by BJ Hoff
But what of it? It wasn’t the first time he’d been attracted to a pretty woman, hang it all! He wasn’t looking for anything special, no lifetime commitment, just a pleasant evening. He hadn’t asked the woman to marry him, after all, just to have dinner with him!
He couldn’t stop the image of her that suddenly filled his mind, any more than he could deny the fact that he was lying to himself—a practice he rarely indulged in. He might just as well face the truth: He had seen something extraordinary in Samantha Harte, had seen it right from the beginning—something rare and fine and unsullied. He already knew that she was no ordinary woman, knew that he would eventually want something more of her than a casual evening or a brief, tawdry affair. But apparently she thought having anything at all to do with him would be just that—tawdry.
He crushed her terse note in his hand, as if by doing so he could destroy the reality of her rejection. He had wanted to somehow touch the goodness in her, that unspoiled, unstained part of her that put him to shame even as it seemed to hold out to him some hope of redemption. He had thought if he could know her, be with her, perhaps—
Perhaps what?
Suddenly furious with himself, he shoved away from the desk. He tore out of his office, slamming the door with such force that those employees nearby froze.
Outside, Jack charged down the alley. He walked for an hour in the rain, going almost at a run, taking the slick streets like a dark bull in a rage, seeing nothing and hearing only the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears and the driving roar of his own self-disgust.
28
SAD AND UNEXPECTED NEWS
The Lord God judges “crime” above,
But not as man has weighed it.
MARY KELLY
Samantha met the newsboy Willie Shanahan for the first time on the day Willie’s mother shot and killed his father.
The night before it happened, Samantha had stayed late after the evening class to help Cavan Sheridan with the article he was writing about the city’s newsboys. He was doing a splendid job, indeed had required little editorial guidance from her, other than in some of the finer points of grammar. Another day or so and he would have the copy completed.
On Wednesday afternoon, when Cavan returned for the day’s proofing, he arrived out of breath and visibly distraught. His face was crimson, and although the day wasn’t particularly warm, he was perspiring.
The instant he was inside the apartment, he burst out, “Mrs. Harte—have you heard? Mrs. Shanahan has shot her husband! She’s killed Willie’s father!”
Stunned, Samantha struggled to take in what he was saying. Even as he spoke, the image of Maura Shanahan’s forlorn countenance flashed across her mind. She saw again the ugly bruise, the frightened eyes. She shivered in apprehension as all the warmth seemed to leave the room.
“What happened?” she choked out.
Cavan shook his head. “I don’t think anyone knows yet. One of Willie’s sisters came to the office, looking for him. They hadn’t found him yet when I left.”
Samantha was already regretting that she had not gone back to the Shanahans’ after Saturday’s failed visit. She had known even then, seeing that poor, careworn woman, her fear and despair so starkly evident…she had known. And she had done nothing.
She reminded herself that there was nothing she could have done, at least not then. And there had been no time since to go back. But would she have gone in any event? She recalled with disgust how she had practically run away from Maura Shanahan, her own emotions rioting in sick turmoil at the memories the woman’s distress had called to mind.
Cavan Sheridan’s rush of words jerked her back to the present. “Mr. Kane has sent two of the other newsboys out to fetch Willie. He’ll be needed to help with the younger children now, with his mother in jail.”
Samantha stared at him in horror. “Maura Shanahan is in jail?”
He looked at her strangely. “Why…yes, of course she is. The police took her away right after it happened.”
“Dear heavens,” Samantha murmured. “What will become of her?”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Harte? Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”
He was watching her closely, his expression fraught with concern. Samantha made an attempt to shake off the sick weakness that had seized her. “No, I’m all right.” She looked at him. “Cavan, I wonder…would you take me to the jail on your way back to the office?”
He frowned. “The jail?”
Samantha was already heading toward the closet to get a wrap, although she knew the chill that had gripped her had little to do with the weather. “Perhaps I can help,” she said. “Would you bring the copy off the table, please?”
Cavan hesitated only a moment before going to the kitchen, but when he returned he stopped in the foyer. “Mrs. Harte, if you’ll excuse my saying so, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be going to the jail. From all accounts, it’s a terrible place, even for the criminals who end up there. ’Tis not a fit place for a woman.”
Samantha looked up as she shrugged into her wrap. “Maura Shanahan is a woman, too, Cavan. Besides, I’ve been there before.”
He stared at her. “You’ve been to the jail?”
Samantha nodded and gave a grim smile as she locked the door behind them. “Several times.”
It occurred to her that he would be altogether dismayed to learn of the places her work among the immigrants had taken her over the years. She wasn’t the fragile hothouse flower Cavan seemed to think her. Most of what her mother called her “delicate sensibilities” had been stripped away long before now. She had grown all too familiar with the more squalid features of the city—she knew the slums, most of the hospitals, the foundling homes—and the jails. She had witnessed more than her share of filth, disease, and debauchery.
The city of the poor was an entirely different place from the city of the privileged. By now Samantha was well acquainted with both worlds, enough to know that each bred its own share of secrets and horrors.
Cavan was reluctant to leave her at the jail, but Samantha Harte insisted. “You have to get the copy back to the office,” she told him. “I’ll be fine. I know most of the guards and the policemen. I’ll be well protected; you needn’t worry.”
Even so, he insisted on escorting her into the building. Just inside, a young, red-faced policeman was haranguing a small boy hunkered down near the door. Cavan hadn’t seen Willie Shanahan since the swelling had gone from around his eye, but he recognized him immediately.
“Willie? Whatever are you doing here? Your sister has been looking for you.”
“You know this boy?” said the policeman.
Cavan nodded.
“Then make him understand that he’s to leave. He’s been skulking about since early morning. If he doesn’t go along, I’m going to lock him up!”
“You will do no such thing, Officer Malloy.”
Cavan stared as Samantha Harte stepped up to the policeman. He wouldn’t have guessed that those delicate features could turn so severe. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched the exchange with interest.
Only then did the policeman seem to notice her presence, stammering out her name and muttering an apology. “Sorry, Mrs. Harte—I didn’t see you. But this boy here is making a nuisance of himself, hanging about as he is. This is no place for the lad.”
“I can’t disagree with that, but I hardly think you need to threaten him.”
“Yes, ma’am—I mean, no ma’am. But—”
“You’re Willie Shanahan?” Samantha Harte said kindly as she turned to the boy.
Willie unwound himself and stood up, crushing his tattered cap to his chest as he nodded. “Yes’m.”
“Well, I’m afraid Officer Malloy is right. This is not a good place for you. Wouldn’t you be better off at home with your brothers and sisters?”
“Buster—that’s me brother—is looking out for them,” the boy said. “I mean to stay nearby, should Mum need anything.”
“And that’s just the thing, Mrs. Harte,” Officer Malloy put in. “He’ll not be allowed to see his mother anyway. He’s only in the way here.”
Samantha Harte studied Willie for another second or two, then turned back to the policeman. “I find it hard to believe that one small boy would be that much in the way,” she said. “Surely he could see his mother for just a moment?”
The policeman shook off the suggestion like a dog throwing off cold water. “The sergeant said absolutely not, ma’am!”
“That would be Sergeant Garvey?” she said coolly.
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Would you tell the sergeant that I’d like to speak with him, please?”
Officer Malloy looked at her for only an instant before hoofing it down the hall. In the meantime, Samantha Harte turned back to the boy. “Willie, if they let me speak with your mother, will you do the right thing and go home until I can arrange for you to visit?”
The boy studied her, his thin face utterly solemn. “You can do that? You’ll get me in to see Mum?”
“I’ll do my best, Willie. I believe I can arrange something for you by tomorrow. But you must cooperate. Do you understand?”
Finally, Willie ducked his head and, with obvious reluctance, nodded agreement.
“Good,” Mrs. Harte said softly. “You’re obviously a very good boy, Willie.”
Willie Shanahan brightened considerably. It occurred to Cavan that the boy was probably not accustomed to that sort of kindness or affirmation.
Officer Malloy reappeared just then, followed by a big hulk of a fellow with small, watchful eyes and an astoundingly large belly—Sergeant Garvey, he presumed.
It was clear from their greetings that he and Samantha Harte knew each other. She wasted no time in stating her request. “I realize you don’t have to allow it, Sergeant, but I’d like to ask that you let Willie here visit his mother, just for a moment.”
The sergeant frowned. “You know the Shanahan woman, Mrs. Harte?”
Samantha Harte nodded. “I do.”
The sergeant glanced from Willie to Mrs. Harte. “Then you know she’s a murderer,” he said, dropping his voice. “I can’t be letting the boy into a cell with a murderer.”
“She’s his mother, Sergeant Garvey.” Samantha Harte’s voice was like a splash of icy water.
“Even so,” the policeman muttered. “Sorry, Mrs. Harte. But if the captain found out, wouldn’t he have my badge? No visitors for the felons. That includes family. Besides, Mrs. Harte, you know what it’s like in the back. You wouldn’t want the boy to see his mother like that.”
Cavan looked at Samantha Harte. Her face could have been sculpted of marble, so taut were her features. “You may have a point, Sergeant. In that case, I must insist that you let me see Mrs. Shanahan. And afterward, I will speak to Captain Ryan about arranging some sort of a visit for Willie, perhaps outside the…cell.”
The sergeant was visibly flustered. “Now, Mrs. Harte—no visitors means just that—no visitors.”
“You’ve been kind enough to bend the rules for me before, Sergeant,” she said quietly. “Besides, I’m here not as a visitor but as a representative for Immigrant Aid. In that regard, may I ask you if Maura Shanahan has been charged yet?”
“She’s to be charged with murder.” This came from Officer Malloy, who received a sour look from his sergeant.
“If I let you see her—just for a moment, mind—will you send the boy home?” asked Sergeant Garvey.
Samantha Harte looked from him to Willie. “Willie? You remember our agreement?”
Willie Shanahan hesitated only a moment before replying. “Yes, ma’am.” He plopped his cap down over his ears, and, after a slight delay, during which he made eye contact with Samantha Harte one last time, he turned and went out the door.
“All right, Mrs. Harte,” said the sergeant. “Officer Malloy will take you back. But he’s to stay with you. And you’ll have to leave in ten minutes.” He paused. “You won’t be telling the captain about this, will you?”
“Of course not, Sergeant.” Samantha Harte smiled sweetly at him, then turned to Cavan. “You really should get that copy back to the office now, Cavan.”
He nodded. “I’ll do that. But I’ll be back to drive you home.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. “That would be very kind of you. I am feeling a little tired.”
Cavan dropped his arms away from his chest, waiting until Samantha Harte and the police officer had disappeared at the end of the corridor before he opened the door and stepped outside. On the way to the buggy, he shook his head, almost smiling as he made a mental note to tell Mr. Kane about the way Mrs. Harte had handled the policemen.
29
THE FAMILIAR FACE OF DESPAIR
A prison wall was round us both.
OSCAR WILDE
“You took her where?”
Kane’s look was murderous. Cavan tensed but didn’t cower in the face of his employer’s fury. He had only done what Samantha Harte had asked of him, after all. Besides, he couldn’t see that it was any of Kane’s affair where he had taken her, other than the fact that he had used the office wagon.
“To the jail, sir,” he repeated evenly, hands clasped behind his back. “She insisted on seeing Mrs. Shanahan, once she learned of the shooting.”
Kane stared at him, cigar clamped between his teeth, his face a thundercloud. “Which jail?”
Cavan didn’t relish the idea of his employer’s wrath. Although he had never as yet felt the brunt of Kane’s temper, he had worked for the man long enough to know that he could get ugly when riled. “Eldridge Street, sir.”
“What in blazes were you thinking, Sheridan? I haven’t been inside the place, but no doubt it’s as bad as all the other city jails. Do you have any idea what those places are like?”
Irked at being treated like a recalcitrant child, Cavan forced himself to maintain an even tone of voice. “ ’Tis what she wanted, sir. As I said, she insisted.”
Kane bared his teeth, his cigar wedged between them. He got up from his desk with such force that the chair banged against the wall. “And if the woman is fool-headed enough to stand in front of a runaway coach, will you oblige her by driving the team?” He shook his head, muttering something Cavan couldn’t make out but assumed to be an oath.
“Mrs. Harte assured me that she’s familiar with the jail, sir,” he said in his own defense.
Kane’s head snapped up. “What? How would that be?”
“Because of her work with the Immigrant Aid Society, I believe. She seemed well acquainted with two of the policemen.”
“So you did go in with her, then?” Kane still looked like a storm rolling in, but his voice had dropped a bit, and he was no longer chomping down on the cigar quite as fiercely.
“Aye, I did, sir. She talked with a Sergeant Garvey and an Officer Malloy, and I can tell you, neither was any match for Mrs. Harte.”
Kane frowned, his dark eyes hard as marble. “What do you mean?”
“ ’Tis my impression that once Mrs. Harte sets her head to something, she won’t be easily dissuaded. She may not look the part, but I suspect she is a very strong-willed woman.”
Kane regarded him with a studying expression, then muttered a grudging sound of agreement. “You may be right. Even so, she’s got no business inside a jailhouse—” He broke off, glancing sharply at Cavan. “Well—I suppose it could have been worse, if she was that set on the idea. At least you were there to drive her. Otherwise she might have walked, and that’s hardly a neighborhood for a lady.”
“Exactly, sir. That’s why I told her I’d come back to drive her home.” Cavan paused. “If you’ve no objection, that is.”
Kane looked at him as he stubbed his cigar out in the copper bowl he used as an ashtray. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“Oh, but, sir, I as much as told Mrs. Harte I’d be back.”
Kane cracked a testy smile. “I admir
e the way you volunteer yourself on my time, Sheridan—as well as the office wagon.”
Heat burned Cavan’s face, and he started to explain, but Kane waved him off.
“No harm done. I only meant that you needn’t bother. I’ll see to Mrs. Harte myself.”
Cavan stared at him in bewilderment. “Sir?”
Kane was already shrugging into his suit jacket. “You take the wagon home, and I’ll drive the carriage. We can drive in separately tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Kane didn’t give him time to finish. With a wave of his hand, he swept out the door. “Lock up the office for me, if you would.”
Cavan watched him leave, his first sting of disappointment giving way to apprehension and even a kind of resentment. He told himself he was surely wrong. What interest could Kane possibly have in a fine lady like Mrs. Harte? She was a good Christian woman, virtuous entirely. And while she was exceedingly lovely, she wasn’t any of the things he would have expected to interest Jack Kane.
On the other hand, he hadn’t actually seen Kane with a woman often enough to know his interests. But wouldn’t he be more likely to favor the flamboyant, perhaps even vulgar, sort of woman, rather than the subtle, refined beauty of Samantha Harte?
Uneasily, he realized he might be deluding himself. In all fairness to the man, Kane’s tastes seemed anything but ostentatious. His few excesses appeared limited to expensive cigars, fine food, and quality tailoring. No, he might as well admit it—there was every possibility that Kane would find Samantha Harte highly appealing.
What man wouldn’t?
Anxiety rose up in Cavan, an acid bile that threatened to steal his breath. Most of the time, he liked his employer, even admired him. But there was a darkness, a ruthlessness about Kane—and at times, an almost feral shrewdness—that was unsettling, even somewhat frightening. He found even the thought that Kane might actually pursue Samantha Harte nothing less than revolting.