by BJ Hoff
But she was frightened, that much was clear. What in the world could the man have said to unnerve her so completely?
One thing was certain: She would have been at a grossly unfair disadvantage with him. Kane was rather formidable, after all. He could easily overwhelm someone in Terese’s tenuous position.
On the other hand, he did not think that Terese Sheridan would be easily cowed. To the contrary, one of the things that had first drawn him to her was the strength he had sensed in her, the seemingly indomitable will that, even in the worst of her delirium, had often surfaced and blazed, if only for a brief moment.
No, he decided, even taken unawares, Terese would somehow manage to dig in and stand her ground if the situation required it.
In any event, David resented Kane’s apparent lack of sensitivity, even if his intentions had been totally without malice. Besides, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that Kane had meant Terese no ill will. Jack Kane was legendary for his ruthlessness; if the rumors were not overblown, he had destroyed more than one businessman who dared to go against him. Look at that series of articles he’d done some time back about the prominent citizens who doubled as the landlords of brothels and gambling dens all over the city. Kane had pulled no punches, had actually named names and cited their abhorrent practices one by one.
Even though David had silently applauded the articles, the act itself could be pointed to as an example of Kane’s cold-bloodedness.
Whatever the man’s intentions, David thought he would probably raise the issue of his interest in Terese’s unborn child next time they met. She was his patient, after all, and still recovering. He had the right to inquire into whatever might have occurred to unsettle her so.
But even as he tried to convince himself, David knew his concern was something more than a natural desire to protect a patient. For a moment there he had been absolutely furious with Jack Kane at the mere thought that he might have somehow, even inadvertently, intimidated Terese.
He swallowed against an unfamiliar tightness in his throat, wondering not for the first time what he was to do about these increasingly disturbing feelings for his lovely young patient. The entire situation was unthinkable. He was a good deal older than she, for one thing; even though she was in the advanced stages of her pregnancy, she was little more than a girl. He had learned that she was from a radically different culture, a primitive, remote place—one of the Aran Islands. More than likely only a handful of people in the States had ever heard of. In addition, she was only now recovering from a precarious illness and still had a long way to go before she fully regained her health.
The rest of it was that she probably had no interest in him whatsoever except as her physician.
David raked a hand through his hair in frustration—frustration with himself and with the situation as a whole. If he were to be completely honest, he would simply admit the fact that he was a fool and stay well away from Terese Sheridan.
Very well, he was a fool. But as for staying away from Terese—he already knew he would do no such thing.
What he would do, however, was to try to think of a way to help her gain a measure of independence rather quickly. He admired her for wanting to keep her baby, indeed would have been disappointed if she had not wanted to keep it. If for some reason Jack Kane did mean to see that she gave it up because of her precarious circumstances, then the best thing he could do for her was to find a way by which she could support herself and the child.
As it happened, by the time he reached his office under the stairway, an idea had already begun to form.
32
SUSPECTED ENEMIES
There is something here I do not get,
Some menace that I do not comprehend.
VALENTIN IREMONGER
A winter storm greeted New Yorkers just before noon Thursday and didn’t pass until it had deposited several inches of snow on the city. A vicious wind blustered most of the day, whipping snow in the eyes of the horses as they ploughed through the streets with their various vehicles and forcing pedestrians to hunch their shoulders and bow their heads against its fury.
By late afternoon the snow was still falling. City streets were treacherous, and merchants and office managers began to close shop and send their people home.
At Grace Mission, Terese Sheridan sat in a chair by the window, watching the wind-driven snow spiral around the iron fence that ringed the building. The sky was the color of gunmetal, but the ground was totally white, its brightness relieving much of the gloom that ordinarily settled over the city this time of day.
Shona was perched on the bed, cutting out snowflakes from a page of newspaper, an activity learned from one of the other children. From time to time she glanced up, as if alert to Terese’s glum mood.
Terese pretended not to notice. She was too preoccupied, too embroiled in her own worries to reassure the child.
At another time she might have enjoyed watching the curtain of snow whipping about the grounds. Earlier, when the storm first settled in, the children had scurried up and down the corridor, darting from one window to another to watch the drama taking place outside. Even Shona had seemed excited at first, later settling into a kind of quiet contentment as she occupied herself.
Perhaps it was natural to experience a sense of serenity and well-being while watching the wintry world from a safe, warm place inside. But for Terese, the wail of the wind and the sight of the heavy, congested sky emptying itself onto the city only served to darken her spirits still more.
If Samantha had come, Terese thought, perhaps this black mood would have passed by now. And, in fact, she had promised to come by today with new books for both Terese and Shona. But, of course, no one would venture out in weather such as this if it wasn’t necessary, so the afternoon promised to drag on with no surcease from the monotony.
The attacks of dread that had seized Terese since the encounter with Jack Kane had become more frequent over the past two days. No matter how much she tried to suppress her fears, she couldn’t seem to bury them altogether. She worried over the health of the child in light of her long, drawn-out illness and the brutal ship crossing. She worried over how long it might take her to recover from the birthing itself. She worried over the money she would need to make some sort of a home for herself and the child.
And she worried about Shona, for she had already decided she would not let the child go to strangers if she could help it. There was no telling what it would do to the girl to be ripped away from the one familiar person in her life, and this after losing her parents and brother, all in such a short time.
Terese had lived with dread so long that it seemed she couldn’t remember a time when her chest didn’t ache with it. But it was worse now than ever. Before, she had had only herself to fend for, and she had always been strong and able to manage, even in the harshest of circumstances.
But now she had the added responsibility of a baby. She drew a weary sigh as yet another blast of wind-driven snow lashed the side of the house. What would it be like, she wondered, to be Samantha Harte or Jack Kane, to be permanently secure in the knowledge that you had a roof over your head and food in the larder and adequate means to care for yourself and your family? Did their kind have any inkling of what it was like to live in fear of hunger or the cold, always at the mercy of another’s whim or act of charity…when the very meaning of existence could be summed up in one word: survival?
Perhaps one of the reasons she so admired David Leslie was the way he seemed to devote himself to making survival possible for others less fortunate, obviously sacrificing his own comforts in the process.
Terese stared out into the storm, shivering, not so much from the cold as from the thought that she could just as easily be on the other side of the window, trudging through the snow in search of a place to sleep where she and her unborn babe would not freeze to death. At least here, thanks to David Leslie, she could count on a clean bed and enough to eat.
Which was more than she’
d been able to count on most of her seventeen years.
The babe gave a strong kick just then, and Terese pressed a hand against her stomach. “It will be better for you,” she murmured. “It will. Somehow, some way, I’ll see to it that you don’t have to scratch and scrape just to survive, I promise you.”
When an ugly whisper insinuated itself at the corner of her mind as to how, exactly, she expected to keep such a rash promise, Terese brushed it aside.
She would keep it, no matter what it took. In her heart of hearts, she was determined to find a way.
“Turner Julian has finally made good on his threat, Jack. He’s bringing suit against you. Along with three of the other businessmen he claims you ‘defamed.’ They’re filing a joint suit.”
Avery Foxworth tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, watching Jack closely.
They had met at the Vanguard for a change, rather than at the attorney’s office; considering the weather, Jack was just as glad.
He shrugged and made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “Julian is the instigator, I take it?”
Foxworth nodded.
“Besides my scalp, how much does he want?”
“Half a million.”
Jack whistled softly. “The man does carry a fierce grudge, now doesn’t he?”
“I warned you, Jack. Julian has been verbally filleting you ever since the exposé you published on the brothels—your…‘Harlots and Hypocrites’ piece.” Foxworth wrinkled his nose as if he’d caught a whiff of a particularly vile odor. “I told you that you were asking for trouble when you ran it.”
The exposé Avery Foxworth was referring to was an entire series Jack had done some time back on crime in general and prostitution in particular—and on those who helped to perpetuate the vice running rampant in the city. It was hardly a secret among the newspapermen—and the police force—that quite a few of the city’s bawdy houses and gambling dens, not to mention some of the most abominable tenement buildings in New York, were owned by certain wealthy, “upstanding” citizens.
One of those citizens was the society physician, Turner Julian—a man Jack knew to be a consummate bigot, a hypocrite of the first rank, and, as a doctor, little more than a charlatan. In his editorials accompanying the exposé, Jack had applied a number of scathing epithets to Julian—“Fifth Avenue medicine man,” for one—as well as an entire slate of allegations, which he had carefully documented. In addition, the series itself listed specific “business establishments” and other properties—some of which were virtual death traps—owned by Julian and his cronies under the cover of a middleman.
Admittedly, there was more to it on Jack’s part than some sort of high-minded desire to expose the crooked shenanigans of Turner Julian and his kind. What Avery Foxworth didn’t know—nor did anyone else, for that matter, except for Rufus Carver—was that to this day Jack was convinced that Turner Julian was directly responsible for the worst of Martha’s suffering and final humiliation during the last days of her life, before the cancer finally claimed her.
Julian had made no secret of his contempt for the Irish, had shown Martha not a shred of mercy as the vicious disease ravaged her body and stripped her dignity from her day by day. When Jack persisted in trying to get the condescending physician to do something to ease her pain, Julian had dismissed him with unthinkable callousness, telling him that if he “wanted miracles, then call a priest.”
The next day, however, the insufferable physician had gone on to perform—and totally botch—a hasty surgical procedure that caused Martha more agony than ever. When Jack realized what had happened, he went after Julian like a madman. If Rufus hadn’t pulled him off the terrified doctor, Jack would probably have murdered the man in the middle of the hospital hallway.
He had bided his time in the intervening years, determined that he would not only expose Julian for the quack he was but for his shady business practices as well. Finally, after accumulating all the evidence he needed, he published everything he had in the Vanguard.
Since then, he’d heard from various sources that Julian’s practice had suffered considerably in the wake of the exposé. Of course, Julian was old money—as was his wife—so financial ruin was never a real consideration. No doubt what galled the man most was the besmirching of his precious family name and the aspersions cast on his competence.
“Tell me again exactly what sort of proof you have.” Avery Foxworth’s prodding yanked Jack back to his surroundings.
“I have more than enough,” Jack assured him. “Signed statements from some of the newsboys who also work as bagmen for Julian’s ‘managers,’ and others from a couple of his former landlords. Copies of the deeds Julian holds—the man wasn’t clever enough to reassign them. And, as I believe I told you before, I also have a sworn account from a former prostitute who used to work in one of his brothels and whom Julian himself patronized on several visits—before he beat her almost to death.” Jack paused. “She was fourteen at the time.”
Again Foxworth made a face of distaste. “The…young lady in question—did she give a statement to the police at the time?”
Jack twisted his mouth. “She was little more than a child—and a prostitute, Avery. Of course she didn’t go to the police.”
“But she talked to you?”
Jack shrugged. “Money will buy almost anything, as you undoubtedly know. Even the truth.” He studied his attorney. “You seem annoyed, Avery. Anything in particular?”
Foxworth pursed his lips. “You don’t seem to be taking this quite as seriously as I think you ought to.”
“Now there you’re wrong, Avery. I take being sued very seriously. Very seriously, indeed. But I don’t see how Julian can hurt me. I’m not fool enough to go public with a fire-baiting story unless I have the means to put out the blaze. My own character may be a bit questionable, but I wouldn’t risk the integrity of the paper.”
Avery seemed to consider that for a moment. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. Well, I trust you have all your documentation under lock and key, because we’re likely to need it before this is over and done with.”
Jack nodded, jerking his head toward the safe behind his desk. “It’s all there. Don’t fret yourself.”
Foxworth stood, slipping on his fine leather gloves and smoothing them one finger at a time. “Very well, then. I believe I’ll be getting along while the streets are still passable. It’s getting nasty out there.”
Jack got to his feet and came around the desk. “Thanks for coming by, Avery,” he said, shaking his attorney’s hand. “You’ll be in touch?”
Foxworth gave a nod. “I’m going to prepare some sort of informal reply to the suit first thing. Just a letter, you understand, expressing the proper indignation and perhaps a veiled threat or two. It will get us nowhere, of course, but I want to go through those papers you have before we do anything else.” He paused. “I don’t suppose I could take them with me?”
Jack thought about it but didn’t like the idea. “No offense, Avery, but I’d feel better keeping everything here for now.”
“Never trust an Englishman, eh, Jack?”
Jack merely smiled as he opened the door to the hallway. “I never trust any man, Avery.”
Foxworth left, shaking his head as he went.
Jack went to the window that looked out on the street and stood watching for a moment. He was tempted to change his mind about going to the mission house yet this afternoon. From the looks of it, the snow wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
But his plan had been burning a hole in his gullet for three days, and he was simply too impatient to put it off any longer. Besides, he had already sent Cavan Sheridan up to Albany, just as a precaution. This storm ought to keep the lad there over the weekend, at least. If the girl should get too wrought up, she might be tempted to confide in her brother, and Jack didn’t want to have to deal with the both of them at once. He was fairly certain he could bring Cavan around without any great difficulty, but one problem at a
time for now.
It was almost two-thirty. He would go to Grace Mission yet this afternoon, then come back and work for another two or three hours.
No point hoping to see Samantha tonight, after all; she wouldn’t be venturing out in this kind of storm. He might as well finish the piece on the Harrison–Tyler ticket and get started on tomorrow’s editorial.
Outside, he found Madog Wall shoveling off the stoop. The man tipped his hat to Jack and made way for him.
“You’re not drivin’ yourself home, are you, Mr. Kane?”
Jack pulled his topcoat collar a little higher around his throat. “Not yet, Madog. I thought I’d take the paper wagon over to Pearl Street. I figure it will get me there and back with less trouble than the carriage.”
Madog looked appalled. “But, Mr. Kane—the way this is comin’ down, you’ll be soaked clear through by the time you get there! And half froze, to boot.”
“Nonsense!” Jack waved off the man’s concern and headed for the wagon. Given half a chance, Madog would fuss over him like a nervous granny. “A little snow isn’t going to hurt me. I rather like the stuff. But I’ll have your cap if you don’t mind.”
The burly Irishman looked altogether bewildered. “Sir?”
“Your cap, man! Lend me your cap if you’re so worried about my staying warm!”
Madog stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses, but, always obedient, grabbed the cap off his head and tossed it to Jack. “ ’Tis good and clean, sir. Practically new, it is.”
Jack laughed at him as he perched the wool cap on his head and hiked himself up on the bench of the wagon. “You’re a good man, Madog!”
He clucked his tongue a couple of times, and the sturdy gray started off through the snow.
33
A PROCESSION OF VISITORS
Hope, like the gleaming taper’s light,
Adorns and cheers our way.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH