Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  He shifted away in his sleep, and she remained frozen, not knowing whether he was awake or not, her body aching for him, her heart filled with even more longing.

  The next few days seemed a whirlwind, and she came to see another side to Fortune. He was in and out of the hotel constantly, men coming and going, servants appearing. One morning he came in with a strapping black man at his side.

  “Claire, this is Badru Udell. Badru, this is my wife, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” Badru said in a quiet voice that held an accent that was not southern but sounded Caribbean.

  “Badru is going to be our butler and groom. And he’s to watch Michael.”

  She glanced at the man’s shoulders, which were wider than Fortune’s, his thick chest and huge hands. “Fine,” she answered, hoping Fortune knew the man’s background.

  “Badru was recommended by a family friend, Tobiah Barr, who was stationed here recently. Badru can shoot as well as I can,” Fortune added softly, and she felt a chill because she knew he had been hired to protect Michael from Trevor Wenger and he probably had orders to kill Wenger if necessary.

  “Anytime you go out,” Fortune continued, “Badru can drive you.”

  She nodded, understanding exactly what Fortune was saying. “Badru will be here with Michael. Want to ride out with me to look at the land I’m buying for my foundry?”

  “Yes,” she answered, getting her parasol and reticule while Fortune took Badru to meet Michael. She wore a pink muslin dress given to her by Chantal, but within days, she knew, she would have six new dresses. With what Chantal had given her, she could see little reason to get more than one made, but Fortune had insisted.

  They stepped outside into warm June sunshine. Whitehall Street was busy, filled with wagons and buggies and people walking. Across the street three different buildings were being constructed. Fortune took her arm, and when they were settled in the buggy, she turned to him. “Fortune, how do you know you can trust Badru?”

  “I told you, he was recommended by Tobiah. I sent a telegram to Tobiah and got a telegram back to look for Badru. Tobiah said he would trust him with his life. And I can trust Tobiah. He saved Rafferty’s life more than once. And Chantal saved him once. He said a letter would follow.”

  She nodded, glancing at him. Fortune had shed his coat and vest and had his sleeves rolled high, his hat pushed to the back of his head. Her pulse quickened as she admired him. “Perhaps we should have brought Michael. He gets tired of the hotel.”

  “I’ll take him with me when we get back. On the way home, I have to stop at a hardware store, so if you want to take anything to Michael, you can get something while I’m getting my supplies.”

  “He’s so happy, Fortune. You’re a good father to him.”

  “I imagine Michael is happy most of the time.”

  “He is and always has been, but he loves you so much already.”

  Fortune turned to give her a long, measuring look, and her smile faded. She looked away, suddenly afraid he could see how much she was in love with him.

  As they turned on Pryor Street, they passed a park that was filled with blooming flowers. He stopped at a tin shop and then turned to take Whitehall Street again, finally heading west. They passed factories and a mill before reaching the river. He turned onto a lot where a building was under construction. The red Georgia earth was littered with crates of machinery and stacks of lumber. Men worked and wagons pulled by teams of mules hauled loads of equipment back and forth. A cistern held water for animals to drink, and she saw several casks of water for the men. She was amazed at the size of the place.

  Fortune drew the reins to halt the team. “There. I’ve bought this land and I’ve bought most of my equipment. There’s a new process now for steel. William Kelly and another man, Henry Bessemer, have developed it. This is the future, Claire, more than iron. With this new process we can mass-produce steel at a good price. Cal’s already given me an order for boiler plates and rails, and Rafe has ordered a boiler.”

  “That’s wonderful, Fortune!”

  “I think I may steal Darcy away some of the time to work for me. Do you mind if Darcy comes to stay with us later?”

  “Of course not! Your family is charming.” And so are you, she thought, glancing up at him. Taking her hand, he stood up to point toward the river. “The ore storage yard and the coal storage will be there, where I can unload from boats.” He jumped down and walked a few yards away through the weeds. “I’ll put the office here,” he said, turning to face her. He seemed so vibrant and full of energy, and suddenly she wished revenge wasn’t the underlying motive for his business.

  “I’m building the ovens there, the soaking pits over there,” he said, waving his hands. “That building is the mill itself,” he said, pointing at the construction. He glanced up at her. “While we’re here, I want to talk to the men.” She nodded, watching him walk away in long strides while she sat in the shade. Her virile, handsome husband was throwing himself wholeheartedly into his business. Would she see him less and less? she wondered.

  Fortune returned to climb into the buggy and head back to town. “The steel mill is an O’Brien enterprise, because Cal and Rafe have both put money up with me.”

  “I know you’ll succeed,” she said, as certain of that as she was that the sun would rise.

  As they reached town again, riding along Whitehall Street, she grasped his arm. “Fortune, there’s a confectionery. I want to get Michael some sweets. Then I’ll go next door to the general store to get some ribbons.”

  He pulled the buggy over to the hitching rail. He came around to lift her down, swinging her to the ground easily.

  “I’ll meet you back here,” he said. “The hardware store is across the street.”

  She nodded and left him, going into the confectionery first to purchase a small bag of sweets for Michael, then getting a few more because Fortune liked sweets as much as Michael. She stepped outside to stroll to the general store, enjoying being outside.

  Making her selection in the store, she paid for pink, blue, and scarlet satin ribbons, and she glanced out to see Fortune walk toward the buggy. She took her purchases and stepped out into the sunlight, the bell over the door jingling as she closed it.

  “Lizzie!” came a man’s deep voice close by. “Lizzie!”

  She glanced around and drew a breath, looking at Dagget Horn, who had owned a saloon where she had worked in New Orleans.

  “Lizzie, look at you! Aren’t you doing fine?” he said in a booming voice, walking up to put his hand on her waist.

  Chapter 15

  Fortune raised his head to look at the man approaching Claire. He was tall and burly, his coat frayed; his long black hair stuck out from beneath a hat with a tattered brim. After the first shock wore off, Fortune saw that Claire knew him. The man walked up to her without hesitation and placed his hand on her waist, and Fortune drew a deep breath because the man acted as if he were accustomed to handling her. No man would walk up to a well-dressed woman on a busy street and place his hand on her if he didn’t know her well.

  Stunned, feeling a rising anger, Fortune stared at them while he felt the hot sun beating on his shoulders, and the moment became etched in time.

  He had thought Claire was a poor liar, yet there was no mistaking the man’s familiarity. Maybe she was a better actress than he had guessed, fooling him about her innocence. And maybe Pinkerton’s had been wrong. It would account for the large amount of money she had saved. Watching her cheeks flush a deep pink as she drew herself up, looking lovely and remote in her new pink dress, Fortune was certain she knew the man.

  “I’m sorry,” she said coldly, looking up at him, “but you have the wrong person. I’m Claire O’Brien.”

  “Ahh, Lizzie. You look fine and you must have found a man to set you up. I’ve got a place in Mahogany Hall and you can—”

  Fortune felt as if he couldn’t breathe. Mahogany Hall was the booming red-light district. Peo
ple were pouring into Atlanta, and along with businesses there were saloons and gambling houses and brothels going up.

  “Sir, get your hand off me before I scream,” Claire snapped.

  “Lizzie, don’t be so damned unfriendly,” he said, sliding his hand farther around her waist. “Claire O’Brien—”

  Fortune went around the buggy and in long strides reached the man. “Take your hands off my wife,” he said.

  The man turned and blinked as Fortune swung, smashing his fist into the man’s jaw and sending him reeling back against the hitching rail.

  Breathing hard from anger, Fortune took Claire’s arm and led her to the carriage, swinging her up inside. He was filled with anger, wondering if she had deceived him, if Michael had spent time with various men or, worse, stayed in a brothel.

  The buggy creaked beneath his weight as he climbed up beside her. He could feel Claire’s eyes on him, and he looked at her while he flicked the reins. “Who was he?”

  “He owned a saloon in New Orleans,” she said.

  Fortune closed his eyes, despising every word she said. “He seemed to know you damned well.”

  “He’s the kind of man who always puts his hands on women. I worked for him two nights and quit because the second night he caught me in the hallway and tried to—” She looked away and he glanced at her, seeing spots of color high in her cheeks. He wondered whether she was telling the truth.

  “I quit that night and left.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to the hotel, and when they entered their suite, Fortune left to go to Michael’s room. “I’m taking Michael and Badru with me,” he said, thrusting his head back into the parlor and then leaving, banging the door behind him.

  She stared at the door, realizing he didn’t believe her. She paced the room until she finally calmed down. She couldn’t change anything until he returned. Finding the silk material Fortune had given her in Baton Rouge, she sat down to work on a dress she intended to make from it.

  Late in the afternoon, she bathed and washed her hair. Looking at the new dresses in the mirrored armoire, she selected a crisp blue and white organdy. She parted her hair in the center and fastened it high on both sides of her head, letting it fall over her shoulders.

  When she heard the door bang, she went in to greet them. Fortune’s blue eyes still held a glacial coldness as he looked at her. He passed her going to the bedroom to dress and closed the door behind him.

  “Papa ordered a bath for me and told me to get dressed for dinner,” Michael said, leaving her alone in the parlor.

  The boy returned before Fortune, his wet hair plastered against his head. He wore one of his new white linen shirts and black pants, and she smiled at him. “Come here, Michael, and let me comb your hair.”

  He stood dutifully while she tried to smooth down the unruly ringlets. “There.”

  “Papa showed me some of his new machines today. He said he would take me with him again tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  The door behind her opened. Fortune had bathed and changed to a fresh white shirt. He wore a black coat and trousers and looked handsome, masculine, and unmistakably angry.

  As they went downstairs to the spacious dining room, his anger seemed to ebb and he became more his usual self, talking easily with Michael about the things they had seen during the day. She glance around the room at potted palms, tables draped in white cloths, and she wondered how long they would live in the hotel.

  “Sometime you’ll have to show Mama the machinery,” Michael said in his high voice.

  “I’d be glad to,” Fortune answered lightly, “but I’m not sure she’d be as interested as you are.”

  “I’d like to see it, but I won’t know what I’m looking at.”

  “Papa can tell you.”

  The waiter brought Michael and Fortune plates of fried chicken, golden corn bread, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes covered in thick gravy while Claire had fried catfish and rice and peas. After dinner they walked for several blocks, rounding a corner on Marietta, walking down to look at the ruins of a building facing the railroad tracks.

  “People are calling these ‘Sherman’s monuments,’ ” Claire said.

  “That building was the Georgia Railroad Bank Agency,” Fortune said.

  “Did you fight here?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, I did,” he said, squatting to talk on Michael’s eye level. “My army went through here. Before we did, a man named Lemuel Grant in the Confederate engineers built defenses around Atlanta—”

  “Like the ones we saw on the way to the mill?”

  “Yes. Do you remember what they’re called?”

  “Palisades. Those pointed stakes.”

  “That’s right. Lemuel Grant built over ten miles of them around the city, and they were very effective. General Sherman finally had to go around the city, and he destroyed the railroad that brought in supplies. When he did that, the Army of the Tennessee couldn’t hold the city any longer.”

  “What happened when they couldn’t? Did General Sherman attack then?”

  “No. For days the city was shelled, and as soldiers withdrew, some civilians fled. When the Confederates departed, it left the city open for the Union army to come in. Atlanta was the connecting link between the Confederacy in the West and in the East. See all the tracks?” Fortune said, turning Michael about. “This was the railroad center of the South, so this city was vital to both sides. You’ve seen some of the ruined buildings and houses. People won’t ever forget, Michael. It changed so many people’s lives and they’ll remember and their children will remember.”

  Michael nodded solemnly.

  “Sometimes, Michael, boys may taunt you that your father is a Yankee. Just remind them that your mother is from Charlotte, and your uncle was an officer in the Confederacy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The war’s all over now,” Fortune said, standing up. “Atlanta is rebuilding. It’s rising out of the ruins and it’ll be a fine city someday.”

  Michael began to walk on one of the rails, waving his arms as he balanced himself.

  “Do you think he’ll have difficulty making friends?”

  “Not at all. Has he ever?”

  “No,” she said, watching Michael.

  “I just wanted to have him prepared for taunts because feeling runs high here. This town suffered terribly, and no one has forgotten. Thank God you took him out west.”

  “It was difficult there.”

  “C’mon, Michael. Let’s go back. It’s getting late,” Fortune called. Michael returned, moving ahead of them, picking up and throwing rocks as they went.

  “Out west living was rougher,” she said as they strolled back down the wide, busy street. “I couldn’t find work as easily, and there were long distances between towns.”

  Fortune remained silent, and she wondered if he was still angry with her. And she wondered how often she would run into men and women from her past. She glanced down the street, thankful she hadn’t worked in Atlanta.

  As they climbed the hotel’s curving staircase, Fortune said he would read to Michael, and the two of them went to Michael’s room. She went to the bedroom to sit in the rocker near the window, lighting a lamp while a gentle southern breeze blew through the open window, fanning the lace curtains. Claire concentrated on sewing her silk dress until she heard Fortune’s boots and looked up to see him enter the bedroom and close the door. He had shed his coat and cravat, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and the sleeves rolled high. He crossed the room to pour some brandy. As he slugged it down, the gold link bracelet on his wrist caught the light.

  “You’re still angry about today, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I just don’t know whether to believe you or not,” he said, canting one hip against the table. “If it was what you said, the man had to be incredibly bold to walk up to you like that and put his hands on you.”

  “He put one hand on me,” she answered coolly, stand
ing to fold the material and carry it to the chest of drawers. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I’m going out. It’ll be late when I get back.” He bolted from the room and fairly flew down the stairs and outside, trying to control his temper.

  All through the next hours while he played faro, he kept seeing the man walk up to Claire and put his hand on her. Fortune’s winnings grew, but his attention was only halfway on the game. The night was hot, the saloon noisy and smoky, and twice Fortune noticed burly men at the bar, thinking he was seeing the man again only to decide it was a stranger each time.

  Long after midnight Fortune drank a last glass of whiskey and pushed back his chair. He pocked his meager winnings. As he well knew, gambling when his thoughts weren’t on the game was a bad idea.

  He reached the hotel and took the stairs two at a time, his jaw set. There was only one way to find out whether Claire had been truthful or not.

  He saw Badru seated in the hallway and nodded to him before he entered Michael’s room. Fortune paused beside the bed. His son was stretched out, arms flung wide, his curls damp against his forehead. Fortune’s anger evaporated as he gazed at Michael, and he bent down to kiss his cheek lightly.

  He marveled that he had his son back, thinking Michael was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened in his life. He touched Michael’s small hand, feeling a knot in his throat as he fought his emotions.

  He turned away to tiptoe from Michael’s room into the parlor. The bedroom door, he noticed, was ajar on the darkened room. A small lamp burned in the parlor, and Fortune crossed the room to pour a glass of brandy. He took only a sip and set the glass down. He shed his shirt and sat down to remove his boots. Noiselessly he strode to the bedroom and closed the door, going to the bed to look down at Claire.

  She stirred, her eyes coming open to gaze up at him. “Fortune?”

  The anger in him tightened, burning hotly. He reached down to slide his arm beneath her back, feeling her delicate bones as he pulled her up. He set her on her feet, winding his hand in her hair. Her brown brows drew together, her fair brow furrowed slightly.