by BJ Hoff
He studied her, his eyes glinting with something Samantha couldn’t read. “If a little news ink bothered me, I’d be in a terrible fix, now wouldn’t I? May I?” he said, not waiting for her reply before slipping the rest of the way out of his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Do stop fretting yourself, Samantha. I’ll just give you a hand with this and take it back to the office with me.”
With that, he sat down at the table and started in on the top sheet of copy. “Besides, there are some things I’ve been wanting to discuss with you. That’s the real reason I’m here, as it happens.”
Samantha would have raised yet another objection, but the words lodged in her throat. It occurred to her that her small, cozy kitchen suddenly looked even smaller—cramped and almost suffocating—with Jack’s long legs stretched out under her table and his dark head bent over the work at hand.
They worked without speaking for several minutes before Samantha broke the uncomfortable silence. “I should have thanked you for the flowers. They’re very nice.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, not looking up. After a brief pause, he said, “One of the reasons I wanted to see you was to ask a favor, if I might.”
Samantha glanced up from the copy.
“I’m a bit concerned about Cavan’s sister and the Madden tykes. You recall that they’re due to arrive any day now?”
Samantha did remember, of course. As a part of her various job responsibilities, she had begun weeks ago to make the necessary arrangements for Terese Sheridan and the two orphaned children who were traveling with her.
Jack’s newspaper, the Vanguard, had begun to publish a series of articles about the Irish immigrants arriving in the States in ever increasing numbers. Written by Cavan Sheridan, each article focused on a specific individual or family and the circumstances that had precipitated their immigration, as well as the difficulties that might await them when they arrived in America. Already the series had attracted considerable interest around the city, even throughout the state. As a result the Vanguard’s subscriber list had begun to expand—and Cavan Sheridan had won his first byline.
Samantha had been only too pleased to be involved in this unprecedented project, a project that had actually been Cavan Sheridan’s idea. In addition to the stories themselves, the paper had committed to financing the featured immigrants’ passage and assisting in their resettlement. Samantha’s duties included meeting the new arrivals at the harbor and then helping them with their living arrangements and employment possibilities while monitoring their situations as they adapted to their new country.
The fact that one of the first arrivals would be none other than Cavan’s sister—his only surviving family member, in fact—merely added to the importance of the project for Samantha. Cavan was her “star” student from the night classes she taught among the immigrant settlements. From the beginning he had stood out as particularly gifted. He had a fine, quick mind and an aptitude for painting pictures with words that was unrivaled even by many of the city’s more experienced newsmen.
The young Irish immigrant had actually been responsible for Samantha’s position with the Vanguard. Initially employed as Jack’s driver and stableman, Cavan had brought the proofreading job at the newspaper to Samantha’s attention, at the same time bringing Samantha to Jack Kane’s attention.
At first Samantha had resisted Jack’s insistent efforts to hire her, largely because of his notorious reputation. By now, however, she had come to count her job with the Vanguard as one of the best things that could have happened to her. She enjoyed the proofreading, enjoyed even more the editorial assignments Jack had lately begun to send her way. And the additional responsibilities she would soon assume with the immigrant resettlement project only added to the job’s appeal. As far as Samantha was concerned, she couldn’t have custom designed a job with more advantages or one with fewer drawbacks.
Except, perhaps, for the man who had given her the job.
She glanced over at Jack, saw him watching her, and realized he was waiting for some sort sort of response from her.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you’d mind keeping tabs on the harbor while I’m gone.”
“Gone?”
He looked at her. “I’m leaving for Philadelphia Wednesday, remember?”
There was no accounting for the sudden but undeniable twist of disappointment that coiled through Samantha. He would be away for only a few days, after all, but for some reason she felt an almost painful emptiness at the prospect.
“I’d forgotten. Your meeting with Mr. Poe.”
He nodded. “I’m to meet with him on Thursday and, depending on how that goes, possibly once or twice more before I come back.” He paused, watching her. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about coming with me.”
Samantha felt the heat rise to her face. “You know I can’t possibly do that. Please don’t mention it again.”
“It would be entirely proper,” he said reasonably. “You’d be traveling as my assistant.”
Samantha had the feeling he was deliberately baiting her. She was appalled by the fact that for an instant she had actually caught herself wishing she could go with him.
“I hardly think it would be seen as proper,” she said, forcing herself not to rise to his bait. “And I’d rather not discuss it any further. Now, shouldn’t we try to finish the proofing if you want it for today’s edition?”
He feigned a sigh of disappointment before turning his attention back to the copy. “You concern yourself too much with what people think, Samantha.”
She made no reply. Minutes later, she changed the subject to safer ground. “You’ve still had no word from the ship, I take it?” Samantha asked after a moment.
He shook his head. “The Sheridan girl is to send a message by one of the runners from the harbor as soon as they pass quarantine. So far there’s been nothing. I assume the ship hasn’t anchored yet, but I’d like to know for certain. You’ll recall that Brady said the two children weren’t in the best of health.”
Samantha nodded. Shona and Tully Madden were two Irish orphans whom Jack’s brother had submitted for sponsorship, at the same time arranging for Terese Sheridan to oversee their welfare during the crossing. Apparently, both of the children had been in rather poor health when the arrangements were made.
“Wouldn’t there have been something in the arrival notices if the ship had put in?” she asked Jack.
He made a dismissing motion with one hand. “You can’t count on those. They miss more than they list. It’s occurred to me that they might end up in quarantine once they arrive. We’ll need to keep check on them.”
Samantha looked at him. “Oh, Jack, I’d hate to think of those children being held at Tompkinsville. It’s such an awful place.”
“ ’Tis that,” he said, making a sour face. “In any event, you’ll stay in touch with the harbor while I’m away?”
“Yes, of course. But shouldn’t you ask Cavan instead of me? He’s already been haunting the docks for days. I’m sure he’s desperate to see his sister after all these years.”
“He is,” Jack agreed, “but he won’t be back from Albany until the weekend or possibly Monday. Bill Worth is down with the grippe, so I sent Sheridan up to the governor’s mansion in his place to find out what shenanigans Weed’s been up to this month.”
Samantha saw his expression turn even darker. Jack’s dislike for Thurlow Weed and his Whig politics was no secret.
“I don’t mean for you to go to the harbor alone, mind,” he went on. “Until Sheridan gets back, one of the lads from the paper will drive you.”
Samantha didn’t argue. She had no desire to frequent New York Harbor by herself.
They finished the proofing within the next few minutes, and Jack leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms out in front of him. “You see—right on schedule,” he said, watching Samantha. “Have supper with me tonight?”
Samantha glanced away for fear he
would see how much she wanted to accept.
“Please,” he put in quickly.
“Jack—”
“I missed lunch. We’ll have an early meal. We can go to the club, if you like.”
Over the past two months, Samantha had had supper with Jack on three or four occasions, each time at the Portico Club, an unpretentious midtown eating establishment, off the beaten track. No one there was likely to recognize either Jack or Samantha.
Samantha knew it was in deference to her reputation that Jack always suggested the club when he asked her to supper. While she was touched by his caution on her account, she resisted the idea that her reputation could be irrevocably damaged simply by dining out with a man society happened to deem “unacceptable.”
It was actually Jack who continued to “protect” her from scandal. Left to herself, Samantha would probably have ignored the gossipmongers and gone wherever she pleased with whomever she pleased. But he insisted that for her sake they be discreet, and she supposed his way was best. At least this way her mother—who was as sensitive to society’s approval as Samantha was not—needn’t be subjected to the sort of notoriety that seemed to hang over Jack like an ugly thundercloud.
For a long time now, Samantha had questioned the rumors that so relentlessly dogged Jack. There was no denying that he had a “past,” as her mother was fond of pointing out. Nor did he seem inclined to conceal that fact from Samantha. He had actually made reference to his earlier gambling habit once or twice, for example, even admitting that he’d won most of the purchase price for the Vanguard in a marathon round of blackjack.
But at the same time, Samantha believed him when he said he no longer indulged in the vice. “I gambled because I was set on making a lot of money fast,” he had once told her matter-of-factly. “When I discovered I had a streak of luck about me, I went for higher stakes. But once I had what I wanted, I quit. It was never that much fun, in truth. It was simply—” he shrugged—“a means to an end.”
As for the rumors that he was a notorious womanizer, Samantha had no way of knowing how factual they were. She did know it was all but impossible to walk into a room with him without being aware of his effect on women. Even the gazes of the more “respectable” matrons invariably followed him. Jack was a startlingly tall man, uncommonly handsome, with a definite air of power—perhaps even a certain ruthlessness—that seemed to make the very air in the room crackle with excitement.
His conduct toward Samantha was unfailingly irreproachable. Oh, he never entirely lost the roguish air that clung to him like a playful shadow. And his manners might be slightly rough edged, his speech blunt and even harsh at times. But he was obviously determined to be the soul of propriety with her, and most of the time he carried it off quite well; indeed, his mien with her often bordered on old-world courtly. On occasion Samantha found herself hard-pressed to conceal a touch of amusement at the effort she speculated this sterling behavior might require of him.
Mostly, however, she was moved by his attempts to gain her approval, even though she suspected that if she were to press, he would cheerfully admit to being the reprobate he was rumored to be. He almost seemed to take an unaccountably grim sense of satisfaction in not contradicting his questionable reputation. In fact, it was this that kept Samantha from dismissing the gossip about him out of hand. In spite of the way he conducted himself with her—and in spite of an undeniable attraction for her—she had to admit that Jack could conceivably be the ruthless, cold-blooded infidel the rumors held him to be.
Her mother obviously believed, even seemed to relish, the worst of the stories, haranguing Samantha at every opportunity with comments to the effect that “that awful man you work for” was nothing more than an Irish thug whose success had been ill gotten and whose reputation was an absolute disgrace.
What if her mother was right?
Well, what if she was?
Whatever Jack might have been in the past, with her he had never been anything but a gentleman—kind, courteous, perhaps even overly protective of her. In most of the other areas of her life, Samantha had overcome the tendency to perform according to her mother’s convention-bound expectations. Why shouldn’t that hard-won independence extend to Jack?
Abruptly she turned to him. “I’d like very much to have supper with you tonight,” she said before she could change her mind. “And why don’t we try somewhere besides the club for a change?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled, his dark eyes holding her captive as he caught her completely off guard with his reply.
“What I would really like, Samantha, is to have dinner with you at my home. I confess that for a long time now I’ve fancied the idea of seeing you at my table. I don’t suppose you’d consider it?” He paused only an instant before adding, “It would be altogether proper, I promise you. My housekeeper would be there, as well as Mrs. Flynn, my cook. We wouldn’t be alone. Not at all.”
Samantha studied him, already questioning her impulsiveness yet intrigued in spite of the clamoring of her better judgment. This was the last thing she’d expected. And yet he suddenly looked so eager, so hopeful, she found herself loath to refuse.
“I…that hardly seems fair to your cook, to invite a guest on such short notice.”
Jack waved off her concern. “Mrs. Flynn routinely cooks for half a dozen or more every time she fires up the stove. She cannot seem to help herself. I do my part, of course, to digest her bounty, but even a greedy Irishman has his fill sooner or later.” He grinned at her. “I can’t think of anything that would please her more than knowing she has a legitimate license to overdo. Besides—don’t you ever get tired of dining alone? I know I do.”
When Samantha continued to hesitate, he glanced around the kitchen, saying, “I’ve been in your home now, and I should like it very much if you would visit mine.” He leaned forward, reaching across the table to lightly touch her hand. “You would honor me, Samantha.”
There it was again, that unexpected, almost quaint touch of humility that seemed so out of keeping with the air of utter confidence he usually exhibited,
Apparently, this was her day for acting on impulse.
“I…all right. But I’d have to make it an early evening, you understand.”
The light that suffused his features somehow seemed to make years drop away. He was suddenly animated, almost boyish, as if he had just been given a delightful gift.
“Aye…yes, well…that’s grand then! I’ll send Ransom around for you close on seven; how would that be? And of course he’ll drive you home whenever you say.”
Samantha smiled at his pleasure, at the same time trying hard to suppress her own.
3
SHADOWS OF THE HEART
I sat with one I love last night.
GEORGE DARLEY
Jack’s house—if such a sprawling old mansion could actually be reduced to the word house—was both a surprise and a study in contrasts.
From the first moment she entered, Samantha was both intrigued and somewhat confused by the splashes of ostentation that she would have thought foreign to Jack’s nature. Her initial sense of the house was a disturbingly oppressive feeling of gloom. Most of the furnishings were dark and massive and heavily ornate. Yet there were also touches of restrained elegance as well—simple, but classic and in excellent taste. She found herself wondering which extreme was more in keeping with Jack’s character.
The enormous entrance hall was almost garish with its crimson silk damasks and gilded wall hangings. But the massive mahogany staircase was absolutely splendid, solid and unyielding yet exquisitely carved with a certain grace in its rise all the way to the third story. Its overpowering presence and stately strength somehow reminded Samantha of Jack.
The dining room was immense, its table nearly spanning the length of the entire room, flanked by tall chairs, a large sideboard, and a china cabinet that appeared more in keeping with a medieval castle than a house on Thirty-Fourth Street. The room was just
barely saved from vulgarity by the collection of lustrous silver, delicate china, and crystal that graced the table, all in unembellished, tasteful patterns.
Being in Jack’s home, eating at his table, fueled Samantha’s curiosity about the deceased Martha Kane. What had she been like, Jack’s tragic wife who, according to Amelia Carver, had died childless while still in her twenties, leaving Jack in bitter despair at her passing? Had she chosen the more tasteful objects in this cold, dreary room? Had it been Martha who embroidered the scrolled K on the white dinner napkins?
Did Jack still miss her, still grieve for her?
Samantha dismissed the questions by reminding herself that the answers were actually none of her business. Yet she couldn’t quite shake the image of Jack sitting here, dark and silent and alone in this enormous, echoing room with only his memories to keep him company. The thought wrenched her heart with such unexpected force that she actually flinched, her fork clattering against the plate.
She looked up to find him watching her. “Ugly, isn’t it?” he said, taking in the room with a quick sweep of his hand.
Flustered, Samantha glanced away. “No, no, of course not. You have a very impressive home.”
“It’s grotesque,” he said, seemingly indifferent to the fact as he took a bite of cheese soufflé. “Most of this stuff was already here when I bought it. I always meant to make changes but never seemed to find the time. I often think about selling the place, moving into something a bit less—formidable.” He flashed a quick smile. “I must say you brighten up the old horror with your presence.”
Unnerved by the warmth of his gaze, Samantha again looked away from him, feigning interest in her dessert. “You didn’t exaggerate about Mrs. Flynn’s cooking. Everything was delicious.”
The truth was that she had scarcely tasted the food at all. She had eaten most of the roast pork and baked apples without any real appreciation of flavor.