“Hear that?” Nick asked. “Beautiful!”
He moved his feet across a series of pedals on the floor, pulled a lever on his left side, and the automobile began backing up. Oh heavens, this was fun. In the past she’d ridden in cars with the bonnets pulled up, but the carriage of Nick’s car was open to the sky.
And he was so competent. He seemed entirely at ease as he manipulated the clutch, cranks, and pedals. Some women might be attracted to a man’s looks or flirtatious charm. Not her. All it took was a man who could handle machinery and fix things to turn her head.
The bench was tight for the three of them, and Rosalind sat in the middle with only an inch between her and Nick. It felt like she was part of a family, especially when Sadie unexpectedly slipped her little hand inside Rosalind’s. The engine was too loud to carry on a normal conversation, but it felt good to simply enjoy the ride without the pressure of conversation.
Nick drove them down the main avenue, past the public library and the courthouse where the water case had been heard. Mercifully, he didn’t bring up the court case as they drove along the newly paved roads, his automobile weaving in and around the lumbering wagons and pedestrians. Jersey City was developing so rapidly that it was starting to look like Manhattan, but Rosalind knew a park where they could get some fresh air. Nick obliged, following her directions until they arrived at a park where a brook attracted local fishermen and grassy areas proved irresistible to boys eager to toss a ball around.
“What now?” Nick asked after he brought the car to a halt and turned off the engine.
“We have a nice afternoon in the park,” Rosalind said.
Nick leaned forward to look at Sadie. “What do you think, Sadie? Are you up for a day in the park?”
“I don’t know.” The child looked a little anxious as she scanned the wide open green space.
Nick walked around the car and lifted her out. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to show us how to have a nice afternoon in the park,” he said. “I’m not much for the outdoors.”
Was he serious? But there was no teasing in his expression as he helped her alight from the car. Rosalind spent every free moment she could get walking through the countryside or boating on a nearby lake. She’d always been something of a country mouse, while Nick was certainly a man of the city.
“Let’s begin by having a stroll toward the river,” she said. “You don’t enjoy being outside?”
He shrugged. “I’m city-born and bred. I’m just not used to it, I suppose.”
“Oh, there’s nothing I love more than walking beneath a green canopy of leaves,” she said, and he seemed amused by her enthusiasm. “My parents had a summer home in the country, so I’ve always enjoyed the outdoors.”
“I’ve got a question for you,” he said as they drew closer to the river. “You’ve said enough for me to figure out your family probably came from money, am I right?”
Both her parents came from upper-crust families, the kind who had summer homes in the country and townhouses in the city. Their wealth went back generations and came with boating, horseback lessons, and travel abroad. Still, speaking about money went against her sober German heritage.
“We never lacked for anything,” she acknowledged.
“Where did you go to school?” he asked.
“Heidelberg University.”
“Not that. I mean when you were little. Did you have a governess or go to a boarding school? Private tutors?”
“Oh heavens, no. My brother and I went to the local school along with everyone else.” Her parents had been wealthy, but no one would know it by looking at them. She and Gus wore well-made but plain clothes, her mother wore no jewelry aside from her wedding band, and all the men in the family were expected to be gainfully employed. “Why do you ask?”
Nick took a seat at a picnic table while Sadie went to pick dandelions. Rosalind winced as the girl stepped into a muddy patch, but neither Sadie nor her father seemed to mind the smears of muck on her shiny patent leather shoes.
Rosalind joined Nick at the table, sorry to see that his good humor had fled. He seemed unusually subdued as he watched his daughter yank at the dandelions.
“I want the best for her,” he said. “I heard that most rich people send their children away to be educated. It doesn’t seem right to me, but I want her to have the best of everything. I don’t want people looking down their nose at her if she doesn’t speak French or play the harp or whatever it is rich girls are supposed to know how to do. So I want to know how you were raised.”
“I don’t play the harp or speak French,” she admitted. “The only reason I speak German is because I had to move there after my parents and grandfather died. Your daughter will be fine. She’s only three, and there’s plenty of time before you need to worry about this.”
But she couldn’t help noticing how oddly the girl was dressed, as though she was about to sit for a formal portrait. Did she always dress like this?
Rosalind phrased her question carefully. “Sadie is very nicely dressed today. Are you going someplace special?”
“Nope,” he said casually. “I brought my car across because I need a new distributor on the engine. There’s a shop in Jersey City where I buy that sort of thing. I also figured it would be a good excuse to come visit you.”
“Is the car in need of repair?” she asked, embarrassed at the hint of panic in her voice. She was entirely ignorant about automobile motors except that they broke down all the time.
His grin was reckless. “Not after this morning. I got it switched out in short order.”
“You did it yourself?”
“I wouldn’t trust anyone else. When I bought this car, the first thing I did was take the engine entirely apart and rebuild it from the ground up. I’ll show you how, if you like.”
She was spared a reply when Sadie gleefully jumped into a puddle with both feet.
Nick vaulted from the table and scooped her up. “Look at how you’ve soaked your pretty shoes,” he said, but he didn’t seem angry.
Sadie reached down to rub the mud away with her hands, which caused another problem.
“Oh dear, do you have a towel somewhere in your car?” Rosalind asked.
“No need,” Nick said, using his handkerchief to wipe the child’s hands, then casually tucking the cloth back in his pocket. He hoisted Sadie onto his lap to watch boys playing stickball in the nearby field.
“She really ought to wash her hands,” Rosalind said. “With soap. And those shoes will be ruined if they aren’t treated properly.”
Nick shrugged. “She’s got a dozen more just like them.”
“So is this how she dresses every day?”
“Most days. As I said, I want her to have the very best.”
Rosalind thought the best for a girl that age would be comfortable play clothes, but Nick hadn’t stopped speaking.
“Whatever it takes, Sadie will have it. Private tutors, dance lessons, languages. From the day Sadie was born, I made sure she had the best. I hired the most expensive doctor in Manhattan to attend Bridget at her delivery, and had private nurses on hand to tend the baby, especially since Bridget . . . well, someone needed to look after the baby since Bridget got sick pretty quickly.”
“You had a home birth?”
He nodded. “I wasn’t going to send my wife to a public hospital. I wanted her to have the comfort of her own home, with the full attention of the best doctors and nurses. That never happens in a hospital where the doctors are tending dozens of other people at the same time.”
Rosalind closed her mouth and looked away. Hospitals had a far better track record for safely delivering babies than mothers who gave birth at home, mostly because hospitals practiced routine sanitary measures that were impossible to replicate in a home setting. A good hospital had tile floors and metal tables that were regularly scrubbed with disinfectant, and the bedding was bleached after each use. Such measures were impossible to replicate at home, where sanitary
concerns were usually limited to having a doctor wash his hands before examining a patient.
“How did your wife die?” she asked softly.
“Childbed fever,” he said brusquely.
It was a catchall term for any bacterial infection following the delivery of a child. It could happen in a hospital, but the rates of childbed fever shot up during home deliveries. In securing the best for his wife, Nick may well have contributed to her death.
Sadie started chewing on her fingers, and Rosalind instinctively tugged them down. Nick sent her a disapproving look.
“Her hands are filthy,” she said defensively. “Perhaps we can head back to the lab. We have a washroom she can use.”
“A little dirt never killed a child,” he said in a mild tone. “When I was a boy, we played handball in the back alley with rubbish pulled out of trash cans.”
She stood, refusing to comment on his childhood standards. “But you want the best for Sadie, and I think that means washing the germs from her hands. I know it doesn’t sound logical, but a microscopic germ can shut down an entire immune system. It can infect the digestive tract, cause the respiratory system to fail. It can kill a healthy woman who just gave birth; it happened to your wife!”
Nick’s mouth compressed into a hard line as he scooped Sadie up and stalked over to the public fountain, leaning over so the girl could dunk her hands in the splash pool.
“Happy?” The censure in his tone hurt, but he had a right to be angry over her implication that Bridget could have died due to careless hygiene.
“Nick, I’m sorry. Of course I have no way of knowing for sure. . . .”
“That’s right, you don’t,” he snapped as he carried Sadie back toward the car.
Their day in the park was obviously over. He didn’t say a word as he cranked the engine back to noisy life, sparing Rosalind the need to make conversation on the ride back to the lab. Guilt raced through her. She shouldn’t have mentioned his wife.
The ride was bumpy as the car jostled over potholes that he didn’t bother to avoid. Rosalind eyed his knuckles, white as he clenched the steering wheel. The automobile sputtered to a stop outside the lab, and he turned to her, his eyes unexpectedly somber and full of regret.
“I’ve never considered that Bridget might have been put in danger by not going to a hospital. I only wanted the best for her, but I’m sorry I lashed out at you. Sometimes the truth is hard. So hard I wish I could run away from it and never look back, because it makes me sick inside.” He sighed and looked away as if drained of energy. “I shouldn’t have groused at you for telling me the truth, even if I didn’t want to hear it. Don’t ever be afraid of telling me the truth.”
This pain-filled confession was the last thing she expected, and his honesty was humbling. Would he still be so conciliatory if he knew about the chlorine that was even now being mixed into the water supply?
He had just handed her the perfect opportunity to tell him about their plan. She swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d probably storm and rage and want to confront Dr. Leal immediately, but Nick might be able to help them. He was more open-minded than she’d originally assumed.
But when she opened her mouth, she took the easy way out.
“I should get back to work,” she said before shuffling out of the car and slinking back to the laboratory like a coward.
The money Rosalind had inherited from her parents was not nearly as abundant as it once had been. When she arrived in America three years ago, Dr. Leal was in desperate need of a qualified research assistant but had no funding to pay for one. She needed an opportunity to prove her scientific credentials in America, and in Dr. Leal she found an open-minded man whose research interests perfectly dovetailed her own. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, but it did not pay the bills.
Fortunately Rosalind had stumbled into a unique opportunity shortly after arriving in New Jersey. Elmore Kleneman, better known as Doctor Clean, was a soap manufacturer whose home-brew cleaning solution proved remarkably successful. Marketed as “Doctor Clean,” the solution was inexpensive and easy to use, making it wildly popular across the United States. Unlike most disinfectants, Doctor Clean had a pleasing pine scent, and housewives liked it so much that they started using it in their laundry and dishes in addition to scrubbing their floors.
Elmore Kleneman was on the verge of selling public shares in his company when his New York investors had insisted he prove his claim with scientific tests. Elmore had no medical training, but the name of his product implied a medical stamp of approval, and that was where Rosalind came in. She ran tests with the cleaning solution, verifying that it did indeed kill germs as well as the more toxic disinfectants did.
Strapped for cash after investing in a huge manufacturing facility, Elmore had offered to pay Rosalind for her work in stock instead of cash. It had been a blessing in disguise. One half of one percent didn’t sound like much, but it provided a welcome cushion for her strained finances.
This morning, Elmore was hosting a picnic at his new house to celebrate the three-year anniversary of Doctor Clean. All of his employees and their families had been invited, which was why Gus had accompanied Rosalind to the Kleneman estate.
She was desperately glad for his company, for last week she’d had a strange letter from Doctor Clean’s accountant, offering to buy her shares back now that the company was so successful. Peter Schmidt’s letter had been politely worded, suggesting that perhaps Rosalind would welcome a cash buyout rather than the modest quarterly revenue payments she had been receiving. The letter worried her. She’d been so stunned at the prospect of her only income drying up that she had yet to respond. She wanted Gus by her side as she talked to Peter face-to-face.
“I’ll introduce you to Peter,” Rosalind told Gus as they walked up the curving path toward the cottage-style mansion nestled amidst a rolling natural landscape. “He’s the accountant who did the paperwork for my stock and handles the quarterly payments.”
“So long as he keeps signing those checks, I’m a happy man,” Gus said as they drew closer. They rarely discussed it, but money had been tight ever since he and Ingrid moved in with her. Her grocery bill had tripled, and the law school classes necessary to get Gus back on his feet were shockingly expensive, which made Rosalind’s determination to secure her position in the company all the stronger.
A servant directed them around the side of the house, where the picnic was already well under way. Elmore Kleneman was a family man, which was why he always held his annual gatherings at a time when spouses and children could be part of the festivities.
“Dr. Werner!” Elmore boomed as he saw her heading toward the gazebo. He looked like Santa Claus, with white hair, a neatly groomed white beard, and smiling eyes. He had married late in life but was making up for lost time by producing a large family in short order. He had a toddler riding on his shoulders and a young child carried over one arm. “I hope you’re hungry. We have enough roasted ham to choke an army.”
The food was laid out on a picnic table weighed down with huge bowls of sweet potato salad, baked beans, and corn on the cob. A servant carved slices of roasted ham onto a platter, while guests used freshly baked rolls to make their own sandwiches. Rosalind loved that even though Elmore was wealthy beyond imagination, he refused to adopt the stuffy airs of the elite. His annual picnics were relaxed affairs where guests loaded their plates with mounds of food and ate with their hands, and children were welcome to play and shriek with laughter.
She had just finished filling her plate at the buffet table when Peter Schmidt appeared at her side.
“Hello, Rosalind.” Peter smiled as he reached for a slice of watermelon and added it to his plate. “Did you get my letter last week?”
This was it. She loathed conflict and feared this discussion had the potential to become quarrelsome. “I did. Yes, I did, and I was hoping to speak with you about it.”
“Of course.” He looked m
omentarily befuddled, but he gestured to a spot near the corner of the yard where picnic tables had been set up.
She waited until Gus joined them before speaking. “The offer to buy me out was generous, but I must take the long-term needs of my family into consideration.”
Peter peered at her over the wedge of watermelon, confusion on his face as he finished chewing. “That’s what I was thinking as well. I know your brother is in law school, and those bills can clobber a person flat. I thought you might welcome the chance to cash out and get a big infusion of money to help.”
“Did Mr. Kleneman suggest this?” Gus asked, his tone casual, but Rosalind recognized the carefully worded probing beneath the question. Elmore Kleneman maintained a controlling interest over the company, and Peter Schmidt was only the hired accountant. It was important to know where the impetus for this offer originated.
Peter shook his head. “No need to trouble Elmore about this,” he said. “It was entirely my idea. I remember from when I was putting my son through college how tight finances can be.”
“I’d prefer to keep the stock as a long-term investment,” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”
Peter laughed. “No trouble at all! In fact, it saves me the bother of preparing buyout papers. Why do you look so concerned?”
Relief loosened the stiffness in her spine, and she managed a genuine smile. “I’m sorry, you’ve been very kind. I simply hate discussing money.”
“Not me!” Peter said. “I love everything about money. Counting it, investing it, figuring out how to balance a financial portfolio. I even collect rare coins for the sheer joy of watching how foreign cultures express themselves through the artwork they engrave on their money.”
“You’re a coin collector?” Gus asked.
Peter snorted. “My wife would say I’m a coin hoarder. Last year I stumbled across a stash of uncirculated coins minted by the Confederates. They aren’t very valuable, but I can’t bear to part with a single one.”
Gus’s eyes lit up. “I’ve got a collection of thaler coins from Bavaria. We should get together and compare collections.”
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