by BJ Hoff
Later that evening, Cavan stood at the doorway after class, striving to conceal his disappointment as he heard Samantha Harte’s response to the news about the proofreader’s position. He had thought she would at least be willing to talk with Kane, despite her apparent skepticism about the man. He hadn’t counted on the level of her resistance, however. Her refusal was polite but immediate. And unmistakably firm.
“You understand that I would be driving you to the office?” he said, hoping to convince her. “It’s not as if you’d be going on your own.”
Again she shook her head. “Cavan, I really do appreciate your confidence in me, but it’s as I told you: I don’t consider myself qualified for a position of this nature.” She paused, then added, “And to be perfectly frank, I don’t know that I would be comfortable working…for the Vanguard.”
“You mean you wouldn’t be comfortable working for Jack Kane,” he said, making it a statement rather than a question.
She flushed slightly. “Please. I don’t want to offend you. You enjoy your job, and you seem to like Mr. Kane—and that’s just fine. And as I told you, I’ll be only too happy to help you in any way I can with the articles you’re assigned. But as for the job—it simply wouldn’t be right for me.”
Still reluctant to give up, Cavan pressed. “He’s not what they say, you know. He’s not anything at all like what they say.” He was making a poor effort of this, was botching it badly, and he knew it. The thing was, he really thought she would be improving her situation by accepting a position with Kane, and he wanted to help her.
The rest of it, of course, was that it would be a way to see her more often. He tried once more. “He’s not a bad man, Mr. Kane,” he said lamely. “You’d see for yourself, once you got to know him a bit. This is going to be an important responsibility, you know, if he actually brings some of the people across. I thought—I’d hoped you’d agree to coordinate things, in addition to the proofreader’s position.”
She regarded him with a questioning frown. “Cavan…why are you so intent on this? I don’t think I understand.”
Cavan felt the heat rise up his neck. He tried to look away from those searching brown eyes, but her gaze refused to release him. He swallowed, clenching his hands at his sides. “I only meant to help,” he said, hearing the unnatural thinness of his own voice. “You indicated that your job with the textbook company might be phasing out soon, and I thought—” He stopped, shrugged, and looked away from her. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you more often,” he said miserably. “There’s that.”
A prolonged silence met his admission, and when he met her eyes again, he saw that she wore a positively stricken look. She put a hand to her crisp white collar. “Oh, Cavan, no. You can’t mean…you mustn’t…think about me…that way! Why, I’m…your teacher, Cavan. I’m years older than you, you must know that…”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Harte. I don’t mean to embarrass you. But I doubt that you’re years older than me, and even if you were, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference, don’t you see? I…think you’re a wonderful lady, and I enjoy being with you, and I expect I can’t apologize for that.”
Still pale, she studied him. “How old are you, Cavan?”
He hesitated. “Almost twenty,” he finally said, grudgingly.
“I’m twenty-nine years old, Cavan. A widow. You’re—”
“A man,” Cavan said, his tone hard. “I’m no gorsoon, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I told you, I don’t care a whit about your age. Or the fact that you’re a widow woman.” He stopped, groping for words. “Well, I care about your loss, of course. But as for the years between us—” he looked directly at her, and his impatience fled—“you mustn’t mind that at all. It’s of no importance.”
She moved as if to speak, then stopped and glanced away. After another moment, she murmured something unintelligible, her voice low. Cavan caught only the last few words, delivered more firmly: “Your admiration is very gratifying, but undeserved, I’m afraid. And I must ask you not to raise the subject of this position with the Vanguard again. Please.”
She had turned cold all of a sudden, had withdrawn from him even as he stood there wanting nothing so much as to take her hand or touch her hair. Cavan felt a door close against him with a finality that sent a cold blast of wind sweeping over his heart.
17
THE WOMAN IS A PUZZLE
There is something here I do not get,
Some menace I do not comprehend.
VALENTIN IREMONGER
Samantha Harte might not have held Jack’s interest for more than a moment had she not balked as she did at meeting him. Unaccustomed as he was to rejection from a woman, however, he found the very act of her refusal enough to pique his curiosity.
Further, Cavan Sheridan’s somewhat stilted account of the conversation that had transpired between himself and Mrs. Harte on Thursday night only served to intrigue Jack that much more. He was fairly certain his eager young driver was keeping something back, but when Jack pressed him for details, none were forthcoming.
Jack probably would have dismissed the elusive Mrs. Harte from his mind entirely had Monday not been such a devilish day. He had his hands full on any day, but on Monday he added to his normal routine an exhaustive line-by-line proofing of the late edition’s front page. Consequently, he didn’t leave the office until almost nine, arriving home tired, hungry, and decidedly out of sorts. He gulped down his supper without really tasting it, skipped his nightly walk, and retired to a restless sleep fraught with bizarre dreams.
Tuesday didn’t start off much better. He got out of bed with a thunderous headache and a bad temper, neither of which improved as the day went on. To save himself some time, he brought Donny Sullivan up from typesetting and charged him with proofing the front of the daily edition. The end result was another disaster. Jack’s own quick check of the front page later that day fired his already throbbing skull with another shot of pain. The entire page was riddled with misspellings and other editorial flaws. When he confronted the perspiring Sullivan, it was painfully clear that the lad was either severely nearsighted or too dull entirely to grasp what he had neglected. And that was the end of the raw young cub’s short-lived stint as a proofreader.
A little before five, Jack called Cavan Sheridan up from the pressroom. “Tell me again exactly what your Mrs. Harte had to say last week,” he said from behind his desk, “about the proofreading position.”
It had occurred to Jack that, as charming and clever a fellow as Cavan Sheridan might be, he was still wet behind the ears—and royally smitten with the schoolteacher. There was always a chance he might have bungled things in his approach.
The lad proceeded to recap the exchange between himself and the schoolteacher, revealing nothing he hadn’t already told Jack.
“Didn’t you say you thought you detected some interest on her part when you first raised the subject?”
Sheridan stood just inside Jack’s office, hovering near the door. “It seems I was mistaken,” he said stiffly.
“You’re quite certain she understood that she could work from her home?”
Sheridan nodded. “I explained that, sir. I told her what you said about using a messenger to pick up copy and deliver it.”
“Well, then, what do you think her reason is for holding out? More money?”
An angry red flush spread over Sheridan’s features. “Indeed not, sir! She’s not that sort of woman.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Jack muttered, unconvinced. He looked up. Something about Sheridan’s demeanor seemed a bit odd, he thought. It was unlike the boy to be evasive, yet at the moment he had an almost furtive look about him. “Too quick to judge, too quick to trust—either is folly,” he said, ignoring the spark of defiance that leaped in the other’s eyes.
Drumming his fingers on the desk, he tried to think. “The woman is a puzzle. What exactly do you know about her?”
“Sir?” Sheridan’s strong chin lift
ed a fraction more, and Jack saw his hands knot at his sides, as if he were nervous or a bit riled.
Too bad. At the moment, Jack hadn’t the patience to smooth the lad’s feathers. “Aside from the fact that she’s incredibly brilliant and bonny, what do you know about your Mrs. Harte?” Not waiting for a reply, Jack continued to speculate. “Apparently her late husband didn’t leave her in such good straits,” he said, “or she wouldn’t be working two jobs. What was his name, this husband of hers, do you know?”
Sheridan shook his head. “She talks about herself very little. Hardly at all. The only comment I recall her making about her husband had to do with his being a clergyman.”
“Ah, then there wouldn’t have been much money,” said Jack, his thoughts darting ahead, only to skid to a stop as an elusive bit of memory skirted the edge of his mind. A clergyman…a clergyman named Harte…
“Good heavens!” he burst out. “She’s not Bronson Harte’s widow, is she?”
Sheridan looked startled. “I…don’t know, sir. I can’t recall ever hearing her husband’s given name. Why, did you know the man?”
Momentarily distracted, Jack shook his head. No, he hadn’t known Bronson Harte, but the man and his wild-eyed followers had captured more than their share of space in the Vanguard and the other leading newspapers around the state.
Some called them “Reformists” or “Utopians,” among other high-minded epithets. Jack called them “socialists” when he was inclined to be generous, “madmen” when he happened to learn of some new, particularly daft behavior by one or more of the pack.
He’d heard it rumored that Horace Greeley had fallen in with a similar bunch, although Jack couldn’t imagine even the gullible Horace being bamboozled by that bunch of pompous fools. Still, Greeley was known to have taken up with stranger company. There was that showman P. T. Barnum, for example, who exhibited such sensations as embalmed mermaids and dancing midgets. No, in truth one never quite knew what to expect of Horace.
In any event, he knew of Bronson Harte, all right, and now found himself fascinated by the possibility that Sheridan’s inamorata might be Harte’s widow.
His need for a competent proofreader suddenly took a backseat to his pillaging curiosity.
He realized that Sheridan was watching him with a puzzled frown, but Jack said nothing more. Instead, he reined in his errant thoughts and went on with his own questions. “You told her about our discussion—that there would be a need for someone to help settle any immigrants we decide to bring across?”
Sheridan nodded.
“And you offered to drive her here, to my office, for an interview?”
Again Sheridan gave a nod, shifting from one foot to the other. He seemed unable to make eye contact with Jack, who wondered anew at the lad’s peculiar conduct. “Aye, sir, I did. But it made no difference. She couldn’t be swayed.”
“And you have no idea why she’s being so stubborn?”
Sheridan glared at him. “I don’t, sir. And I must say I don’t believe it’s a case of her being stubborn. I’m sure she has her reasons.”
Jack sensed the lad was about to add something else, but after a slight pause Sheridan’s features took on the same strange, ill-at-ease expression as before.
It suddenly occurred to Jack that perhaps the almost certainly pious Mrs. Harte objected to the idea of working for a known reprobate like himself.
Ordinarily, he might have been mildly amused at the thought. At the moment, he was simply annoyed. He needed a capable proofreader, but up until now he hadn’t been inclined to waste any more time on Samantha Harte. He had to admit that he was intrigued, however, by her unwillingness to even discuss the position—even though it sounded as if she could use the money. But even more intriguing was the possibility that she might have been married to a highly controversial figure, a figure whose death had left a number of still-unanswered questions.
In the midst of his musings, Jack remembered that Sheridan’s evening class would be meeting tonight. He glanced at his driver, who was watching him closely. Saying nothing, Jack stood and went to the closet to get his topcoat. With his back turned to Sheridan, Jack shrugged into his coat, still thinking. If he left now, he would have time to stop by the barber for a shave, make himself a bit more presentable. He could have dinner later.
His decision made, he smiled a little to himself. That’s what he would do, then: If the cagey Mrs. Harte would not come to him, he would go to her.
Still smiling, he turned back to Sheridan. “We’ll be leaving early today,” he said, ignoring the other’s questioning stare. “Bring the carriage round.”
That night, after the other students had gone, Cavan lingered near the classroom door, watching Samantha Harte. She was making a great show of straightening her desk, then filing the evening’s assignment papers into her case. Clearly, she was avoiding him. Indeed, she had scarcely looked in his direction the entire evening, glancing away whenever her gaze chanced to meet his.
Only when the silence became awkward did she finally look up. Her smile appeared forced, her expression impersonal as she continued to shove papers into her carrying case.
“I wanted to apologize,” Cavan said without preamble. “For last week. I—perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken as I did.”
She seemed to be looking at some nonexistent object past his shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize. Let’s just…forget it, shall we?”
Cavan shook his head. “I believe I offended you, and I’m deeply sorry for that.”
Her gaze darted to the door. She looked as if she wanted to flee the room, Cavan thought miserably. Humiliation, combined with impatience at his own rash behavior the week before, rushed through him. He was tempted to bolt and run himself. Instead, he stood, feeling very much the bumbling schoolboy, watching her as she renewed her absorption in tidying the desk.
“Really, it’s all right, Cavan—Mr. Sheridan—we won’t speak of it again. That would be best, don’t you—?” She broke off, turning sharply toward the doorway at the sound of approaching footsteps. Footsteps accompanied by a soft, melodic whistling.
Cavan recognized the buoyant step and the familiar low whistle at once. Stunned, he stood staring at the doorway as Jack Kane appeared.
18
THE PRINCESS AND THE PIRATE
The most desperate place for the proud to stand is upon the scorching coals of need.
ANONYMOUS
Still bending over the desk, Samantha froze at the sight of the tall man silhouetted in the doorway. A dim light from the lamp in the hall haloed a broad expanse of shoulders, a head of glossy raven hair, and a black topcoat. Around his throat was tucked a snowy white scarf, and a single white carnation rested on his lapel.
“Mr. Kane!”
Even before Cavan Sheridan blurted out his name, Samantha recognized the man who stood watching them. Actually, she had seen Black Jack Kane once before tonight, several months ago at the opera, during one of her rare evenings out with her parents. Her mother had pointed out the notorious newspaper baron between acts, giving his name a distinct edge to identify him as thoroughly disreputable. With a stunningly beautiful woman on his arm and others ogling him from the sidelines, Kane had towered above the retinue surrounding him. Even at a distance, everything about him exuded a striking, dark elegance—and an unmistakable arrogance.
He was a man not easily forgotten: imposingly tall and lean but with a powerfully set frame and features that were strangely foreign. Samantha had heard it said that every Irishman considered himself a “son of kings,” and for a moment she had the foolish thought that the man framed in the doorway might just lend credence to such a claim. Yet, with his snapping black eyes and bronzed skin, she decided that Jack Kane more closely resembled a Spanish pirate than an Irish prince.
He stepped inside the room, and Samantha was instantly suffused with a sense of menace, almost as if she had been physically threatened. She straightened with a jerk, facing him. Kane smiled, his white
teeth flashing beneath that dangerous, dark mustache, and Samantha was seized by the mortifying sensation that the man knew he had unnerved her. She gave herself a mental shake. Obviously, she was reacting to what she had heard about Kane rather than to the man himself.
Without ever taking his eyes from her, Kane acknowledged Cavan Sheridan in short order. Then, with an almost courtly gesture, he inclined his head to Samantha in a mockery of a bow. “Mrs. Harte, I presume? Allow me to introduce myself: Jack Kane.” His voice, startlingly deep and resonant, held a marked lilt that clearly identified his Irishness.
He straightened, his dark brows lifting a fraction. “I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding like this, Mrs. Harte, but as Cavan may have explained, I’m very anxious to talk with you.”
Samantha looked at him, then at Cavan Sheridan, who was staring at Kane with an expression of bafflement that she was certain mirrored her own. When she turned back to Kane, she found him studying her with the same self-assured smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, wincing at the uncommon shrillness of her voice. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Ah, I apologize,” Kane said. “I was referring to the position at the Vanguard that I believe Cavan here discussed with you. I’m in rather desperate need of a qualified proofreader, you see. Cavan conveyed your reluctance to meet with me—so I took the liberty of coming to you.”
Again the quick gleam of a smile. “Actually, I was hoping I could change your mind. Perhaps I should explain that, for the right person, the job would be as much that of a copy editor as a proofreader. I’m needing an individual with some editorial sense in addition to a keen eye.” He paused. “Naturally, I would offer a salary commensurate with the demands of the job. If you’d be kind enough to give me just a few minutes of your time, I’d like to explain in more detail.”