by Holly Bush
But she did not see an error. She saw a debit amount for the six percent interest charged the customer against the balance of the certificates’ worth. And in the credit column she found the difference between five percent and six percent added back as if there had been an error in the calculation. A cold chill ran over Jennifer’s back. She would need to check the cash balances for that day and determine if someone with the mysterious initials had returned the cash or debited another account balance for that amount on that day. But there was no time for it today, she thought, bile rising in her throat at the thought of dinner with her mother and Jeffrey.
* * *
“You are late for dinner,” Jane said as Jennifer entered the dining room. “Punctuality is required in this household as you well know.”
“I’m terribly sorry. I was delayed,” Jennifer said. She’d been sitting at her dressing table, fully clothed, hair styled and jewelry attached, thinking about how much she was dreading even the sight of Jeffrey Rothchild. The butler seated her, and she was forced to look up at him observing her with cold, dead eyes from across the table. She swallowed and looked away.
“How were your travels, Jennifer?” he asked.
“Very nice,” she answered with a shaky voice. “You may have heard my sister Jolene and her daughter traveled home with me.”
“She is dining with her husband’s family this evening,” William said.
“They are no one you need to know or worry about, Jeffrey,” Jane said with a smile and a nod. “Jolene will not be in Boston long enough to cast a shadow on our Jennifer.”
“The Randolphs have sent us an invitation to their dinner dance. It is two weeks from Friday,” Jeffrey said.
“I was just telling Jennifer that she and I must get to the dressmaker. She must have something exquisite to wear,” Jane said.
“Please send me the bill for this dress, although I highly doubt anything could be as exquisite as Jennifer herself,” Jeffrey said.
“No,” Jennifer said while her mother tittered. “That will not be necessary.”
Jennifer chewed the beef Bourguignon their French chef had prepared as if it were the cover of a bank ledger book and barely tasted her wine, satisfying her thirst with water. She concentrated intently on keeping her hands from shaking as she lifted her glass or dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin. It would not do to allow Jeffery to see how much she was rattled by his presence. She must adopt Jolene’s advice to appear calm and unafraid even if she were terrified.
After dessert, her mother rose, and smiled at Jeffrey. “I am feeling a bit tired tonight. Please excuse me if I do not visit with you in the parlor. Perhaps Jennifer can entertain you in the music room. There will be no one to disturb you there. William? Will you escort me to my rooms?”
Jennifer was glad then that she had not eaten much, as her stomach rolled over as they walked down the long hallway to the music room. Jeffrey opened the door and she preceded him inside. She hurried to the bench side of the piano.
“Did you not receive the letter that I sent you before I left for Washington?” she asked.
“Yes. I did receive it,” he said, and looked around the room before settling on her face. “That O’Brien woman? She was speaking to one of my clerks today. Someone told me she works with you in the parlor lobby. What on earth was she doing interviewing my clerk?”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer said and watched as Jeffery took slow, measured steps across the room, stopping near the open end of the grand piano.
He tilted his head at her. “Come now, Jennifer. I have read your letter. Come sit down in front of the fire. You look like a terrified child. We will discuss this letter you have sent.”
He was right. She was acting like a terrified child, and giving him the advantage. She came around the piano and seated herself near the fireplace in a chair. Jeffrey raised his brows and sat on the sofa nearby. “There is nothing to discuss about the letter. I no longer desire your company,” she said.
“Why on earth not?” he asked. “Our marriage is sanctioned by your parents and unites two old families, and there certainly is a spark between us. We will manage fine in all aspects of our marriage.”
A shiver trailed down Jennifer’s back. The idea of kissing Jeffrey, making love to him was repugnant. What she had found attractive at their first meeting had been quickly diminished, replaced by fear and loathing. She was certain if she married this man, he would rule her in all aspects of her life, and force her to his will in the marriage bed. There would be nothing pleasant about it, except, perhaps, for him.
“There will be no marriage, Jeffrey,” she said more firmly. “You cannot force me.”
“Really?” he said, and laughed softly. “Do you really think I would play this game without having all the cards in my hand? I will fire O’Brien Monday morning. I will not have her snooping about in places she does not belong.”
“No!” Jennifer cried. “No! She has done nothing to you. She works for me!”
“No one works for you. You are a hostess, I have come to understand. But clearly she does not know her boundaries. I’m a vice president, Jennifer. I can fire whomever I want.”
“Please, do not do this.”
“Please, you ask? You’d best save your requests for favors. And if you continue on with your attempts to end our engagement, you will begin to hear rumors about your mother,” he said. “That she is mad.”
She stood abruptly. “You would not! How dare you!”
“I would not? I certainly would dare,” he said with a laugh and rose from his place. “So innocent you are, my sweet one. It makes me want to steal a kiss from my intended.”
Jennifer backed up until she could feel the fire’s warmth on her back. She glanced left and right for a way to escape but he was touching her before she could move, holding her upper arms in a tight grip.
“Quit fidgeting, Jennifer. I am going to kiss you. You’d best get used to it, as I will require your services every morning before I leave for the bank.”
She braced herself as he kissed her hard, breaking the skin on the inside of her lower lip as he bit her, holding her cheeks tightly with one hand. She pushed at him with her free hand, but it was useless. He was strong and she was at his mercy. Tears pooled in her eyes. She grabbed wildly for the mantel, hoping to reach a candlestick or a book. He pushed her away from him for a brief moment.
“If you hit me with something it will go doubly worse for you, I promise,” he said, and slapped her backside and hip hard with his swinging open hand, stinging her flesh and leaving her senseless for a moment.
Jennifer’s cry was swallowed by him as he kissed her again, shoving his tongue in her mouth. She went limp.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“Get out!” Jeffrey shouted.
“Your father is looking for you, Miss Crawford. May I take you to him?”
“Yes, oh yes,” Jennifer said and wiggled out of Jeffrey’s hold. “Do excuse me. My father is looking for me.”
Zeb pulled her arm through his and led her down the hall, patting her hand as he went. She stared straight ahead and consciously slowed her breathing. She was out of Jeffrey’s clutches. Out of the room. But what would she do to guard her friends and family from him? She realized then that Zeb was seating her in the parlor by the fire and handing her a glass and a hanky. She looked up at him. He was an intense man, she noticed then, staring at her in such a way that she could feel the power and concentration emanating from him. She was not frightened but rather reassured by the way his energies surrounded her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and stared into his eyes.
Zeb took the handkerchief from her hand and dabbed her mouth. She sat motionless until he pulled it away and she saw the bloodstain. Her hand went to her lips.
He knelt in front of her. “You must tell me what I can do for you.”
“Nothing.” She shook her head.
“I don’t b
elieve you.”
“You must believe me,” she pleaded. “There is nothing anyone can do for me.”
He searched her eyes. “Rothchild is hurting you or threatening you.”
“No, no,” she said and looked away from him. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Have you spoken to your father about his behavior?”
She shook her head. “My father needn’t be burdened. He is troubled enough as is.”
“Your father would not want to see you hurt.”
“And sometimes we are not the only ones who could be hurt,” she replied and pulled her hands from his.
“Just because you give me these cryptic answers does not mean I don’t understand. He’s hitting you and threatening those you care about. I’ve dealt with his type before. He will only back down when met with opposing force. Let me have a word with him. I’ll keep you safe. I swear.”
There was little doubt in her mind that Zebidiah Moran would keep her safe and be her champion. But there was nothing he could do to help O’Brien. And most of all there was nothing he could do to help her family if Jeffrey spread rumors that Mother was mad. Jolene even believed it was true, making it less of a rumor and more of a secret. What would that do to her mother’s fragile health and her father’s equilibrium? What could he do, after all, in the banking world and among Boston’s highest social class to keep her family from becoming a laughingstock? Banks had shuttered their doors over information such as this.
“Please do not speak of this again to me, and if you would be so kind, do not repeat your concerns to anyone else. I will manage this in my own way,” Jennifer said and looked at him. “Will you promise me?”
“You’ve given me no choice, have you?”
“Not if you respect me and my wishes.”
Zeb laid his palms on her cheeks. “I respect you, and I care for you. I think you harbor similar feelings for me but are frightened. I sincerely hope I do not scare you.”
She opened her eyes and watched as his face came closer and closer, until his forehead touched hers. She breathed in the smell of him, of soap and bay rum, and man. How easy it would be to run away, to live with Jolene, and to see if something would come from being in company with Zeb Moran. But life was not that easy, not her life anyway. She had her parents to think of, of Willow Tree and all of its staff, and the bank, too, her legacy, her family’s legacy. She could not waltz away as if none of it mattered, even with this glimpse of a life with this man. She could not.
Jennifer stood abruptly and hurried to the parlor door. “Thank you for escorting me from the music room. I must retire now. You know the way to your rooms?”
“Yes,” he said.
* * *
Jennifer arrived early at the bank on Monday morning. She’d stayed in her rooms most of the previous days and thought about what she would do about Jeffrey Rothchild and had made some decisions. She was going to speak to him about the threats he’d made and stop silently acquiescing to his demands and moods. Certainly she could make him see reason, and perhaps she misunderstood what he said about Mother. She must have a positive outlook; far too much hinged on her managing the situation in the best interests of the bank, her family, and her own sanity. She took a deep breath and knocked on his office door.
“Good morning, Jeffrey,” she said and forced herself to smile at him.
He rose from behind his desk and buttoned his jacket. “What a pleasant surprise. Please come in.”
Jennifer steadied her eyes on his. “I’d like to talk about our last encounter.”
“Really?” he said, and indicated a chair. “I’m not sure there is much to discuss, but I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think I didn’t indulge my future wife.”
“I’m here to ask you not to fire O’Brien or spread rumors about my mother.”
Jeffrey tilted his head and smiled at her. “And?”
“And, well . . . I’m asking you to not fire O’Brien. She is here only to serve as a chaperone for me in the parlor lobby. I have no idea why she asked your clerks anything, but I will have a direct conversation with her and instruct her to never do such a thing again. As for the comments you made about Mother, I don’t imagine that it would be good for the bank’s reputation for that sort of thing to be said publically. Our fortunes, yours and mine, are tied directly to the success of this bank.”
“Touché. However, you must remember, I came to this bank with considerable wealth of my own. I will never be destitute.”
She met his gaze. “True. But there is no doubt of your plans. You wish to marry me to secure the bank as your own. Father will retire at some point and his daughter’s husband will move into the chairman’s suite. You would hardly risk that, would you?”
“How clever you are, Jennifer! It will be useful to have a wife with insight and intuition.” he leaned forward, glaring at her. “Just as long as you speak only to me on such matters. I will not have a wife who makes herself look ingenious to anyone other than her husband. It is unnatural, and such a wife would be punished for it.”
Jennifer backed up in her chair at his tone, and his seething contempt for her. “I understand,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said after staring at her for some long minutes. “And since you have been so cooperative, I will not fire your friend O’Brien.”
“Thank you,” she said, and hurried from his office. They had not discussed his threats about her mother, but she could not stand to be in his presence one more moment. She had thanked him for not firing O’Brien. How foolish and scared she’d been! As if she was required to thank him for every small relief he gave her. But perhaps she was.
Why didn’t she just walk away from Jeffrey? Refuse to see him? And yet she knew the answer to that question. She knew that it was not in her nature to make a scene or openly defy someone. She’d been the peacemaker all of her adult life, and perhaps when she was a child as well, placating her mother, consoling her father, calming servants who had been in her mother’s purview. She did not want shouting and hysteria and managed the middle ground between her parents and others. How pitiful she was!
Jennifer arrived at the bank the following morning with renewed enthusiasm for the Dorchester portfolio. After she had spoken with Jeffrey the previous day, she and O’Brien had been able to narrow down the initials to four bank employees. She told O’Brien to make no more inquiries for fear that Jeffrey would hear of them. They had agreed that the initials in question looked as though someone was deliberately making the letters illegible, and it worried Jennifer excessively to think that someone at the bank was stealing.
Jennifer knew she must speak to her father about it soon and wasn’t sure how to begin. He considered the bank employees, from the kitchen staff to the clerks to the men in high positions to be his family, in a manner of speaking, and made sure employees with an ill relative or a tragedy like a house fire were well taken care of. He would be devastated to find out someone had been stealing from him. She and O’Brien had not broached the word “theft” in their conversations but she believed they had the same suspicions. They would discuss it today.
But they did not. O’Brien did not come to work, which was unusual for her, nor had she sent her younger brother to Willow Tree with a message as she had done on other occasions. Jennifer was peeved at O’Brien but spent her day busy entertaining clients with only a few scant hours to examine the books further. By midafternoon she was exhausted and sent for her carriage. She had her driver take her to the house adjoining Willow Tree stables, where O’Brien and her father and younger brother lived. She’d made herself angry over O’Brien’s absence but chided herself for being unduly upset with the woman, who had become a friend. Jennifer knocked on the O’Brien door. The stable master opened it.
“What are you doing here?” he said gruffly.
“I . . . I stopped to see your daughter. She did not come to the bank today and I wondered if she was unwell or if there is something else the matter,” Jennifer s
tuttered, and took notice of his unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, and disheveled clothing as she followed him inside.
“Yes, there’s something the matter, girl,” Thomas O’Brien said. “There’s plenty the matter! But we need none of your help.”
“Mr. O’Brien! What is it?” she asked.
But the tall, muscular man just stood there, hands on his hips, clearly furious. Then his shoulders dropped and he sat abruptly in the kitchen chair behind him. He rubbed his hand over his face, and tears tumbled down his ruddy cheeks.
“What has happened?” Jennifer said. “Where is she?”
“The doctor is with her now,” he said and gazed at the staircase. He looked at Jennifer. “I fell asleep reading in my chair by the fire last evening and woke when I heard what sounded like a kitten crying at the door. It was no animal. It was my Kathleen.”
Jennifer sat down beside him, watching him wipe the tears from his face. She leaned forward. “Please, Mr. O’Brien. Tell me.”
The older man nodded. “’Twas her. ’Twas my Kathleen. Broken and bloody on the stoop. I carried her inside and sent for the doctor. He came and worked on her ‘til dawn and he came back now to check on her. She cries out though as if whatever happened is happening again and again.” He stopped crying and looked directly at Jennifer. “She went to the Robinson Theatre with someone she met at the bank earlier in the evening. Said he was a real gent and that he was even a friend of your intended. I never thought twice about letting her go, I’m sorry to say. The theatre is only down the street and she said there were other young people going. I never thought . . .”
Jennifer watched O’Brien drop his head in his hands and sob. She turned to the sound of a man’s voice.
“Thomas,” the doctor said as he came into the kitchen. “She’s going to live, I believe. I’ve bound her ribs. There are three broken but none have punctured her lungs. The bone around her eye is shattered. What I did last night is probably the best we can do without surgery. She’s going to lose some teeth, but not the front ones. And we’ve got to watch that cut on her chest. I’ve stitched it shut but I’m worried about infection. She’s alive, Thomas. She’s still alive.”