“I’m sorry to hear that. So where do you usually worship?” Jack offered his hand and boosted her into the vehicle as the maid scrambled up beside the coachman.
“Trinity—when we attend. I’m afraid church is the last thing my family thinks about during the summer season. But they do prefer Trinity to all the others. I often go with only Annie.”
Just as he’d guessed. The elite belonged to Trinity, the imposing white colonial structure where George Washington had worshipped when he’d visited Newport. Jack heard many of the members decorated their soft pew cushions in their family colors to match their coaches and footmen’s livery.
“Would you mind a less fashionable church with a pastor who gives exceptional sermons?” That would be a departure for Lilly and a challenge to her conventional attitudes. He wondered if she ’d decline.
“I’d be delighted to go.”
“Good.” He suppressed a chuckle. Lilly was proving to be far less conventional than he ’d ever thought.
“What church shall we be attending?” she asked.
“Calvary, if you don’t mind.”
Jack gave directions to the driver and the carriage jerked forward. He wanted to edge closer to Lilly but knew she ’d shift toward the door. What happened to his honorable intentions of remaining as far away as possible?
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Calvary,” Lilly said as she scooted to the far side of the carriage seat.
Why would she? Calvary wasn’t remotely fashionable. Mr. Ames, the butler, had recommended it as the house of worship favored by the staff and that was sufficient for Jack.
They rode in silence around Ocean Drive, inhaled fresh sea air, and gazed at the rugged coastline swept clean by the wind. Once they reached town they wound through a maze of narrow, leafy streets bathed in deep shade. Their horses’ hooves and carriage wheels ground over gravel and dirt, disturbing the bird song and the occasional bark of a dog.
When the small, stone church came into view, the coachman slowed the horses and pulled up to the curb. Jack and Lilly climbed down and followed the other congregants into the building.
Once inside, Jack’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. The wooden floor, partially covered by a faded red runner, creaked as they walked down the center aisle. A stained glass window above the pulpit filtered the morning light and added a touch of warmth to the cool, dark interior. He liked the smell of furniture polish and the mustiness of age and climate.
It reminded him of the little church he ’d attended with his parents, a welcoming place he ’d tucked into his bank of childhood memories. Odd to be with Lilly in a spot so reminiscent of his past and so different from her own. The wide, impenetrable chasm that separated them widened and grew deeper; Lilly was accustomed to luxury and he wasn’t.
He glanced over the congregation without recognizing anyone, not that he expected to. From the look of the patched clothing worn by the worshippers, he assumed Calvary was packed shoulder to shoulder with townsfolk, probably shopkeepers and laborers. None of the summer people would think of patronizing any church without their friends.
Sidestepping into the pew, Jack felt strangely at home. But did Lilly? Dressed in her finery, plain by society’s standards, she stood out as a very rich lady indeed. Both men and women stole curious glances at her. She smiled politely before settling into silent prayer.
When the organ finally poured out its music, Jack rose and sang with his usual gusto. He made a joyful, robust noise to the Lord, and that was what counted, he hoped, not the dismal quality of his voice. Lilly flashed a crooked smile when he reached for a high note and missed by a mile. Her grin, half hidden behind the brim and veil of her pearl gray hat, pierced his heart with a sad sweetness.
Mercifully, the plump pastor with a canyon-deep voice hooked his attention and pulled him back to the present. Jack opened his Bible to Romans 12:1–2 as Reverend Minter read the verses.
“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect will of God.”
Hmm. Now those were words to ponder. Did Lilly understand she shouldn’t worry what the world would say about her writing career? Her decision to follow the perfect will of God ought to relieve her mind and renew her heart. Jack glanced sideways, but her profile betrayed no reaction to the verse. He felt sure she needed the pastor’s message, just as he did.
And then Reverend Minter boomed Joshua 24:15. “And if it seem evil unto you to serve the LORD, choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.”
Would this convince Lilly to follow God instead of her parents and her social circle? Only He deserved her undivided loyalty. Jack hoped she ’d serve the Lord even if it didn’t benefit Jones and Jarman.
The pastor’s voice resonated throughout the packed church. “Always remember, you can not serve both God and man. You must choose.” He glanced down at the open Bible resting on his pulpit and read aloud. “Jeremiah 45:5 says: ‘And seeketh thou great things for thyself? seek them not: for, behold, I will bring evil upon all flesh, saith the LORD; but thy life will I give unto thee for a prey in all places whither thou goest.’”
The preacher’s eyes gleamed as his gaze swept across the congregation. “Proverbs 11:28. ‘He that trusteth in his riches shall fall; but the righteous shall flourish as a branch.’ Value the Lord, not your earthly possessions.”
Jack squirmed. Why would the man preach against riches when most of his flock looked like working-class poor? These people were hardly burdened by an overabundance of material goods. Of course, riches came in many forms, not merely hard currency. To serve yourself and not the Lord was the crux of the matter.
Perspiration seeped under his tight collar and trickled down his back. Perhaps the sermon was meant for him and Lilly. That was the strangest thing about Scripture—it spoke to everybody in a clear, disconcerting way, leaving no one boastful or unaffected.
On the way out they shook hands with Pastor Minter and his wife and then boarded the carriage. It rolled toward Summerhill at a fast clip. He and Lilly sat across from each other, but neither of them spoke. He wanted to discuss the sermon and his suggestions about Fannie ’s career, but she looked lost in her own thoughts as she stared at the countryside flying by. Was she pondering the sermon or her troubles as a dime novelist? He sighed. She wasn’t going to divulge whatever was on her mind, though he wished she ’d take a chance and confide in him.
As the carriage rolled down Ocean Drive, Lilly turned her head and half-smiled. “I’ve been mulling over what Pastor Minter said. And I have a confession to make.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“As you’ve long suspected, I’m your authoress, Fannie Cole. However, I’m afraid my identity won’t change anything for you. I’ll continue to write my dime novels, but I won’t allow you to promote me as Fannie, in any way. I’m sorry, Jack.”
He paused. “I’ll respect your wishes, Lilly. But you’ll be passing up a wonderful opportunity to make more money for the Settlement House.”
Lilly nodded. “Maybe you’re right. But I couldn’t promote myself like Elna Price. She reminds me of a Vaudeville star, though I admit I’ve never seen one actually perform. But I’ve heard tales of how they flaunt themselves. And I’ve seen Mrs. Price. That was more than enough to dissuade me from ever going out in public to sell my books.”
“I’d never ask you to blatantly promote yourself. I’m only asking you to reveal your name and sign a few autographs.”
He bit back his dismay. He needed so much more from Fannie, but even a small amount of publicity would help Jones and Jarman inch toward the top of th
e publishing heap. But from the firm set of her jaw, she wasn’t about to budge. “I promise not to exploit Fannie Cole.”
Lilly shook her head and pressed her lips. Yet her eyes begged for understanding. “I want to help you, Jack, but I won’t admit I’m Fannie. My family’s humiliation would be more than they could bear.” She placed her hand over his. “Please try to forgive me.”
He shrugged. “All right, I forgive you.” He couldn’t add enthusiasm to his voice because between her refusal and Reynolds’s stroke, all his hopes of building Jones and Jarman into a prestigious publisher were fading like a distant dream. “I won’t badger you anymore.”
Her small smile conveyed her appreciation. “I’m sorry to cause you such disappointment, Jack.”
He suppressed a low groan as the horses’ hooves pounded against the dirt road. “There’s one more thing, Lilly. I want to help you handle Colonel MacIntyre. He ’s a man without scruples and you shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Please, let me assist you.”
She hesitated for only a moment. “Thank you, Jack, but if and when it’s necessary to confront him, I can do it on my own.”
He shook his head and groaned. From the determination in her eyes, she wasn’t about to change her mind.
TWENTY-TWO
Early Monday afternoon Mr. Ames stumbled through the library doorway and offered Lilly a letter lying on a silver salver.
Lilly recognized the bold, black handwriting of Colonel MacIntyre. She reached for it slowly as if it were a flaming ember. “Thank you.” She accepted the letter opener from the butler, slit open the envelope, and pulled out a single page with a trembling hand. As soon as Mr. Ames departed, Lilly read the note in a whisper to Miranda, who sat in a chair beside her.
My dear Miss Westbrook,
Please meet me at O’Neill’s Café on Thames Street, Monday at three o’clock. We have important business to discuss. If you wish to keep your secret safe and your reputation intact, it behooves you to accept my invitation. Come alone.
Sincerely,
An interested party
The note dropped from Lilly’s hand and fluttered toward the floor as a breeze wafted through the screens and blew it across the Persian carpet. As luck would have it, Jack strode into the library, scooped up the paper and held it up. His eyes twinkled with curiosity.
Lilly lifted her chin. “It’s mine, Jack. May I have it—if you don’t mind?” She tried to keep panic from capturing her voice, but she sounded like an ill-tempered shrew. Hadn’t they just had this very conversation?
Jack’s forehead pleated. “There ’s no need to be so touchy. What’s the matter? You look terrified. Did the letter frighten you?” His right eye twitched as he glanced at the stationery.
“No, of course not.” Lilly held out her hand.
“It’s rude to read other people’s mail, Jackson,” Miranda added softly.
Jack paused. Would he dare peruse her note? Lilly couldn’t breathe as the seconds slowly ticked by. Appraising her as if he heard her thunderous heartbeat, his eyes narrowed. But instead of glancing at the letter, he returned it to her. Reluctantly. His better angels had won out.
Lilly nodded, suppressing relief. She snatched the colonel’s message and slid it into her skirt pocket. “Thank you, Jack.”
He nodded and excused himself. “If you need me, I’ll be nearby.”
Lilly waited until Jack left the library before she leaned closer to Miranda. “That was a close call. Do I dare meet with Colonel MacIntyre?” she whispered.
“You must. Unless you want your name smeared all over Talk of the Town, you have no other choice.”
Lilly buried her face in her hands for several seconds before looking up. “Writing under a nom de plume seemed such a clever idea when I first began scribbling romances. But now I know it was the worst mistake I ever made. Of course, I couldn’t write as Lillian Westbrook, either. Oh, Miranda, what am I to do?”
“Meet with the man and don’t act frightened. Stand up straight and tall and stare him directly in the eye. Glare at him. I shall accompany you.”
“But Colonel MacIntyre specifically directed me to come alone.”
“I’ll wait in the carriage. You don’t have to do this on your own. And remember the Lord is always with you.”
Lilly wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulder and gave her a hug. “Please pray for me, Miranda.”
Miranda grinned. “I always pray for you. The Lord will give you the strength to do what you must.”
“I know. I won’t allow that horrid man to get the better of me.” For a moment Lilly almost believed her words.
A short time later she returned to her bedroom to dress for her meeting with the colonel. Already behind schedule, she only had a few minutes to escape Summerhill before Mama captured her for a carriage ride, then tea at the Breakers, Alice Vanderbilt’s Italianate villa on Ochre Point. Later, Mama and Irene would ask why she hadn’t joined them. She’d worry about a reasonable explanation later when she returned home.
Lilly rushed down the staircase. “Do hurry, Miranda,” she urged as she glanced over her shoulder.
“I’m coming as fast as I can. The hem of my skirt ripped, so I must be careful. Perhaps I ought to change my clothing.” Miranda grasped the rail as she gingerly descended the wide, carpeted steps.
“There’s really no time.”
The grandfather clock in the foyer struck two thirty-five. If no one at Summerhill waylaid them, they’d arrive by three, right on time. Grateful for the empty hallway, Lilly strode toward the door and peered through the glass side panels. The lawn looked deserted except for her carriage waiting by the veranda steps. She took a long, steadying breath. They’d make their escape before anyone had a chance to catch them.
A piercing shriek and series of thuds sent Lilly spinning around. Head over heels, Miranda tumbled down the stairs and landed on the Persian rug that covered most of the foyer floor. Slowly she righted herself, groaning.
Lilly rushed to her side and stretched out her hand. “Let me help you up.”
“My ankle, I think it’s sprained. Oh my, it hurts.” Miranda gasped as she leaned against Lilly and thrust herself to one foot.
Hobbling, Miranda turned pale. With Lilly’s help she lowered herself onto a stair-step. She examined her ankle and winced.
Lilly bit her lip. “Do sit still. Don’t try to move. I’ll have Mr. Ames fetch a doctor. You may have broken a bone.”
“Perhaps some ice . . .”
Mr. Ames appeared out of thin air and sized up the situation. “I’ll telephone for Doctor Hansen.” He shuffled toward the office.
“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to accompany you. That fall was so clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry, Lilly.”
“Don’t worry about my meeting. I can handle the man on my own. It’s your ankle I’m concerned about.” Lilly bent down to get a closer look at the injury.
“You must leave right now. The entire household will be down here in a minute. They’ll all be so distressed about my fall they won’t even notice you’re gone. Do hurry. I promise I’ll be fine.”
Lilly hesitated, but she knew Miranda would soon be in capable hands. “If you really think you’ll be all right . . .”
“Go.” Miranda gently pushed her away. “At once. I’ll pray everything turns out well.”
Lilly pressed her in a hug, then dashed to the carriage. The driver jumped down from his seat and helped her inside the open landau. An enclosed vehicle like the phaeton would draw less attention, but there was no time to exchange carriages. They drove the length of the long driveway and out onto Ocean Avenue. Heavily veiled, she prayed she wouldn’t be recognized. If she were spotted by a friend of her mother’s, the lady might ask why she was out and about on her own without a chaperone. Fortunately, none of the Westbrooks’ equipages had a family emblem on their side. Thank goodness her parents weren’t as pretentious as most of the cottagers.
Lilly’s carriage rumbled toward th
e waterfront. The air hung heavy with dampness as fog and storm clouds blew across the harbor. The humid breeze curled her tendrils and fused her starched shirtwaist to her back.
Lilly gulped in the soggy air and struggled to stay calm. If only Jack were here beside her she ’d feel more confident. The prospect of confronting Colonel MacIntyre all alone coated her stomach with nausea. But she had only herself to blame for this entire disaster. She hoped she wouldn’t falter when she met him eye to eye.
Lord, please give me the words I need to confront the colonel and the strength not to flee.
The landau wove through the congestion of Thames Street, past buggies and drays and every type of equipage imaginable. Once they reached the small café named O’Neill’s, the carriage pulled up to the curb. Her driver helped her step down. She smiled as if stopping at a working class eatery were commonplace. “Stay put, please. I’ll be detained for only a few minutes.”
The coachman’s expression betrayed no interest, but Lilly knew he must wonder why she directed him here. Bellevue Avenue shops and restaurants catered to her set exclusively. She seldom needed to travel to the waterfront where the townspeople conducted commerce. Mama would faint if she knew Lilly planned to meet New York’s dreaded extortionist . . . on Thames Street, no less.
She took a fortifying breath, but nothing calmed her agitation. Straightening her shoulders provided a small measure of self-confidence but not enough to stop her teeth from chattering. She pushed open the glass door and stepped inside the dark café. Her eyes rapidly adjusted to the dim light. Scanning the customers, mainly locals by the look of their clothing, she spotted a fat man sitting at a back table smoking a cigar. He waited, his hands folded on the faded tablecloth, an exaggerated, clown-like grin splitting his face. Then he waved her over.
Lilly swallowed her revulsion and lifted her chin. As she strode toward his table, the heels of her boots beat against the uneven wooden floor. “I assume you’re Colonel MacIntyre.”
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