“Good evening.” Drew bowed, a gesture that came across as somehow awkward. Due to what? Adele scanned his form. His clothes, perhaps. They weren’t any he’d worn before. The ebony fabric of the evening coat looked finer, the white necktie tied in precise angles and folds.
“Mr. Dawson.” Adele inclined her head.
“Dawson was supposed to be here earlier, but the carriage met with an accident. You’ll not get off so easily though next time, my man.” Mr. Conway gave Drew the sort of look a parent would dole out to a misbehaving child. “But since you’re here, we’ll say no more about it. I haven’t mentioned Dawson to you, have I, dear Miss Linley?”
Adele shook her head. Whether from the chill of the hall, or some other reason, a new wave of gooseflesh raised tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
“Dawson is part of a special project of mine. He’s one of those Blondin-type fellows, and it was a nifty stroke of luck that we came across each other, just in time for the summer tourist season. In a few weeks, he’ll be putting on quite the show for us. Isn’t that right, Dawson?”
One of those Blondin-type fellows? Drew?
“It’s a business project. Something to do with the Falls. It would take too long to explain now.”
Oh, yes indeed it would. For as sure as the sun would rise every morning and Niagara would thunder and foam, equally obvious was the truth.
He’d lied to her. Sat there and listened while she maligned the daredevils, all the while knowing of his own part in the exploitation of the Falls. Had the audacity to charm her with coffee and conversation, smiles and sympathy, unperturbed by his lies. Like an illicit gravedigger throwing the last shovelful atop the coffin, content to let the past be the past and grass and weeds cover the dirt and secrets.
She met Drew’s eyes, hoping her gaze pierced him like a bullet, the way his concealment sliced the cord of trust she’d so freely given him.
Good. There was shame on his face. He realized what he’d done and maybe even acknowledged the effects. Not that that would make any difference to her. He’d already torched the bridge between them.
“Hmm. Fascinating. I don’t suppose you fear falling off, Mr. Dawson? Danger is a funny sort of guest. Calling at unwanted hours, overstaying its welcome, and making off with far more than we intended to give it.” Each of her words were blades. Hidden by a smile, so as not to give Mr. Conway cause for wonderment, but razor sharp nonetheless.
“I do hope he doesn’t plan on falling.” Mr. Conway chuckled. “I like my schemes to go off without a hitch.”
The intensity of Drew’s gaze burned through her. “You talk of danger, Miss Linley. Perhaps I don’t fear it as you do. Maybe I realize that none of us are immune. I try to live every day as if it were my last, whether I set foot on a tightrope or not. Some people don’t understand the choices I make, and I give them leave to think as they wish. But in the end, it’s my life and my decision.” Though there was a clip in his words, they were blunt scissor blades, not sharp. And behind them, in the shadows of his eyes, she read a kind of pleading there. A penitence, as if each blink were a sentence, each flicker a plea.
Forgive me. Please.
She yanked her gaze away. He didn’t deserve forgiveness. Risking his life in such a base way, in the name of do or die and daring. As if each stunt was a game of cards, played casually, though the stakes were high.
Just like Father.
“I suppose every person has the right to throw away their own life. Though we didn’t sign the Declaration of Independence in England, we still have the same principles of freedom. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of all that.”
Mr. Conway’s questioning gaze pricked her. If life were indeed a game of cards, she’d just overplayed her hand. He suspected something was amiss. He’d be hard of hearing not to.
Though honestly, right now, she didn’t much care. Mr. Conway too was at fault. Sponsoring this madness with his bucketloads of cash. Ringmaster in this circus of cheap thrills and futility.
“But England chafed against it. They didn’t want freedom. Didn’t think Americans had the right to make their own choices, decide their own laws. Seems to me we all ought to have that right. And no one ought judge us for our decisions, especially when they don’t know the whole truth. The English lived in England. They weren’t in America, struggling with the colonists, faced with their day-to-day choices. Apart from a few documents, they knew absolutely nothing.” Any evidence of remorse dissipated with each word spoken. If Drew Dawson showed this much resolve in his battle against nature, he very well might conquer it.
Adele swallowed, the tiles under her feet seeming to shift, tilting the room along with it, the same way her original opinion of the man in front of her had so recently done.
“I prefer not to waste time on such silly debates.” The sugar of her socialite tone seemed to coat her tongue with bile. “They’ll be missing us in the drawing room. Shall we, Mr. Conway?” She beamed up at him, glowing as much as Drew had glowered a moment before. As he still might be doing, though she wasn’t looking in his direction anymore.
“Of course. Coming, Dawson?” Mr. Conway glanced over his shoulder as their steps turned toward safety in social artifice. She let him lead her because it wouldn’t do to storm off by herself. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t also angry at Mr. Conway, just that his arm provided a suitable route of escape to the drawing room.
“In a moment, sir.” If the fabric of his voice was any indication, he too had slipped behind whatever mask suited him most.
So be it. She’d chatter with the ladies in the drawing room for half an hour, plead a headache, and return home early.
Not once would she look again in his direction.
Nor allow herself to ponder the sting of his betrayal.
He was the betrayer, not the betrayed. So why did Drew feel like the latter?
Though good intentions carried the weight of a feather when compared to the solid rock of stark reality, he’d meant to tell her. Truly. During their hour over coffee, the words had been on the tip of his tongue more than once.
But ended up sticking to the roof of his mouth, like a chunk of thick brown bread.
Thankful to at least be out of that too-warm, over-fragranced drawing room, Drew turned his steps toward home. Rain pelted the crown of his head, the shoulders of his stupidly expensive evening jacket. But rather than the droplets stinging, they only served to cool the tumult of his emotions.
Momentarily.
For as he passed the window of the brightly lit mansion, he glimpsed Adele’s willowy frame beside Mr. Conway’s dockhand build. Saw the smile on her lips, the playful wave of her hand as if giving him a jesting smack.
If he stood beneath the torrent of Niagara, the weight of the water wouldn’t be enough to quell the boil within him.
Sideswiping an unsuspecting couple hurrying along the sidewalk, he stood at the end of the street, debating what to do now. The most logical choice was to return home. But Hope would be there, and her keen eyes missed nothing. She’d demand to know what was the matter with her Dew, and he could disappoint her as easily as he could take a swim over the Horseshoe Falls and come out alive.
Five years ago, there was no question about where he’d have headed. Even now, the urge for a drink made moisture fill his mouth that had nothing to do with the rain. It’d been his habit, when the strain of keeping a job and caring for Hope became too much to bear, to head for a nearby bar and drown his troubles in two shots of whisky. He’d always hidden his late-night excursions from his sister, but innocent though she was, he suspected she’d known all along.
Thank the Lord he wasn’t that man anymore. God had gotten hold of him in the form of a traveling evangelist—a man who spoke not only of God’s judgment but also of His love. A man who’d taken Drew’s view of God as a cruel master ready to squash sinning humans like pesky gnats, and turned it upside-down with a force and finality that astonished Drew even now.
No. Much as he
salivated for it, he’d not return to that life again. There might be relief in indulging his desires, but it wouldn’t last. And the regret that came afterward would all but drown him.
Besides, these days he was more frugal with his earnings than ever. And though he’d counted on dinner at the Denning’s to take away the aching in his midsection, he’d missed it after Conway’s carriage broke a wheel.
Not that it mattered. He was no stranger to going to bed on an empty stomach. What would prove a far less palatable bedtime companion was the guilt biting at his insides.
Even the anger at the way she’d baited him, showing no mercy. And how he’d responded, wanting only to make amends at the first, before being sucked into her verbal swordplay and doing his own conscience no favors.
He didn’t want to see her again. How could he stomach the derision in those mossy eyes, in the curve of that proud mouth? A consummate lady, she was. He’d never equal her in refinement, never match her in book learning. Now that she knew he was nothing more than a common thrill man, any good opinion she might’ve held had been trod upon and muddied with as much finality as a clean white shirt falling into a pile of refuse.
But how could he avoid meeting her? As his boots ate up the blocks, each step taking him closer to Canal Street, the thought jangled in his mind like a handful of pennies, rolling around and around, making much noise but accomplishing little purpose. Though it had rained in the Canal District too, the air still held the odor of too many bodies trapped in one place with minimal sanitation and even less care.
He couldn’t avoid it. He would meet her. With the list of social functions Conway wanted him to attend, their paths were bound to intersect at one point or another. It was only a question of where and how soon.
It had quit raining, leaving the summer air moist and diffused with the familiar odor of rotten eggs and cheap alcohol. Had Conway set even one leather-shod foot upon this street, Drew would bet the millionaire wouldn’t last five minutes before depositing his sumptuous dinner onto the cobblestones.
The apartment building he and Hope called home stood in front of him, squatting on the street like a corpulent man who cared little for his appearance. Rather than climb the narrow stairs to their room on the second floor, he remained outside, gaze on the sky.
Stars winked high overhead, the only diamonds this side of Buffalo would ever see. But even here, the stars seemed to say that life could still hold blessings. God had a purpose, and that knowledge was worth far more than any education offered to those privileged people whose home he’d just left.
“I acknowledge my sin unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my transgressions unto the LORD; and thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin” (Psalm 32:5).
That part, he could handle. The scriptures confirmed God offered forgiveness. But there was another cipher to the equation, and as it needled his mind, his jaw tightened.
He needed to ask Adele for forgiveness. Doing so would keep him walking in obedience to what he knew to be truth. But…to speak those words to her? When in all likelihood, she’d take his offered olive branch and ride roughshod over it with her fancy shoes.
You know what I’d like to do about this, Lord. Stay as far away from her as I can get. But I know what You’d tell me to do, so that’s what’ll happen. I’ll ask her forgiveness.
Though, quite frankly, another trip across Niagara sounded easier.
While Dorothea exclaimed over art and culture, Adele intended to give Franklin Conway a piece of her mind.
Playing the part of a carefree guest had been a struggle equal to walking backward on a fast-moving train. But she’d managed it for over an hour last night, before prying Millie away from her university swain and returning to the Osbournes’. It had taken another two hours to compose herself enough to consider sleep. Not only because of what Drew had done in omitting the truth, but because Mr. Conway also was involved in a scheme that went against every principle she held dear.
He strolled beside her now, giving the paintings a beggar’s dinner in the banquet of his attention. Mostly, he addressed remarks to her or exchanged greetings with acquaintances.
Arm in arm with an old school friend, Dorothea headed toward the seventeenth century exhibit room, leaving Adele and Mr. Conway in the statuary gallery.
“You’re very quiet this afternoon.” Halting beside a bust of the head of some Roman emperor whose name she should probably remember but had unfortunately forgotten, Mr. Conway turned to face her.
“I slept little last night.” Were the Romans or the Grecians renowned for their classical features? Whichever it was supposed to be, this poor marbleized chap hadn’t been gifted with so much as a thimbleful.
“Something on your mind?” He lowered his tone as a group of giggling ladies sallied past.
“There is, actually.” She met his eyes, fingers tightening around the ribbon of her beaded reticule.
“Care to enlighten me?” Concern lit his grayish-blue eyes. A look at utter variance with the type of man who willfully made a profit by putting someone in needless jeopardy.
“It’s just…”
She bit her lip. Should she take this risk? Would it incur his anger and send him in the direction of some other more malleable female?
The events of the previous evening rushed toward her in a wave of remembrance. Come what may, she had to speak her mind. “I cannot help but wonder about the morality involving the scheme with your Mr. Dawson. It just seems so…wrong to place a man in danger of his life to appease a crowd of onlookers whose only desire is to raise their pulse in the hopes of seeing some poor creature fall to a horrific death.” Though Drew wasn’t exactly a “poor creature,” the statement still rang true.
Out of any human alive, she could testify to this. She’d viewed it firsthand, not over the Falls, but atop the balustrade of her very own home. And the sensation of watching a man plummet downward, toward destruction…Even now it sent a rush of horror shooting into her heart.
Some men, upon having their authority questioned, would have turned into a veritable dragon, roaring with fire shooting. Mr. Conway only chuckled in that peculiar American way of his, half-laugh, half-guffaw. “You should see yourself right now. With that look in your eyes and your head held just so, you put those mythical goddesses to shame.”
She said nothing, pressing her lips together, turning to face a statue instead of him. What she wanted was an honest answer, not idle flattery.
Silence stretched. Adele focused on the statue as if it were the key to all life’s questions. What curly hair Alexander the Great had. And such wide eyes.
Was she gambling too much in pressing Mr. Conway for answers?
No. This was too important to be evaded.
A hand on her shoulder bade her turn, the touch warm, yet insistent. She moved willingly, facing him with a look she hoped was equal parts feminine innocence and immovable determination.
“Don’t trouble yourself with my investments, dear Miss Linley.” His hand slid down her cashmere-clad shoulder, slipped around her fingers. “I saw a good opportunity when it presented itself and took it. If I didn’t do that, why, I wouldn’t have made half what I have now. It’s just business. I’ve no wish to kill anyone.”
She swallowed, letting his smooth words slide over her.
“Haven’t you ever done something simply because it was the practical thing to do, leaving emotions aside? Though I’m sure you have, it’s a thing I’d hope to shelter you from. It’s a fact of life but one a beautiful woman shouldn’t fret her pretty head over. Leave business to me, and I’ll leave beauty to you. Goodness knows, you’ve enough of it.” His fingers toyed with hers in a way that sent a rush of heat into her cheeks. How bold he was in his declarations, in his praises of her looks.
And how weak she was in the way she simply smiled, letting herself be wooed by his words, their logic. The Adele of four years ago would never have been swayed so easily, let herself be drawn in, appeas
ed. Then she’d been sixteen and stubborn.
But the Adele of four years ago hadn’t been faced with near financial ruin and the urgency of opening the door to her future. Honestly, the Adele of four years ago had been hopelessly naive and idealistic. Everything in her garden had smelled of roses, not the encroaching mold of ruination.
“It’s a thing I’d hope to shelter you from.”
Did he mean what he said? Would he truly help her if she told him the truth?
Searching in his gaze, she tightened her grasp on his hand. He took a step closer, the look in his gaze clearer than a millpond—the expression of a man who desired a woman.
Yes. He’d help her. A look such as he wore would not be denied.
The only question remaining was how much of herself she’d have to give before he’d agree.
Standing on the street corner, watching the activity of a certain house was a job for detectives.
So why was Drew, a non-detective, doing just that?
Because he waited for a certain person, one with emerald eyes and a razor-sharp tongue, to emerge from behind those massive double doors.
The next part would be easy. Cross to meet her, one step at a time.
The words he must say? A far more difficult matter. But say them, he must. As soon as she took it into her head to go out.
The traffic around the Osbourne mansion compared with that near his own apartment on Canal Street was the difference between a blue-sky afternoon and the grimy sleet of a February evening when every fireplace in town belched enough smoke to choke a hardened cigar consumer. Here, every gentleman looked as if their valet had spent an hour getting them dressed for the day. Every lady, as if she’d worked her maid to the point of collapsing.
Though he supposed they had the right, seeing as they did work to make their money, the thought of a world where people employed other people to dress them, when only a few miles away another world existed, one where children starved and women sold their bodies for the sake of sheer need. Sickening. Especially, when he had the feeling the servants weren’t paid half as much as they deserved.
My Heart Belongs in Niagara Falls, New York Page 7