by BJ Hoff
Jack pushed a morsel of cake around idly on his plate. “I couldn’t agree with you more, but don’t concern yourself. I’ll be replacing him soon in any event, I expect.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Jack lifted an eyebrow. She had misunderstood him completely, but her indignation only heightened her attractiveness. “Eat your custard, why don’t you?” he said, gesturing toward her plate. “I didn’t mean that I’m going to fire him,” he explained. “To the contrary, if he comes through on this story about the newsboys the way I suspect he will, I plan to put him on the Vanguard’s payroll. I’m fairly certain I can find an adequate driver. Finding a capable reporter is another matter entirely.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”
“Sheridan says you’re helping him with the article,” Jack said. He’d lost interest in stuffing himself any further and put down his fork. “He told me about Willie’s mother shutting the door on him, said you were going to try your hand at speaking with her.”
She paled slightly. “I—yes, as a matter of fact, I stopped by this afternoon, before I came here.”
“Ah. And how did it go?”
She replaced her silverware, not looking at him. Jack saw that her hand was trembling slightly. As though sensing his scrutiny, she kept her back straight, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
“She wouldn’t talk with you either?”
She shook her head, still avoiding his gaze. “Only for a moment. Not long enough to really learn anything helpful.” She paused, then added, “Willie doesn’t live at home, you know.”
Jack nodded. “A number of the boys don’t. They band together, stay on the streets or in one of the shelters. Usually, they’re either not wanted at home, or things are so hard for them there that they prefer the streets.”
She offered nothing further. Jack sensed that mention of the visit had disturbed her in some way and wondered why that should be. As far as he knew, she had never even met the boy. “What’s she like, Willie’s mother?”
She turned to look at him, but her reply was slow in coming. It was almost as though she found it painful to answer. “She’s…a very sad woman, I think.”
“Sad?”
Samantha nodded. “Sad. And frightened.” Her hands went to her lap, and Jack didn’t miss the way she began to twist her napkin.
“Frightened of what?” he probed. He leaned toward her, for her voice had become so soft he could scarcely make out her words. But when he saw her flinch, he quickly withdrew. There was no accounting for the hurt that shot through him at this evidence of her dislike, though he forced himself to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
“Frightened of what?” he asked again.
Still avoiding his gaze, she continued to wring the napkin. “Her husband,” she said, her voice sounding strained and unnatural.
“Oh, that type,” Jack said, making no effort to conceal his disgust. “Small wonder Willie prefers the streets, then. Well, don’t worry about getting any more information. Sheridan will just have to manage on his own.”
He was puzzled by the peculiar tension that seemed to have gripped her all of a sudden and wondered at the reason for it. But just then chairs began to scrape the floor as people pushed away from the tables, their hands clapping in rhythm with the choir, which now broke into its first number.
Amelia was the primary soloist for the group, and there was nothing Jack enjoyed so much as that strong, soulful voice and the lively, swaying rhythms of the huge choir as together they filled the room and shook the walls with their songs of praise.
Jack loved music, always had. It probably would have surprised even those who thought they knew him reasonably well to learn that he attended the opera regularly, not with any thought of elevating his social status, but rather because he simply could not resist the music. No doubt it would have astonished his contemporaries even more to discover that the music of this wholly unprofessional black church choir affected him in much the same way. Sitting here tonight beside the lovely Samantha Harte, tapping his foot along with the rest of the people in the room, he would have found it difficult, if not impossible, to name his preference—Don Giovanni or the rousing rhythms of the Mercer Street Tabernacle Choir.
As it happened, his enjoyment was short-lived. When they were almost at the end of the evening, Amelia stepped forward. As soon as she began singing, Jack recognized the selection and felt a familiar, uneasy stirring deep within, followed by a creeping heaviness, like a stone slowly being rolled over his spirit. It was so intense he wanted to bolt from the room, but it would have been decidedly awkward to do so at that particular moment.
This had happened to him before. On each occasion his mood had been one of contentment, even lightheartedness, so no preexisting melancholy could be blamed for the experience. He had simply been assailed without warning, without reason. It took only the first few words, the first notes of that plaintive, wrenching hymn, and suddenly it was as if a kind of bleak bereavement had seized his soul and held him captive…
Amazing grace! how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
Wretched was an apt enough description for the enormous emptiness that now engulfed him. Chilled, Jack crossed his arms over his chest and hugged them to himself to prevent any outward show of his inner trembling. His surroundings seemed to recede and fade from view. The longer the song went on, the greater his feeling of utter desolation. As was usually the case, he heard few of the words past the first line or two, for he was pressed into immobility by the weight of this wintry isolation and despair.
When the music ended and the assault on his emotions had lifted, the sense of loneliness remained. Jack looked about the room, almost painfully aware of a separation that had nothing to do with his surroundings or skin color or social station. It was a far more profound schism between himself and these people. No matter that he sat among them, had been invited into their midst, was even held in a certain measure of respect and, at least by Rufus and Amelia, affection. He was not a part of them and what Rufus referred to as their “holy joy.” The faith they professed somehow made them what they were and at the same time served to separate Jack from them as effectively as a towering wall. He was an alien, a stranger among them, and somehow he knew that at the heart of the enervating oppression from which he had just emerged lurked a yearning, an agonizing to be like them.
He shook it off, this inexplicable strangeness that always left him feeling restless and somehow deprived, as if he lacked something in the very essence of his being. He reminded himself that within the hour, the gloom would likely pass and he would undoubtedly be mocking the infernal black Irish depression that could enshroud even a church supper in crepe.
At the end of the evening, as the fellowship hall began to empty, Amelia cornered Samantha and insisted that since Samantha had been foolish enough to walk to the church alone, she and Gideon would see her safely back to her apartment. Samantha saw Jack Kane watching this exchange and half feared he would insist on taking her home, as he had the first night they met. That would have been unthinkably awkward for her, what with Cavan Sheridan being Kane’s driver.
She need not have worried, however. Kane made no offer of his carriage, even though once outside Samantha saw that he had come alone, without a driver. In parting, he merely gave her a distracted nod and indicated that it was nice to have seen her again. Then, springing up to the driver’s bench of his carriage, he drove away as if in a terrible rush.
Samantha stood watching him for a moment. When she realized that the relief she would have expected to feel at his departure was minimized somewhat by a faint sense of disappointment, she turned and hurried back inside in search of Amelia and Gideon.
When Jack heard Amelia scolding Samantha Harte about walking to the church alone, his first instinct was to interrupt and insist on driving her home. He had given Cavan Sheridan the evening off, driving himself to the supper with t
he intention of spending some time with Rufus and Amelia afterward. He could just as easily have used the opportunity to spend some time alone with the elusive Mrs. Harte. In fact, he had even considered asking her if he might take her to the theater or to supper one night soon.
By the end of the evening, however, he was feeling too raw, too edgy and restless, to be with anyone—especially Samantha Harte, who so clearly did not want to be anywhere near him. He was still smarting from the way she had drawn back from him at the table, as if she had somehow caught the stench of corruption about his person.
Well, perhaps she had, he thought angrily. And what of it?
Feeling as he did, he could not get away fast enough. Without giving Rufus or Amelia time to question him—and with little more than a curt acknowledgment to Samantha Harte—he took his leave. He was aware of Rufus’s searching look and Amelia’s surprise at his hasty departure but made no explanation.
As for Samantha Harte, no doubt she was relieved to see him go.
Again came the sting of wounded pride. That and a sudden breach of self-assurance—an uncommon ailment for him, to say the least—had quickly escalated to an impatience with himself that now threatened to burst out of control and turn to rage.
As he pulled away from the church, his eyes were smarting, his skin virtually crawling with agitation. Had he not given up the whiskey years ago, he would have gone straight home and gotten blind drunk, just to dull his senses. As it was, he drove the carriage like a madman through the streets for close to an hour, slowing the horses and turning toward home only after the night air had finally cooled his fevered skin and quelled his fury.
26
A DAY OF SURPRISES
And the gray, chill day
Slips away with a frown.
JAMES STEPHENS
Samantha’s mother showed up at her door at half past ten on Monday morning. It occurred to Samantha that a visit from one’s mother, even so early on a Monday morning, was probably not all that unusual among ordinary families. But her family had never been ordinary, and since this marked only the second time her mother had deigned to visit since Samantha had taken the apartment, it was practically a historic event.
“Mother!” Samantha blurted out, unable to mask her surprise.
“Well, you might invite me in, Samantha,” her mother said with unconcealed impatience. No word of greeting, no “How have you been, dear? I’ve missed you,” not even a smile.
“Oh, of course! I’m sorry!” Samantha stammered, moving aside as her mother made a sweeping entrance into the narrow hallway.
It had been raining since dawn, and even in the short walk from the carriage to Samantha’s second-floor apartment, Angela Pilcher had gotten her hat feathers doused and her skirts stained with mud.
“Here, Mother, let me help you with your wrap.” But her mother had already removed her rain cloak. Pressing it into Samantha’s arms, she started off to the kitchen.
“I’ll fix us a cup of tea,” Samantha said, hurriedly hanging up the wrap before following her mother into the kitchen. “You must be chilled through from the rain. It’s such a miserable morning.”
In the kitchen, her mother stood surveying the room with obvious distaste. “Really, Samantha, this apartment is deplorable. If you insist on living like a pauper, couldn’t you at least brighten the place up a bit?”
Samantha suddenly saw the tiny room through her mother’s eyes, and a heaviness settled over her. It was no longer the cozy haven of a quiet, reasonably contented life. Instead, she now saw the walls that needed new paper, the small cookstove that would have been more appropriate for a child’s playhouse, the ironing board propped in the corner, and the towels she had just folded and stacked at one side of the table.
“I’ve been planning to redecorate soon,” she said, irritated at the note of defensiveness she heard in her voice. “Please, sit down, Mother, while I start the kettle.”
“I don’t want tea, Samantha. I didn’t come here to visit.”
She made no move to sit down but simply stood, statuesque and thoroughly aristocratic in her elegant gray morning dress trimmed in rose. Samantha realized anew what a striking figure of a woman her mother really was. Even in the midst of their worst disagreements, it was impossible not to admire her.
Samantha had never been able to find a trace of her mother in her own appearance; she had taken the dark hair and deeper skin tones of her father rather than the Saxon fairness and blue eyes of her mother. Angela Pilcher possessed an almost Junoesque figure—rigidly corseted, of course—and the clear, virtually unlined skin of a much younger woman. With her imposing height and extraordinary good looks, she still turned heads when she walked into a room.
And she could still make Samantha want to run from the room when she turned that chilling blue stare on her in disapproval. Samantha hated herself for the way she suddenly felt like a child—like a nasty little girl who has once again disappointed her mama. It took a concentrated effort not to squirm where she stood, for she was fairly certain she knew why her mother had come.
“I have heard a most disturbing rumor, Samantha, and I felt the only thing to do was to confront you with it. I can only hope you will have a reasonable explanation.”
Samantha said nothing. She had to look up to meet her mother’s gaze, but she steeled herself not to glance away.
“I hope you can tell me it’s all a mistake, that you’re not really associated in any way with that disgusting man!”
Samantha swallowed. “What man is that, Mother?”
“Jack Kane!” Her mother sounded as if she might strangle on the very words. “I have been told that you are—working for him.” She stopped. “Well?”
Samantha drew a deep breath. “As a matter of fact, I am, Mother. But only part-time.”
Her mother actually paled. Her mouth thinned and pulled downward. “Why in heaven’s name would you do such an outrageous thing? Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
Samantha braced one hand on the back of a chair. “My job with Stein was about to end, Mother. They’re closing their doors. Mr. Kane offered me a position, and I accepted. I might add that it’s a much better-paying position.”
“Oh, Samantha, how could you degrade yourself like this? Have you no pride?”
Samantha tensed. She actually considered telling her mother that this was none of her business. She was a grown woman, had not lived at home for years, was self-supporting, and did not need to submit her actions to anyone for approval.
Instead, she swallowed down her anger and said, “Mother, it’s a perfectly honest position, and it pays well. I don’t see what possible difference it could make who pays my salary.”
“Oh, really, Samantha! Of course, it makes a difference! That man, Kane, is so disreputable that decent women won’t even mention his name in public. And you think it doesn’t matter that you’re employed by him?”
Samantha recalled some of the “decent women” she’d seen fawning over Kane in the theater some months ago and had to suppress a rueful smile. “No, Mother, I don’t think it matters in the least. But if you don’t mind telling me, how did you learn of this?”
Angela’s eyes could have sharpened knives. “From your friend Marjorie Fletcher. And I might add that she and Gordon are as appalled by your behavior as your father and I are.”
“The Fletchers were never my friends, Mother. They were Bronson’s friends.”
“Yes, well, perhaps that’s why they’re concerned that you might degrade Bronson’s memory with your behavior.” She paused, raking Samantha with a look of abject disapproval. “There’s something I feel I should say in that regard, Samantha. I’ll confess that your father and I had misgivings about your marrying Bronson Harte. There was the matter of his being so much older than you, and all those…religious fanatics that flocked around the man. But I think you’ll admit that, once we got to know your husband, we accepted the marriage and made the best of it.”
From e
xperience, Samantha knew where this was going, and she had to fight the surge of nausea that boiled up in her. “Mother, please, I’d rather not discuss Bronson.”
“Samantha, I simply do not understand you.” Finally, her mother sat down. She sat the way she stood—straight backed, rigid, and uncompromising, her hands clasped tightly together at her waist. “How could you possibly be married as long as you were to a decent, God-fearing man like Bronson and then do something so foolish as to involve yourself with a total reprobate like Jack Kane?”
Something in Samantha threatened to snap. She clenched her teeth together with such force that a sharp stab of pain shot up her jaw. “Mother, for goodness’ sake, I’m working for the man, not having an affair with him!”
“Samantha!”
She had genuinely shocked her mother. Unrepentant, Samantha reminded herself that her mother was easily shocked. Or at least pretended to be.
“I’m sorry, Mother, but you really are making altogether too much of this. I needed a job. This one came to my attention through one of the students in my night classes—” she ignored the look of contempt that creased Angela’s features at the mention of the night school—“and I accepted it. I work right here, at my own kitchen table. The copy is delivered and picked up by a messenger. I’ve never even been inside the Vanguard’s offices. I have virtually no contact whatsoever with Mr. Kane.”
“Mister Kane.” Angela spat the words out of her mouth as if they were tainted. “Really, Samantha, what will people think? What would Bronson think? That poor man—even your father and I came to realize he was a saint—cared so deeply for you. Your behavior would horrify him; I really believe it would. Moving into a dismal little pesthole, in this awful neighborhood—and now…this.”