A Deadly Affection

by Cuyler Overholt

  I squinted in the direction he was headed, wondering what on earth he had in mind. Barring a dirigible, I couldn’t imagine anything he might bring back that could get me to the station on time.

  “All right?” he asked again, still backing over the sidewalk.

  “All right,” I finally agreed.

  He turned and sprinted up the avenue, disappearing through a curtain of snow.

  I was still standing on the corner several minutes later, chastising myself for ever agreeing to wait, when I suddenly spotted him riding a large gray horse down the middle of the two-way street, drawing a cacophony of horn blasts from the vehicles scrambling to avoid him. As he drew closer, I realized that the horse was my mother’s mare, Cleo. Simon threaded her between a cab and a coal truck and pulled up in front of me.

  “Oliver let you take Cleo?” I asked in astonishment. I would have thought our persnickety new groom would be immune to Simon’s charms.

  “Oliver didn’t have a choice,” he said, extending his hand.

  I grabbed it, and he pulled me up behind him. There were of course no pommels on the back of the saddle for a female passenger, so I had no choice but to throw my leg across. I hadn’t ridden astride since I was a child. I’d forgotten how good it felt.

  Simon turned the mare toward the park, nearly losing me as he swerved to avoid two women stepping off the curb. “You’d better hold on,” he called over his shoulder. I clasped my arms around his waist. The horse had been a brilliant idea; by traveling most of the way through the park, we would have a good chance of making it to the station on time.

  As we trotted down Fifth Avenue to the park entrance, I felt the peace that comes from clarity of purpose, along with a heightening of all my senses. I was acutely aware of Simon’s sturdy body beneath his cashmere coat, and the intricate workings of his muscles as he maneuvered the mare. I breathed in deeply, inhaling damp wool and horse sweat and gasoline exhaust. I’d never felt more alive. We entered the park and hugged the wall for a few blocks before veering right to follow the East Drive behind the museum. As I lifted my chin to look up ahead the wind caught my hat and lifted it into the air. I grabbed for it but was too slow. I turned and watched it tumble through the air behind me, letting it go, welcoming the sting of snow against my face.

  Except for an occasional sleigh, the park was empty, eerily silent under the densely falling snow. I rested my cheek against Simon’s back, lulled by the muffled thud of hooves on crystalline powder, watching trees and lampposts sail past in a gossamer blur. We cantered quietly uphill, past the mysterious hieroglyphs on the Egyptian Obelisk, now half-filled with snow, and back down the opposite slope. Familiar paths and rocks and benches had all disappeared, swallowed up by the storm, leaving nothing but the steady beat of Simon’s heart beneath my cheek to anchor me.

  A few minutes later, the twin peaks of the Children’s Dairy came into view. I opened my coat to check my watch. “It’s almost two-thirty,” I shouted. “Do you think we can ask her to go any faster?”

  He bent forward and murmured into Cleo’s twitching ears. “Hold on!” he cried.

  Shortening the reins, he rose up in the saddle and let out a blood-curdling whoop. To my astonishment, Cleo responded like a Belmont Park thoroughbred. If Simon hadn’t warned me I would have landed in the snow. As it was, it took every thigh muscle I had to keep my seat as she galloped the last quarter mile past the frozen pond and shot out of the park’s southeast corner.

  A slow but steady stream of vehicles was moving in both directions along Fifth Avenue. I closed my eyes as Simon aimed Cleo through the gaps between them and continued crosstown, weaving crazily through the slithering traffic before turning sharply to the right a few moments later. When I dared open my eyes again, we were riding along the rim of a vast depression, which I recognized as the excavation for New York Central’s new electrified train yard. As if on cue, a steam engine shot out of the Park Avenue tunnel behind us and roared up alongside, billowing smoke and steam into the snow-spangled air. It raced us for several minutes, appearing to accelerate as it approached the train shed. Just when a collision seemed imminent, a brakeman emerged from the rear of the engine and released the coupling device. The engine broke away onto a side track as the cars behind it rolled into the shed with a screech of iron brakes.

  We cantered on to the end of the yard and cut hard left toward the terminal. I checked my watch again; we were nearly there, with thirteen minutes to spare. I was about to crow into Simon’s ear that we’d made it when we turned onto Vanderbilt Avenue and came to an abrupt halt.

  A dense wall of carriages and cabs jammed the avenue all the way to the station entrance. Horses were snorting and police whistles blaring as coachmen and drivers jockeyed for position, trying to get their passengers to the trains on time. Barricades had been set up along the station side to create a reserved lane, making the congestion even worse on the rest of the roadway. As Simon was easing Cleo between the wheels of two carriages, a policeman pulled one of the barricades aside to allow an elegant Victoria into the lane. Simon angled Cleo toward the opening, following in the Victoria’s wake.

  The policeman saw him coming and waved him away, swinging the barricade back into place.

  “Hold on,” Simon shouted to me over his shoulder.

  I locked my fingers around his waist and pressed my face against his back, certain I didn’t want to see what was coming. Simon shifted higher on Cleo’s neck, pulling me with him as the mare surged forward and jumped the barricade, landing cleanly on the other side.

  When I opened my eyes, the officer was running beside us, hanging onto Simon’s leg. Simon shook him off and continued around the Victoria, down the lane toward the station entrance. The officer blasted on his whistle, attracting the attention of another policeman up ahead.

  Simon pulled Cleo up short. “You’d better get off here.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just get to that train.”

  I slid to the ground and hesitated, my hand on Cleo’s flank.

  “Go on!” he urged.

  As the policemen converged on Simon, I turned and ran through the army of colored porters unloading luggage in the station’s vestibule, into the crowded waiting room. There I stopped to get my bearings. Rows of high-backed benches filled the middle of the spacious room, illuminated by thousands of tiny electric lights that shone down from the beamed ceiling. Beyond the benches, to my left, a series of arched doorways led to the platforms. I hurried across the marble floor, past the ticket booth, and through the first door into the train shed.

  I emerged onto a narrow concourse that ran perpendicular to the platforms and was separated from them by an ornate iron fence. Watery daylight filtered down from huge glass panels in the vaulted iron roof, landing on the dozen or so trains that were standing on the tracks. Some of these trains were attached to electric locomotives, suggesting they served the shorter suburban routes, while others had no engines at all, having been uncoupled from their dirtier steam locomotives in the yard. But none of them appeared to be outbound. Glancing up at the clock over the concourse, I saw that it was now 2:38. I had exactly seven minutes to find Olivia and deliver my news.

  Sprinting to the far end of the concourse, I pushed through the door to the annex—and into another world. Here, the air was thick with smoke and cinders and the hiss of escaping steam. Hulking long-haul engines puffed restlessly at the end of each platform, shooting up plumes of flame-riddled steam as they waited for their overnight runs to begin. Passengers and porters and deliverymen were scurrying over the platforms behind them, pouring in from the station and its adjoining cabstand, hauling trunks and boxes and small children into the waiting cars.

  I ran along the iron fence, straining to read each destination board as it came into view. Finally, at the last gate, I saw it—the 2:45 train to Chicago, stopping in Harmon and Albany
before continuing west to Buffalo and beyond. The plush red carpet that was rolled out over the platform confirmed that it was the 20th Century Limited, famous as much for its style as for its speed. Unlike the rest of the train, which was a dull Pullman green, the last car was painted the scarlet red of the Fiskes’ livery. The gold insignia over the rear observation deck confirmed that it was the Fiskes’ private car. I made it, I thought, pausing at the gate to squeeze the stitch in my side.

  My relief at locating the train in time was immediately dampened by the sight of what appeared to be a farewell party in progress directly across from the Fiskes’ car. Several dozen well-wishers stood around a table laden with food and flowers, sipping champagne from tulip-shaped glasses. Footmen in scarlet livery tended the table, while a trio of violinists played sedately a few feet away. Leave it to Lucille to turn a simple train departure into an occasion for public display, I thought in dismay.

  I started down the platform as I searched for Olivia’s face among the assembly, holding my ground with difficulty as a constant stream of porters and valets and florists flowed past me toward cars further up the track. I spotted Charles at one end of the refreshment table, conversing with my parents, and Lucille at the other, surrounded by a coterie of her peers. Olivia, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  A train whistle shrieked from the engine end of the platform, startling the company, drawing laughter and light applause. Charles and Lucille glanced at each other across the table. Lucille turned and motioned to the musicians as Charles put down his glass and started toward the car.

  One of the violinists rubbed loudly on his strings as Olivia and the Earl emerged from the rear of the car onto the observation deck. The couple smiled and waved from the rail while their well-wishers raised their glasses and cried “here, here,” and “bon voyage.” A moment later, Charles appeared behind them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders and smiling, close-lipped, at the crowd.

  I couldn’t imagine a worse time to approach Olivia. But I would have no other opportunity. As the violin launched into a merry jig, I started toward the front end of the car, hoping to slip in undetected and make my way inside to the rear. At just that moment, however, Lucille glanced down the platform and saw me. She put down her champagne glass and hurried over, intercepting me before I was halfway across the platform.

  “Miss Summerford,” she said, clamping her hand on my arm. “What a surprise to see you here.” Her back was to the party, concealing both of our faces from view.

  “I’ve come to see Olivia,” I said. “I have to speak to her before she goes.”

  Her fingers dug into my arm. “Why?” she asked in a rasping whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have to tell her,” I said, trying to pull my arm away. “She deserves to know.”

  “We had an understanding,” she hissed. “I’ve held up my end of the bargain. What more do you want?”

  Yanking in earnest, I pulled my arm free and struck out again across the platform.

  “Billings!” Lucille shouted toward two footmen carrying a crate of champagne into the front compartment. “Don’t let that woman onto the train!”

  One of the footmen turned and, dropping his end of the crate in astonishment, started after me. I changed course and ran down the edge of the platform toward the observation deck, but I was no match for the footman’s long legs. I was vaguely aware of the violins breaking off their jig as he grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me away from the car. As if it were happening to someone else, I heard the gasps of the guests and saw Olivia and the Earl drawing back from the rail. It flashed across my mind that this moment would forever define me; that the little place I’d occupied in society—that place I’d so often disparaged but that now seemed so achingly simple and familiar—would no longer exist for me after today. I felt a sharp pang of regret, followed by a grim determination that my actions would not be in vain.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The footman stopped in the middle of the platform to get a better grip on my coat. The minute I felt him plant his feet, I stepped back and butted the back of my head against his face. He grunted in pain but didn’t let go. I stomped my heel on the top of his foot, but still his grip didn’t loosen.

  “Take your hands off of her!” my father shouted.

  Twisting sideways, I saw two figures in motion among the otherwise paralyzed onlookers—my father, who had launched himself from the refreshment table and was rapidly covering the distance between us; and Simon, who had apparently shed both Cleo and his pursuers and was now running full tilt from the gate down the platform.

  “You, sir,” barked my father, reaching me first, “release my daughter this instant!”

  The footman looked helplessly toward Lucille, awaiting further instructions. Before she could respond, Simon flew across the platform and hurled himself at the footman’s back. “Let her go,” he growled, lifting him off the floor in a bear hug that made my own teeth rattle.

  “Behind you!” Father called.

  Managing to pull partially free, I looked over my shoulder in time to see the second footman run up behind Simon, brandishing a champagne bottle. Simon swiveled around, yanking his captive with him, who was forced to release his hold on me. The man with the bottle swerved to stay behind him. Before he could get close enough to crack the bottle over Simon’s head, my father stepped into his path and delivered a solid punch to his nose, then caught him as he slumped to his knees with his nose cupped in his hand.

  My father looked up, chest heaving, and met my gaze. He scanned my face, as if recording every detail. “Well, go on,” he said finally, tipping his head toward the train car. “We can take care of these two for a while longer.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Mr. Fiske, striding up beside him. He pointed to the broken champagne crate sitting in a puddle of bubbles near the front end of the car. “Jeffers, Billings, clean up that mess. Put whatever’s left in the kitchen.”

  Simon let go of Billings as my father lifted Jeffers to his feet. The footmen scuttled off to do as they’d been told.

  Charles turned his frown on me. “Now, Dr. Summerford, perhaps you could tell me what’s going on.”

  Drawing a deep breath, I said loudly enough for Olivia to hear, “I have something extremely important to discuss with your daughter before she leaves.”

  Charles looked quizzically at Lucille, then back at me. “In that case, I’d suggest we all go on board where we can have some privacy.”

  “But, Charles, there’s no time!” Lucille protested.

  “We’ll make time,” he said. My mother had crossed the platform sometime during the melee and was standing beside my father. Charles turned to them both. “Evelyn? Hugh? Would you care to join us?”

  “But the train’s about to leave!” Lucille cried, clutching his arm.

  He turned to her, searching her face. “Then we’ll tell the conductor to wait,” he said firmly.

  She flushed and dropped her hand. Charles gestured us all toward the train.

  I followed my parents up the steps, across the observation deck, and into the lounge, where Olivia and the Earl were waiting. We all stood in strained silence as Charles strode to the porters’ box to call up ahead and ask that the train be delayed. This struck me as an impossible request; the daily race to Chicago between the 20th Century Limited and the Pennsylvania Special was legendary, and I couldn’t imagine any New York Central conductor worth his salt allowing his train to depart a second off schedule. But when Charles returned, he said, “All right, we’ve got ten minutes. Why don’t we all sit down?”

  This feat—even more than the stained glass and sumptuous velvets and inlaid woods that appointed the luxurious car—drove home to me what a powerful family I’d chosen to meddle with. But I couldn’t turn back now. “I’d prefer to speak with Olivia alone,” I said.

  Everyone turned t
oward Olivia. She shook her head, looking beseechingly at her father.

  “It seems that Olivia would like you to share what you have to say with all of us,” Charles said. “So please, everyone, take a seat. We don’t have much time.”

  Olivia and the Earl sank stiffly onto a blue velvet settee in front of the fireplace. Charles guided Lucille toward the two tufted seats across from them, while my parents claimed two carved chairs on either side. I pulled a low stool from beside the fireplace and positioned it in front of Olivia, not so close as to crowd her, but near enough to create at least an illusion of privacy.

  I sat down and gazed into her wide eyes, trying to shut everything else out of awareness. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I never meant to cause such a stir. But there’s something you need to know before you make any plans for your future.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Lucille demanded from behind me, her voice vibrating with frustration. “What on earth do you hope to gain?”

  “I’m telling you this, Olivia,” I continued without turning, “because I would want someone to tell me if I were in your shoes.”

  Olivia looked from her mother to me uncertainly. “What is it you want me to know?”

  Lucille jumped to her feet before I could answer. “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping around me, “but I simply cannot allow this to continue. Miss Summerford, I must insist that you leave immediately.”

  “I’d like to hear what she has to say, if you don’t mind,” Charles interrupted.

  “She doesn’t have anything to say! It’s all lies; she’s been trying to blackmail me! I’ve gone along with it to keep her from causing us trouble while the Earl is here, but now she’s gone too far.”

  I gaped at her in astonishment.

  “Is this true?” Charles asked me.

  “No! Mrs. Fiske, you know it isn’t! All I’m trying to do is tell Olivia what Dr. Hauptfuhrer wanted you to tell her.”