by Holly Bush
“Tell me.”
“I have no wish to hurt your feelings, nor do I feel right about carrying tales that are surely spoken out of malice. You must believe me.”
“I don’t believe for one moment that you intend to hurt my feelings, but it really is best that I know what is being said.”
Ruth looked away and back at Jennifer with such a pitying face that it was all she could do not to shake her oldest and dearest friend by the shoulders until she sputtered out all the worst things that she imagined people were saying about her mother.
“It is being said she is a devotee of Benedict Fitzhugh and that she defended him and believes all of his tales. It is being said that she attended one of his speeches here in the city with Jeffrey Rothchild and that Mr. Rothchild said that he had no idea who this Fitzhugh fellow was and that he was just doing a favor for his fiancée by taking her mother to what he thought was going to be an academic lecture. It is being said that she believes in moon creatures and that perhaps she is not mentally well.”
Jennifer took a deep breath and thought about all the falsehoods contained in those few sentences and how they were close enough to the truth to be quite believable. “Has there been any mention of my father?”
Ruth slowly patted her mouth with her napkin. “Only that he found his wife’s behavior unremarkable.”
“And by not denouncing it, he is condoning it.”
Jennifer ate her food and listened to her friend attempt to lighten the mood with stories about her brothers and sisters, whom Jennifer had been acquainted with as long as she knew Ruth. She waited with Eliza under the massive gold-colored canopy of the Parker House Hotel for their family carriage to be brought in front. Eliza was talking about a dress she’d seen in a window as she’d walked back to the hotel. Jennifer nodded in the appropriate places as her maid elaborated on her find, but she replayed in her mind all that Ruth had said. All that was being said about her, about Jeffrey and Mother, and her father. She was going to visit O’Brien that evening and share with her all she’d discovered lately about the Dorchester portfolio and ask her directly who had attacked her. At each of her visits with O’Brien, they’d shared knowing looks when the subject came up but nothing was ever spoken aloud, nothing was for certain. Jennifer needed certainty.
* * *
“I’m going to visit Miss O’Brien, Mrs. Gutentide. Is there anything I can deliver for you?” Jennifer said later that day in the kitchens of Willow Tree.
“Yes, Miss Crawford. There are these cleaned clothes to be returned. But they may be too heavy for you. I’ll get Luther to carry them for you.”
“I’ll carry them for Miss Crawford,” Zeb Moran said.
Jennifer turned. “I did not hear you behind me, Mr. Moran. I’ll be fine. There are only a few things, and Mrs. Gutentide has them folded neatly in a bag.”
“All the same,” he said, and reached past her and picked up the cloth sack.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gutentide,” she said, and went up the stone steps that opened to the walkway between the stables and the main house. She stopped, turned, and held out her hand. “I can carry the bag.”
“I’m happy to carry it for you. Will you mind company on your walk? I was hoping to talk to you.”
“I do not need nor do I want your help. You are employed by my brother-in-law, not my father!”
Jennifer felt tears at the back of her eyes and her hands were tight fists at her side. She’d been nursing an ache in her head since early that morning, mostly she imagined because she slept little as of late and inevitably woke with stiff, clenched shoulders, in a cold sweat, regardless of how thin and light her sleeping gown. Zeb Moran was staring at her, watching her take deep, gulping breaths.
“It is as though I opened my mouth and my sister Jolene spoke, was it not? I did not mean to sound shrill or rude. Please just give me the laundry,” she said.
“May I speak boldly?” he asked.
“Would there be much I could do to stop you?”
“Very little. Can we sit at the bench there?”
She led the way and pulled her wool cape tight around her as she seated herself. “What is it? I have promised my friend O’Brien I would visit this afternoon.”
“I have recently visited with Miss O’Brien. I would be happy to go with you and see her again.”
Jennifer looked up. “I’m sure you have not. She has been very particular about whom she sees and Mr. O’Brien guards her closely.”
He sat down beside her and looked her in the eye. “But I have. I have sat with her father, met her brother, Sean, and had a rather enlightening conversation with Miss O’Brien herself.”
Jennifer looked away. “I hope you did not frighten her. Aside from her injuries, she is still not . . . herself. What could possibly be enlightening about a conversation between total strangers?”
“Perhaps I went as a gentleman, concerned for a young woman who is recovering from an attack.”
“But you did not, did you?”
“I asked her what happened the night she was beaten.”
“I do not understand why any of those details would interest you, but she has spoken to the police and to the Pinkerton agents about that night. It is hardly kind to make her relive it.”
“I asked, and she told me that her attacker was tall and smelled like a fish market.”
“Then she has told you the same as she has told everyone else.”
“I told her she was a liar.”
“You what?” Jennifer cried as she stood. “How dare you? How dare you badger a young woman who has been brutalized?”
“Please sit down.”
“I will not! I will not sit, and I won’t allow you to speak so cruelly to my friend!”
“Calm yourself and let me talk to you. Easy does it,” Zeb said as he stood and wrapped his hands lightly around her upper arms.
“She has done nothing to you. Why torment her?”
“She has done nothing to me, but she has done something for me. She has confirmed my deepest fears. She told me and her father that you and her brother and father are in danger. Serious danger. She pounded on the table when her father said he’d share this information with the police. She feels there is no one to guard you and that you will make an easy target. She has been protecting you all along.”
Jennifer stilled. “She must be mistaken.”
“No, she’s not. She’s not mistaken. She told me what the man said to her, but there is something she is not telling me. I can’t protect you if I don’t know all the details.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me that her attacker said that her brother, Sean, would have an accident and that her father would be discredited,” he replied.
“She is terrified that her brother will be hurt. I think that is the thing that most haunts her. Although the idea of something happening to the horses in her father’s care is very upsetting to her as well. She has grown up riding and caring for these animals and is very attached to them.”
“I believe Miss O’Brien and her family and the horses are reasonably well-guarded. I understand Mr. O’Brien has friends who take shifts guarding the house and the stables.”
“Yes, they do,” Jennifer said.
“What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why the guards were not hired by your father?”
“There is no need to understand as this is none of your business.”
“What is truly puzzling, though, is why you are angry with me and do not hesitate in the least in telling me so but you continue in a relationship with a man who treats you badly. Is hitting you and threatening you, I think.”
Jennifer felt the blood drain from her face, but did not consciously feel her arm lifting and her hand landing, open palm, on Zebidiah Moran’s face. Nor did she anticipate her fingers stinging with the blow or the look in his eyes. In an instant, she was frightened, and horrified at what she had done. She turned and ran toward the staff entrance, praying the ki
tchens would be empty. She did not make it far, though. He was suddenly in front of her.
“Stop running, Jennifer. Talk to me,” he said.
She could not explain, or begin to understand, why she was doing exactly as he described. Why was she rebuffing the care of a man, and “rebuffing” was too small a word to describe what she had just done, to keep peace with a man who was threatening her very existence and the security of her family? “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Perhaps because you won’t ask them of yourself.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I am a coward. I know I am. But I’m unable to change. I’m afraid and silly and cannot seem to . . . t-to,” Jennifer stumbled. “Why do you continue to be kind to me?”
“I was raised a Southern gentleman. My mother would have tanned my hide had she heard me being anything less than that,” he said and smiled at her. “I may earn another slap, but you have not been yourself since coming here. Although you were quiet when you first arrived, you were different when you were staying with your sister. You were happy and relaxed. You seem to me to be everything but happy and relaxed here in your own home.”
She dabbed her eyes. “You cannot understand the implications of the situation I am in. You know nothing of Boston society or our family business. I must solve these issues in my own way, on my own.”
“I do not understand Boston society, or even your or your family’s place in it, but I do understand men like Jeffrey Rothchild. His kind of intimidation happens in the cheapest saloon, the most luxurious boardroom, and in the kitchens of everyday families. You are not unique nor do you need to manage this yourself. Please don’t call yourself a coward, either. You are not a coward. You are facing an enemy alone; however, that is not necessary. Allow me to help.”
She stared into his eyes. “I am shaken to my core. What I’ve always thought I could discern about another person has been proven to be completely and utterly wrong. The stakes, the consequences of my poor judgment, threaten the Crawford family, threaten those that depend on us, threaten the fortunes and the legacy my family has built. Where Jolene expected a lifestyle of wealth as our due, and Julia naively assumed that everyone lived as we did, I knew differently. I know that the kind of wealth and prestige our family enjoys is the product of incredibly hard work, perfect timing, and considerable luck, otherwise, every other family in America would be wealthy and enjoy a home such as Willow Tree with all of its amenities. That existence hangs in the balance. I will not allow this generation to fritter it away.”
“I am unable to help you with Boston society or your family’s business, but I do think you need to hear the truth. Ask your friend Miss O’Brien what was whispered in her ear concerning you when she was attacked. It may be true that you must navigate Boston society alone, but you must be safe while you do so or all of your work and worry is for naught. I will see to that.”
“So you are proposing to keep me safe while I tend to what is necessary?”
“Yes. I will escort your sister back to Washington as planned later this week and return to keep watch. You will become very tired of seeing my face but you will be free to do whatever is needed to get your family ship righted.”
“Mr. Rothchild will not care for it. Neither will my mother.”
“That is not my concern.”
“What will Max say? You are his employee. He may not allow you to leave for any extended amount of time.”
Zeb took her hands loosely in his, touching his thumbs to her palms. “I am employed by the senator, not owned by him. I will suggest he appoint a new chief of staff.”
“You would give up working for my brother-in-law? A prestigious, challenging position? I listened to you and Max speaking about your bills and procedures and how future generations will benefit from the laws you are writing and hoping to pass. You would give that up? But why?”
He stared at her then, looking into her eyes, past her fears, past her hurts and torments, to her. To the place deep inside her where her heart and soul beat. Where all the worldly adornments and entrapments of wealth and obligation were stripped away and did not influence her feelings or hopes. Where the essence of her recognized his. She was not breathing, nor did she feel the cool breeze at her back.
“I don’t have a choice, you see,” he said in a whisper. “The only thing I know is that I must keep you safe, that that is more important than any future outcomes or past consequences. You can relax, you can breathe easy. No one will ever strike you or threaten violence against you on my watch. I promise you that and would die fulfilling it.”
Tears streamed down her face although she was not sad or fearful. “You would let me win my battles at the expense of your dreams?”
“There is no cost too high for your safety and happiness.”
Jennifer touched his cheek, still pink with her handprint. “I am so sorry. I am unable to even touch my mount with a crop and yet I lashed out in anger at someone who has done nothing but be kind to me. Have I become the tormentor?”
Zeb covered her hand with his. “No. But you are frustrated and frightened. I believe you and Miss O’Brien have uncovered something unsavory at the bank, and it is difficult to know how to proceed when you are scared for your life. It is no longer necessary to be afraid.”
“It is no longer necessary to be afraid,” she repeated. She believed him. Zeb Moran, even in his expertly tailored jacket, snug trousers, and flat satin waistcoat, exuded a dangerous physicality. She’d watched him rope horses and carry feed and lift calves in his dungarees and flannel shirts while in Texas. She’d wiped the sweat from his chest and lanky arms, strung through with muscle, when she nursed him through the influenza. He was manly and lovely, she’d admitted to herself at the time, and his body was so different from her own. But here now, in his formal clothes, with his brown-gold hair touching his collar in a curl, his chest just inches from her breasts, she’d never felt safer, or more attracted to a man. For him to touch her, caress her, run his fingers the length of her, and she him.
Jennifer leaned forward and touched her lips to his, for just a moment. She could smell his soap and feel the bristle of his beard against her chin. He was breathing quickly and staring at her mouth. He touched her cheek and pushed his fingers through the loose strands of her hair, holding her head lightly in place, as he touched his tongue to her lips. Jennifer groaned with the heat of it, wishing every inch of her body was touching his.
“I want to kiss you, Jenny,” he whispered.
“Is that not what we are doing?”
“I want to hold you. I want to cover your mouth with mine. I want your breasts and your hips tight against me”—he pulled away to look into her eyes—“but I don’t want to scare you.”
“I am not frightened of you. Please,” she said, although unsure of what she was asking.
Zeb wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him until her body was flush against his. With a last survey of her face, he focused on her mouth and claimed it, pushing his tongue through her parted lips. She clutched his shoulders where her hands lay, relishing the friction and heat on her breasts where they pressed against the stiff fabric of his jacket. He angled his mouth over hers, and ran his hand up her side, his fingers just grazing the side of her breast.
He pulled his lips away and laid his forehead on hers. “I’ve been dreaming of kissing you since the day I woke up from fever. But I couldn’t imagine such a fine and bright woman as yourself ever dreaming of a scoundrel like me.”
Chapter Eleven
Jennifer had spent the last hour pacing her rooms, deciding what would be the next wise thing to do. She was feeling lighthearted, gay even, thinking that she was no longer worried about Jeffrey. She would be able to say what she wanted to him with no fear of reprisal. She wondered why she hesitated to be forthright with her mother and father as well, and she could not think of one reason that was justifiable. She was an adult and well educated. She managed all the consequences of her mother’s manip
ulations with staff and family anyway. Why appease someone who would not be mollified? She was going to be kind, but straightforward, lifting the veil from her father’s eyes and challenging her mother rather than acquiescing to her constant demands and wishes. Jolene’s advice finally made sense.
Her newfound confidence ebbed when she spoke to O’Brien.
“What did he say?” she asked her friend as they sat beside each other on O’Brien’s bed. “You must tell me.”
O’Brien stood and wandered to her window. “I was hoping to shield you from all this with my silence. Hoping to convince you that the Dorchester portfolio balanced. How I was going to do that, however, is a stretch of the imagination as I can barely step over the threshold of my home without crying and shaking, let alone go back to the bank, to my work that I love. As much as I hate my attacker for the violence he perpetrated on me, I hate myself more for being terrified.”
“I know of what you speak,” Jennifer acknowledged, after taking a deep breath. “Mr. Rothchild has hit me on two separate occasions. My ribs were broken, I believe, the first time. I am so sorry to have dragged you into this.”
“I’m so sorry for you. I’ve found that violence like this affects the mind as much as wounds on the body.”
O’Brien sat down beside her. The two women held hands as if facing their tormentors, staring ahead out the side window of the house to where the winter landscape was giving way to spots of green. “He said you’d be used foully by several men, raped and ruined, and that you’d be happy that Rothchild would still have you, if you weren’t with child. He said that you would learn to like a good smacking before servicing your husband, as you would be doing whenever and wherever Rothchild wanted.”
Jennifer shivered and fought the bile rising in her throat. Tears filled her eyes. “Sometimes I believe the terror of my imagination is more horrible than what could actually happen. But how ridiculous! When I think about the pain, the humiliation, and embarrassment that followed after he hit me, I am certain my imagination cannot match.”