by Jo Goodman
Always in My Dreams
The Dennehy Sisters Series
Book Four
by
Jo Goodman
USA Today Bestselling Author
ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS
Reviews & Accolades
"A romance to savor."
~Library Journal
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-671-8
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
For Walter... for helping me think about family.
Chapter 1
New York City Winter 1881
"You want me to spy for you?" Mary Schyler Dennehy was incredulous. Her wide eyes and raised brows complemented her tone. Even her jaw remained a trifle slack as she stared in wonderment at her father.
"Don't be so melodramatic," Jay Mac said dismissively. "Spying is not a word I would use."
Skye cut a sideways glance at her mother. Moira offered drily, "It's certainly the word I would use." A sweet Irish brogue took the sting from her sarcasm. "I don't think I like the sound of this, Jay Mac. It's dangerous."
Skye's mobile and expressive mouth closed and flattened. She snorted a bit indelicately. "I don't care this for danger," she announced, snapping her fingers to emphasize her point. "It's just that I can't believe Jay Mac is asking me to be a spy."
On anyone's list of the rich and powerful, whether in New York or in the country, John MacKenzie Worth's name was always placed prominently. He was the founder of Northeast Rail, a transportation system that had long outgrown its name and expanded west beyond the Mississippi to California, Nevada, and Colorado, following the trail of gold and silver discoveries. He owned prime real estate around Central Park, an investment that was returning itself a hundredfold as those who could afford it bought land and built their brown and gray stone mansions uptown. He sat on some of the most influential boards in the city, counted among his friends six senators, five congressmen, and a president, got away with his very public feud with the mayor, and was often consulted by other men of industry. Even more frequently Jay Mac was sought as a financial backer by those with interests in science, art, and politics. He gave generously to worthy causes, which generally left out all things political.
With rare exception John MacKenzie Worth, known simply as "Jay Mac" to most of the country, was regarded with respect and something akin to reverence.
The rare exception took place in the stone palace he had built on the corner of 50th Street and Broadway. Behind the spiked iron gate and manicured rose bushes, he was also known as Jay Mac. But here, surrounded at various times by his five daughters and their mother, the nickname decidedly elicited more affection and amusement than awe.
Jay Mac's attention darted between his wife and his youngest daughter. Moira was quite serious in her objections, but Jay Mac was just arrogant enough to think he could handle her. Skye, on the other hand, for all that she looked appalled by his suggestion, was clearly intrigued. He knew how to interpret the glint in her bright green eyes and the hint of a dimple on either side of her wide mouth.
"This is not dangerous," he said to both of them.
Moira remained uncertain, but wanting to be convinced. Mary Schyler was trying to hide her disappointment. Jay Mac believed his confidence was well founded. He had them both. The trick was to allay the fears of one while making it an adventure for the other.
He rose from the dining table and went to the sideboard. While he was pouring himself a tumbler of Scotch, Mrs. Cavanaugh entered the room to judge the success of the meal. He heard his wife commend the cook for her special attention to the fish. Skye commented on the pineapple sorbet and asked politely if they could never have it again. Moira admonished her daughter's distressing lack of tact while Mrs. Cavanaugh merely chuckled. There was something comfortable about the scene that had just been played out behind his back, something reassuring in his daughter's cheerful directness, his wife's gentle scolding, the cook's laughter, and his own enjoyment. For an instant he felt a pang of alarm at the thought of sending Skye off. She was the last of his daughters, the only one of his five darling Marys still at home. What would it be like without her?
He quelled the momentary rush of fear by asking if anyone wanted a drink. Moira and Skye refused, taking tea instead.
"What do you call it if it's not spying?" Skye asked when her father had returned to the table. She absently tucked a wisp of flame red hair behind her ear. It slipped out again almost immediately.
"Investigating?"
Moira looked at her husband sternly over the rim of her teacup. "Are you telling or asking? I'm not certain I know by your tone."
"Investigating," he said more firmly. He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, a gesture that was meant to convey that he was slightly annoyed at Moira's inability to grasp the difference. "Skye would be investigating the whereabouts of the invention. I thought I had already explained myself in that regard."
"I'm certain you thought you did," Moira said, with a touch of asperity. "But you can see that Skye thinks it's spying, and I don't disagree with her."
Before Jay Mac could counter, Skye broke in. "Please, Mama, I want to hear Jay Mac out." For a moment it looked as if Moira would object, and although her eyes remained worried, she gave in with a brief nod. Skye thanked her with a wide, dimpled smile, then turned to her father. "Tell me about the invention."
"It's an engine, or more precisely, a particular part of an engine."
Skye asked innocently, "What part? The wheel, the cowcatcher, the smokestack?"
Jay Mac returned his spectacles to his face and gave his daughter a hard look, wondering if she was pulling his leg. "I mean the motor," he said. "The engine of the engine."
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "Sorry."
Behind her cup, Moira permitted herself a smile. For
a moment it looked as if Jay Mac regretted broaching the subject at all. "What's so special about this engine?"
"The fuel it uses. The inventor swears it won't be powered by steam. It's going to use a petroleum byproduct. Something similar to kerosene. It will be incredibly powerful, lighter and faster than anything in use today. It could change the way we all think of transportation. You can't imagine the application possibilities." Jay Mac's voice rose slightly as his excitement grew. "This is something scientists are working on around the world, not just in this country. There's a push to develop some kind of steam turbine engine, not the lumbering impractical ones that exist today, but something streamlined and efficient. The impact of that invention would be enormous, and yet I can honestly say that it pales in comparison to what would be possible with the engine this inventor has proposed."
Jay Mac paused to let his words sink in. Skye was impressed. Moira looked interested in spite of herself. When he spoke again his tone was quiet and grave and hinted at things he would not share with just anyone. "Rockefeller's interested. You can imagine the implications for a company like Standard Oil. John D.'s already made one fortune on kerosene. Think of his profit if he's able to use products that he's now virtually throwing away."
"Westinghouse?" asked Skye. She saw her father was surprised that she knew the name. It was hard to know whether to be insulted or pleased. She had generally worked hard at giving the impression that she was mostly frivolous. She conceded now that perhaps she had worked too hard. "Air brakes," she added, to make sure Jay Mac knew it was no fluke. "I may not know what Rennie knows about them, but I would have had to have been deaf not to know it was an exciting time for Northeast Rail."
At the mention of Rennie's name, both Jay Mac and Moira smiled. Mary Renee must have been about seventeen, they recollected, when George Westinghouse had patented his air brakes. For Skye's sister, who had wanted to be part of Jay Mac's empire from the inside and had realized that dream, the invention of the automatic railroad air brake was a milestone.
"Rennie did go on about it," Moira said wistfully. She turned her thoughtful gaze to her husband. "I imagine you've shared this latest news with Rennie and Jarret."
Jay Mac shook his head. "Very little, actually. They've been in Colorado and Nevada since this came about and it isn't something I've wanted to trust to the telegraphers. In fact, I haven't wanted to put much about it in writing. There's a lot at stake, too much, perhaps, to include even the most trusted men in my employ."
Moira frowned. She smoothed back the temples of her dark red hair, not because there was a strand out of place, but because she needed to do something with her hands. She remembered very well what had happened only a few years earlier: Jay Mac had been the target of a murder plot that would have wrested control of Northeast Rail from the family's hands. How could he say this wasn't a dangerous business? Her sigh, as well as the militant look in her eyes, expressed the words she would not utter aloud.
Once again Skye managed to head her mother off. She was leaning forward in her chair, the perfect oval of her face animated with excitement. "Do you want me to steal this invention for you?" she asked, with more eagerness than was either ladylike or strictly moral. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that her mother was appalled. Skye made a half-hearted attempt to appear abashed. It didn't fool anyone. In front of her eyes Jay Mac's hair seemed to take on a more grayish cast.
"I don't want you to steal anything," he said, just managing to swallow his drink without choking. "I want you to bring it back to me."
Confused, Skye merely stared at her father. Moira's comment underlined her own confusion. "You'll have to pardon me if I fail to distinguish the difference."
Jay Mac set his tumbler on the table. A damp ring of water beaded on the polished surface. "You can't steal something that already belongs to you," he explained patiently.
"You own this engine?" asked Skye.
He nodded slowly. "Bought and paid for every part of its development."
"Then why don't you have it?"
"I fully expected to get reports from the inventor on his progress. This is by no means a finished product. It has never tested reliably, but my early information has always led me to believe he was on the right track and getting closer. I've asked for the current status, but I get little in return that's straightforward." Jay Mac shifted in his chair. "I'm concerned that he's backing out of the project, or worse, that he may even have thoughts of selling the idea elsewhere. That's forbidden in my contract with him. I want you to find out if my fears are founded. And if you can get the plans, or the engine, all the better."
Moira simply sank back into her chair and crossed herself. "Dear God," she said quietly. "I can't have heard any of this correctly. This is something you should be sending one of your men on, Jay Mac, not your youngest daughter."
Skye bristled. "Mama, how could you?" she asked, wounded. Her mother had always been supportive of her daughters in whatever they wanted to do. Traditionally, it had been Jay Mac who was the fly in the ointment.
He had been fiercely protective of all his children, planning, prodding, pushing, usually in directions they didn't want to go. He had opposed his oldest daughter's decision to enter a convent, but Mary Francis had held her ground and did as she wanted. He had tried to guide Mary Michael's career as a newspaperwoman when he'd realized she would be a reporter with or without his support. When he'd attempted to buy her a job on the Herald, she had promptly accepted a position with the New York Chronicle. Mary Renee had had to prove herself twice over to gain a position as an engineer with Northeast Rail, and Mary Margaret was going to medical school because of her husband's support, not her father's.
He had been just as ironhanded in his machinations to see them married and settled. Mary Francis had slipped away from him, but Michael, Rennie, and Maggie had given him some frustrating moments as they'd tried to avoid his openly manipulative touch.
Skye's ambition was vastly different from that of her sisters. Thus far it had kept her out of her father's sight. She had no desire to serve God, inform the public, build bridges, or care for the sick. Skye wanted to be an adventuress.
Though it was not precisely a lofty goal, it was nonetheless one for which she felt eminently suited. Indeed, in her own manner Skye was just as single-minded in her approach to realizing her dreams as any of the Marys before her. She had decided long ago what skills were most needed for adventuring and had set about mastering them. Skye Dennehy was an excellent horsewoman and a crack whip. She rode sidesaddle in public and astride in private. In her phaeton she was completely at ease leading a high-spirited team on a rollicking ride over farmland just north of the city, or keeping them tightly in check on a crowded city street. People remarked that she had a passion for it. To Skye it was merely one means to an end.
Skye studied art and antiques and architecture. She devoured books on the history and geography of the places she wanted to go. Like riding astride, she did it outside the public eye. Even her family did not suspect the extent of her learning. Maggie had been the scholar. Skye was the scamp.
She was confident they would have encouraged her endeavors but found some way to discourage her plans to apply them. It was easy to be secretive about her accomplishments. She wasn't doing at all well in her final year at school. In fact, she was failing most of her university classes and had no intention of returning in the spring.
It wasn't that she couldn't do the coursework. Quite the opposite. With rare exception she found her private plan of learning had advanced her far beyond what was expected by her professors. With little to challenge her, Skye avoided most of her classes and arranged tutoring in activities that interested her.
That was how she'd become proficient in the use of weapons. Skye was not only accurate with a bow, she could fence and was comfortable using a variety of guns. The advent of winter had curtailed her sailing lessons on the Hudson, but she had recently found someone to teach her all about photography.
Jay Mac leaned back in his chair and picked up his drink. He rolled the tumbler casually between his palms, choosing his words carefully. "Serious," he said. "Yes, that rather describes him. It's difficult to know what the man is thinking. The plans he outlined to me were brilliant, though. Brilliant."
Boring: that was the word that came to Skye's mind. The man was boringly steady and dull, and probably too smart for his own good. She'd met a few men like that at social gatherings. Invariably they couldn't talk about the weather without describing what they intended to do about it. She practically yawned.
Moira said, "Now, why in the world would a man like that want our Skye around?"
One corner of Skye's mouth kicked up. Her mother's question wasn't terribly complimentary, but it was something Skye had been wanting to know.
Jay Mac sighed. "He doesn't want Skye around. He doesn't know her or anything about her. His social circles, such as they are, are vastly different than Mary Schyler's. What he needs is a housekeeper. Skye would be perfect."
Skye raised one brow. "As a housekeeper? I don't think so, Jay Mac." She stood, gracing both her parents with another innocently dimpled smile. "But I'd make a wonderful spy." Skirting the table, Skye dropped a light kiss on her father's cheek. "Let me think about it. Right now I have to be going. The ball's up in the park, the skating's wonderful, and I'm meeting Daniel in—" she glanced at the clock on the sideboard, "—oh my, I'm already late." She quickly came around the table and gave her mother a kiss. "I should be home before ten, but don't give it a thought if I'm a little later." Skye didn't give anyone a chance to respond. She hurried out of the dining room, crisp petticoats rustling beneath her brushed wool skating skirt.