane finally out of seclusion and so tight in with the Jimsons, all the fight had drained out of Blake.

  It was over. Chesnut was ready to renege on his promise to let Blake buy into the Herald, and even if he did hold true to their bargain, Coleman Jimson was determined to prove there wasn’t room in this city for any views opposing his.

  Blake had known what he was risking when he took Jimson on, and though he might have lost the battle, he had no doubts his position was the only right one. Coleman Jimson lacked the character and proper morals necessary for public service. It appeared the constituents in this district were determined to learn that truth the hard way.

  All that was bad enough, but it wasn’t what had Blake thinking about going back to New York. He could keep the Herald going. New stories, new headlines would pull back his readers even if they did disagree with his politics. And he wasn’t worried about the advertisements. The way Louisville was growing, he could find plenty of new businessmen anxious to take out advertisements to replace any businessmen who might be coerced into boycotting the Herald.

  What he couldn’t fight, what he couldn’t stay in Louisville and watch, was Adriane becoming Mrs. Stanley Jimson. Blake leaned his head in his hands and tried to keep from seeing her so close beside Stanley the day before. It was one thing to say he’d kill Stanley Jimson before he allowed him to marry Adriane. It was quite another thing to actually do it.

  If she wanted to sacrifice herself to Stanley Jimson to please her father, to keep the Tribune going, for the security of the Jimson money, for whatever reason, there was no way he could stop her any more than he could stop Jimson winning the election. He raised his head and looked at Adriane’s printing on the note once more. It might be over, and if so, he was ready to admit defeat. But first he’d be sure. First he’d confront her one more time. He’d make her look him in the eyes and tell him face-to-face that she was going to marry Stanley Jimson.

  When that happened, he’d give John Chesnut a couple of weeks to find someone to take his place at the Herald, but he’d make sure to be far away from Louisville long before September 15. Else he might really find himself holding a loaded gun pointed at Stanley Jimson’s chest.

  “Hey, boss, are you all right?” Joe asked, coming up behind Blake. “You ain’t letting Chesnut get you down, are you? All that old man’s worried about is numbers. He’ll come around.”

  “I don’t know, Joe.” Blake looked up at him. “I think maybe I fell on my face with this Jimson thing.”

  “That ain’t so, boss. You’re right as rain about that scoundrel, and you know it.”

  “Trouble is, nobody else wants to believe it.” Blake blew out a long breath.

  “So you lost this round,” Joe said. “Ain’t no editor anywhere ever won every round.”

  “No editor’s ever lasted long losing every round either.”

  “You ain’t fought but one that I can tell. And even if Wade Darcy and the Tribune did win this one, in the long run, it’ll be better to be right.”

  “Wade Darcy thinks he’s right.”

  “I ain’t so sure about that.” Joe shook his head. “I talked to old Beck the other day.”

  “You talked to Beck?” Blake’s eyes sharpened on Joe.

  “Yeah. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he hunted me up on purpose,” Joe said. “Anyhow even he’s a little worried about the way Jimson’s pulling the strings over at the Tribune.”

  “Beck said that?” Blake asked.

  “Not in so many words, you know. He wouldn’t never be that disloyal to Wade Darcy, I don’t reckon, but he got to talking up this really weird idea. Something about how the Tribune and the Herald combined would make a paper that nobody or nothing could ever bring down.”

  “He said what?” Blake stared at Joe.

  “I know. I couldn’t believe it either. I asked him if he’d had his head under a barrel these last few weeks while the two papers had been going after each other. He just laughed.” Joe shook his head again. “I never knowed Beck to drink, but I figured he must have had a cup or two too many that night even if I couldn’t smell it on him.”

  Blake looked thoughtful for a moment. “The Herald and the Tribune merged. Old Beck may have something.”

  “Yeah, it’s called getting funny in the head. Chesnut and Darcy ain’t spoke in ten years, maybe more. You ain’t never gonna get them two to shake hands on nothing unless’n it’s just before they plan to have a shooting match.”

  “You could be right there, Joe, but then surprising things sometimes happen.” Blake laughed, surprising himself already. Maybe it wasn’t completely over. Maybe there was still hope and time to fight another round. Beck hadn’t hunted Joe up for no reason. That was sure.

  18

  Monday, Election Day, dawned clear and hot. Adriane was downstairs when the newsboys came in wide-eyed and full of wild talk already about what might happen that day. They could hardly wait to grab their papers and get back on the streets to be part of it all.

  Adriane caught Duff and pulled him aside before he could make his escape. When he cast an anxious eye at the door, she promised, “I won’t keep you long.”

  “I wasn’t worrying none. Me papers will be easy enough to sell today what with the men out on the streets waiting to vote.” The boy pushed his cap back to a jaunty angle on his dark hair.

  Adriane couldn’t keep from smiling as she remembered overhearing Duff bragging to the other hands about how the new cap was a sure girl-getter. The other hands made unmerciful fun of him, but they liked him. Even her father seemed to almost forget from time to time that the boy was Irish.

  Adriane’s smile faded. The men out on the streets didn’t forget. Twice in the last week Duff had been set upon by bullies who scattered his papers and tried to steal his money. So now she said, “Promise me you’ll be careful out there today.”

  “Don’t you be fretting about me, Miss Adriane. I’ll stay clear of them bullies for sure and certain.”

  “But today there may be more of them out there than usual.”

  “There’ll be trouble. You can go ahead and write that down. That’s all anybody could talk about out on the streets around home last night. Plenty of folks is looking for a fight on both sides.”

  “Just make sure you’re not in the middle of it.”

  “You can count on that,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be running in so many reports for you and Beck all day that I won’t be having time to get in no trouble.”

  Adriane gave him a quick hug. “If I had a little brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”

  Duff’s grin got broader. “And there’s plenty of times I might be wishing me own sisters was more like you. They don’t always see me best qualities especially now that I’m making them tell our mother everywhere they go and who they might be stepping out with.”

  “Your sisters are all older than you, aren’t they?”

  “That they are.” Duff’s grin disappeared. “But me da told me to look after them before he died, and I ain’t aiming to let them be taking any chances with this river slasher still on the loose.”

  “It’s been a long time since poor Dorrie was killed. Maybe she was the last.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t feel safe for me sisters till I see the murderer swinging from a rope.”

  “The police will catch him,” Adriane said.

  “I ain’t putting too much faith in the likes of them, but I am thinking that
Mr. Garrett at the Herald might yet smoke him out.” Duff looked at her and quickly added, “I don’t mean to be upsetting you by saying that, Miss Adriane, but he isn’t letting the whole thing be forgot like some others.”

  “I know.” Adriane looked down at the floor and hesitated a moment before she asked, “Did you get the message delivered?”

  “I did just like you said, Miss Adriane, and didn’t let nobody see me when I slipped it under the door,” Duff said, guessing which message she meant.

  “Thank you, Duff.” Adriane kept her face down to hide the blush burning her cheeks.

  “And I got your other letters sent and delivered.”

  “Delivered?” Adriane asked faintly.

  “Aye, I took that one to Mr. Jimson by his house this morning. I thought it’d be quicker than posting it,” Duff said. “Now if you don’t need nothing more, I’d best be on the streets before people start to missing their papers.”

  As she watched Duff go out the door, she thought of how Stan might be reading her letter at that very moment and a disturbing uneasiness crept over her. She hadn’t wanted him to get the letter until after the election was over. Then again, perhaps it was better this way. Stan might be too busy today with everything else going on to make a scene, and with the passing of enough hours, he might come to accept her decision as best for both of them.

  She could hope that, but she didn’t really believe being rid of Stanley Jimson would be that easy. Besides, she owed him a face-to-face explanation, even if she didn’t exactly look forward to it any more than she looked forward to telling her father what she’d done. Adriane drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders in anticipation of her father’s anger as she went in search of him.