by Joanna Shupe
“Excellent. You can’t blame me for being curious, you know. We want you betrothed to one of your debutantes, a girl who will set the papers wagging. Not a woman carrying a dirty parasol that hasn’t been fashionable since Lincoln was in office.”
Will straightened off the wall. “Yes, which is why I thought of the idea in the first place. That aside, whomever I choose to have in my life is none of your concern, Tompkins. And if it becomes your concern, I’ll drop out of this race faster than a lame thoroughbred at Jerome Park.”
“Now, listen here,” Tompkins started, his chest ballooning. “We agreed that you—”
“Oh, no. Those men . . . This could be quite problematic,” Bennett broke in to say. “Look there, at that group of white jackets. I think those are Robert Murphy’s boys. White Hats, they’re called.”
Will spun to the window. And there, up on a rise near the conclusion of the route, stood fifty or so young men in white coats and white hats, their attention on the parade. He couldn’t tell, but it appeared there were buckets on the ground as well.
“What have they there?” Bennett asked, wiping condensation off the window to get a better look. “In those buckets. Do you see?”
“Are those eggs?” Tompkins peered closer.
No, the shape was wrong. Not perfectly oblong, like an egg. These shapes were all different. Will’s stomach clenched, the glass falling uselessly from his hand to the floor. “Rocks. My God, those are rocks!” Ava. She would be right in the middle of the melee. One rock could do serious damage, even kill someone. Christ, he had to find her before the White Hats started tossing stones at the crowd.
Spinning on his heel, Will shot out of the room and toward the stairs. Sweat beaded his brow, and he took the stairs two and three at a time, his heart pounding in his chest. Once on the street, he heedlessly dodged pedestrians and horses, shouting an apology when necessary, but kept going.
He anxiously searched the crowd for any sign of her, but she stood shorter than most everyone else, hidden in a sea of unsuspecting people. Damn. I never should have forced her to come. An ear-splitting scream erupted to his right, and he saw a volley of rocks arcing across the parade route toward the marchers. Everyone stopped and glanced around, people shouting and pointing to where the White Hats had congregated.
Will covered his head as a wave of confusion and fear rolled over the bystanders. Hundreds began running hither and yon, trying to get out of the path of the rocks, which made traversing the streets impossible. In a few short moments, this could turn deadly. Someone could be trampled.
The noise picked up, more shouting and screaming as rocks rained down, and Will put his shoulders forward to barrel his way through the crowd. He had to find her, had to get her out of here.
A rock smacked his back, a sharp sting through the fine wool of his coat. An older woman fell to the ground not even a foot away from him, so he stopped to help her gain her feet. “Head for the building over there,” he yelled, pointing. “Get off the main street.” She stumbled away, and he continued on, inspecting every brunette he passed to ensure she wasn’t Ava, but there were thousands here today. The chances of finding her were slim.
When he neared the corner, the assembly had denigrated into a brawl. The White Hats were still hurling rocks and Bennett’s Band charged after them with brickbats and heavy branches. Everyone else was trying to get out of the way. “Ava!” he shouted, eyes moving swiftly over the faces around him. “Ava Jones!”
His gaze swung wildly, a knot of fear and frustration lodged in his throat. If she were harmed today, he’d never forgive himself. What had he been trying to prove, forcing her to come to this? “Ava!” he bellowed as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He’d scream himself hoarse if necessary. No way he would leave Albany without her. “Ava!”
“Will!”
A small sound, but he’d definitely heard it. Damn it, where is she? Craning his neck, he searched for her. “Ava! Where are you?”
“Will! Over here, by the light!”
He pivoted toward the streetlamp and saw the top of her head over the shifting crowd. She clung to the metal pole, her eyes wide and terrified, bonnet askew. Relief poured through him, nearly buckling his knees. “Stay there,” he yelled, and, using both arms, fought through the frenzy until he reached her side. Unable to help himself, he threw his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her answer muffled by his silk vest.
“Come on. I’m getting you out of here.” He tucked her close to his side with one arm, then used the other to shove them through the mass of clustered bodies.
“Wait! My parasol!” She tried to push away from him.
He held tight. “Ava, you’ll never find—”
“No! I must find my parasol. It was my mother’s.” She struggled against him, and he tried not to lose hold of her. Her head swung wildly about, searching the ground for the parasol. “Let me go.”
“I’ll buy you another,” he snapped. The rocks were still coming down, not far from where they stood. Someone could be seriously injured and she was worried about a damn parasol?
Two palms clapped his cheeks, bringing his gaze to meet hers. “Will, I won’t leave here without it.” The truth of that statement was there in her clenched jaw, and he sighed. Hell.
Bending, he shifted to look on the ground near where she’d been standing. After a moment, he spotted it. A crumpled yellow parasol lay in the gutter, a sad casualty of the stampede.
“I see it,” he called. With Ava’s fists curled into his clothing, he fought the elbows, backs, and shoulders bombarding them from all angles to reach the edge of the curb. He wrapped one arm around her and used the other to retrieve her parasol.
Once he had it, he wasted no time in leading her toward the train station, where the safety of his private car awaited. He would get her out of Albany, no matter what.
Chapter Eight
Ava exhaled and took another sip of the superlative spirits that Will had placed in her hand a few moments ago. French brandy, he’d said, instructing her to drink it directly before he departed to see to their travel arrangements. “I’m taking you home” was all he’d said before stepping out of the car.
Her hands were still trembling. Lord above, she’d never been so frightened in all her life. Under normal circumstances, the height difference between herself and most everyone else did not bother her. But in a frenzied crowd settled on violence, that size difference could mean life or death. Hands and feet pushing and shoving from every direction . . . she’d been knocked to the ground twice before finally reaching the lamppost. Once there, her plan had been to wait out the riot until either the police arrived or the men ran out of steam.
In the end, waiting had proven unnecessary. Will had come for her. He’d found her, braved that hornet’s nest to ensure her safety. She couldn’t believe it, especially when the two of them were at odds all the time. Really, who was she to him but a nuisance he wished gone? Why would he bother to rescue her?
She pushed that thought aside. She didn’t care about the reason, not now. No doubt she’d wonder over it later, when she wasn’t situated in his opulent private car, nestled into velvet furniture while drinking delicious liquor out of a heavy crystal glass. Instead, at this moment, she felt only profound gratitude and relief.
A crumpled yellow heap on the floor caught her eye. He’d saved her mother’s parasol, a simple gesture that touched her beyond measure. The item, though not costly, had great sentimental value to her and could never be replaced. Of course, he’d been confused at her insistence to retrieve the shabby thing, but he’d done it anyway.
She took another sip of brandy to wash down the tenderness clogging her throat. It was too dangerous to let herself feel anything for Will. He was high-handed and arrogant, a rigid man used to getting his own way. His world, that of parties and champagne, debutantes and cotillions, was not something Ava could even imagine. She lived in the real New Yor
k, the one with dirt and grime, backbreaking work, and never enough time or money to enjoy simple pleasures.
Still, she could enjoy a small taste of his world for a moment. She’d earned that, at least, by coming up here today at his behest.
Relaxing into the soft sofa, she glanced about. The car could easily belong to royalty, though she supposed the Sloanes were as close to royalty as one had in America. By God, this long box was nicer than most houses she’d seen, with its dark mahogany interior and gold fixtures. Stained glass clerestory windows ran the length of the space, allowing mottled light to filter through, which gave the interior a holy reverence. Two separate seating areas contained sturdy furniture covered in lush fabrics, and crystal gasoliers provided additional light. The exotic and beautiful handwoven rugs beneath her feet had no doubt been imported from a country she hadn’t heard of before.
He’s the president of the railroad. Did you expect him to travel like the common rabble?
The gulf between them had never felt more acute than at this moment. He’d played the white knight, rescuing her and bringing her back to his fancy castle-car . . . but she was far from a princess.
She hadn’t been born of wealth or privilege. Her parents had been hardworking, third-generation New Yorkers who’d struggled to keep the family clothed and fed. When they died of influenza in ’85, the lives of the Jones siblings had grown frighteningly grim. Many days Ava had skipped meals in order for the others to have enough to eat. She’d sold every valuable they owned. Mended clothing in dim gaslight until she thought her eyes would cross. Before the Madam Zolikoff idea, there were times when she’d feared that only one profession would ever pay enough to survive.
The door flew open and Will bounded up the steps and into the car. Not a sandy blond hair out of place, his clothes remaining perfectly pressed, one could never tell he’d just braved an unruly mob. What did it take to rattle this man?
“We shall be leaving in ten minutes,” he announced on his way to the cabinet where several crystal decanters rested. He snatched the neck of a decanter and poured a healthy amount of amber liquid into a heavy cut-glass tumbler. He downed it in one swallow.
Hmmm. Perhaps more rattled than she thought.
With his glass now refilled, he dropped into a chair opposite the sofa and stretched out his long legs. She hated that she noticed how the muscles of his thighs bunched under his trousers and the broad shoulders that pulled on the fine fabric of his coat. But she was keenly aware of him, her blood overexcited just from being in his presence. Her mother’s voice suddenly rang in her head. I always knew you’d be trouble, girl. If Ava had a penny for every time she’d heard those words, the Jones family could well afford pheasant every night.
But she could still see Will, charging into the chaos earlier like a general on a battlefield, with nothing and no one able to stop him . . . Her body warmed in a telling place at the memory.
“I hope you understand how much I regret what occurred today,” Will said, refocusing her attention. “It was never my intent to put you in harm’s way.”
“I should hope not. And thank you for finding me. I feared I’d be forced to wait until they all killed one another or it started to rain before I could escape.”
The side of his mouth lifted a fraction, the only sign he might be amused. “I assume they would have settled down eventually.”
“Not every rally is such a hellabaloo, then?”
“Definitely not. Usually they wait to riot until the food runs out.”
She cocked her head and studied him. “I cannot be sure, but I think William Sloane just made a joke.”
“You say it as if I lack a sense of humor.” Lifting the glass to his lips, he took a drink. “That could not be further from the truth.”
Balderdash. Based on their few interactions, the man was as dry as week-old bread. “Indeed? Jolly good fun at the club, are you?” she said in her best upper-crust British voice.
He shook his head. “You are terrible at accents.”
“I am not! I can imitate nearly anyone.” Several people had remarked favorably on her gift of mimicry over the last two years. And she could throw her voice, a trick she’d already used once on him. “Everyone believes Madam Zolikoff to be Russian.”
“If you say so,” he replied, toasting her with his glass before taking a drink.
“You’re mocking me.” Strangely, she didn’t mind. They were jabbing at each other, poking, as they usually did, but this exchange lacked the malice found in previous conversations. Perhaps they were both still reeling from earlier, but Ava couldn’t work up any anger at the man who’d rescued her from an angry mob. No doubt she’d be fuming at him in a few minutes when he said something infuriating. Right now, however, she was . . . enjoying this.
“I am,” he admitted, no trace of apology in his voice. “Why Russian? Madam Zolikoff could easily have been French or Italian. You chose a very difficult accent.”
“Fewer people have heard Russian, so I thought it would be easier to get away with mistakes. Also, there were some Russian women in our building at the time.” Ava had listened to the older ladies for hours, learning how to pronounce the rough vowels and harsh consonants correctly, until she’d perfected the sounds. “Admit it, William,” she said in her best Russian pronunciation, which came out as Ahd-mit it, Villeum. “You believed I was Russian when you first heard me.”
“Not for one second. Tell me, how many patrons do you see regularly?”
“Including John, eleven. Why?”
“And the rest of your income is from the stage shows?”
“Yes, but I also do a fair number of home séances. Three a month, sometimes more. Those are very lucrative.” Strange to discuss her business this way with someone, but Will was also a businessman, and no doubt his practices often bordered on the illegal as well. Perhaps they understood each other better than she’d thought.
“Why so lucrative?” He sounded curious instead of judgmental, as she’d come to expect.
“In addition to the fee for the séance, many of the attendees pay for a private reading after.”
“Unbelievable,” he scoffed. “Stupidity knows no bounds. Tell me, how did you levitate the table in your show? Someone below the floor?”
Ava took a sip of the brandy, enjoying the warmth as it slid down her throat to her belly, and she debated telling him. She generally did not reveal her secrets, though the trickery in itself took skill. Not everyone could escape from rope bindings or pick a lock behind their back. Being a medium wasn’t all trances and hymns; she had studied hard and practiced for months to hone her act. Moving a table required a small, light piece of furniture, her foot under one of the legs, strong leg muscles, and dim lighting. Levitation was a bit more difficult, requiring strings pulled from behind the stage.
But to confide in him would out herself as a fraud, the very thing he’d accused her of all along, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. The second he had confirmation, no doubt he’d run to John Bennett with the proof. “The spirits are very powerful. They lift the table, not me.” She hid her smile behind her glass as she took another sip.
He heaved an aggravated sigh. “I wish you would trust me.”
I learned a long time ago not to trust men like you. The words burned the tip of her tongue, yet she withheld them. He didn’t deserve more information, not when he already knew too much. “Just as you trust me?”
He studied her and drummed his fingers on the armrest. “I do not play a part to fleece people out of money.”
“Don’t you? Whether you’re a politician spouting what the public wants to hear, or you’re strong-arming business associates to get what you want, you’re playing a part. Everyone performs, if only to show the world what we think they want to see.”
“Of course you would believe that’s true.” He leaned forward in his chair, anger evident in the flattening of his mouth and tightening of his jaw. “I am not—”
The outer door swun
g open, cutting off Will’s tirade, and John Bennett entered the car. Every muscle in Ava’s body tensed. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole, but no such luck. All she could do was pray John wouldn’t recognize her.
* * *
Will wanted to curse and snarl at the interruption. When he saw who it was, he could do neither, as keeping the two men from Ava would only increase their curiosity about her.
Bennett strolled into the sitting area, his keen gaze sliding between Will and Ava, with Tompkins following quickly behind. “Good to see you found the young lady unharmed,” Bennett said. “Won’t you introduce us, Sloane?”
Swallowing his frustration, he said, “Miss Jones, allow me to introduce Mr. John Bennett, the next governor of the great state of New York.”
Bennett waved off the words as if they embarrassed him. Will knew better; Bennett loved attention of any kind—which was part of the reason he fancied the visits with his “medium,” Madam Zolikoff. “Now, Sloane. You know the voters get to decide the outcome. How lovely to meet you, Miss Jones.” He bowed formally, which only seemed to make Ava even more uncomfortable.
The moment stretched, expectation thick in the air. A few words. That was all it would take for Will to ruin her career. He merely needed to open his mouth and tell Bennett the truth. You’ve already met her. This is the medium you pay for spiritual advice, Madam Zolikoff.
Ava’s knowing gaze locked with his, a dare sparkling in her round, brown eyes. She assumed he would speak, exposing her. Indeed, why wouldn’t he? He’d been trying to ruin her for weeks, to get her out of Bennett’s life. But that was before . . . before he met her brother and learned of her hardships. Of the younger sister who toiled in a garment factory. Discovered how this woman had single-handedly provided a better life than either of her parents had managed before her.
Before he’d kissed her and tasted her sweetness on his tongue.
For Christ’s sake, get ahold of yourself. He was one of the most sought-after men in New York; developing an affection for someone like Ava would be patently ridiculous. The woman was a complete fraud, and this was Will’s chance to end their association now and forever. Say it. Say it now. He tried to force the statement past his clenched jaw . . . but the sounds wouldn’t leave his throat.