“No, the Drakes rarely ask for delivery, for it involves a fee, and Mrs. Drake is very thrifty,” the pharmacist said. “She always sends a serving girl when they have needs. It’s best not to disrupt the system we have in place.”
“Unless it’s a telegram,” Floyd interjected. “The Drakes own a fancy business and tip me extra to bring their telegrams right away. Nothing has come in for them today, though.”
Colin nodded his thanks, picked up his birdcage and box of chocolate, and departed. He’d gleaned no insight into old Jacob Drake’s whereabouts, but he’d confirmed other important details. Mrs. Drake was a skinflint, the family was disliked, and Floyd was an unwitting dupe in the scheme.
It had been a long three days getting to Oakmonte. Colin was tired, grubby, and looking forward to a long soak in one of Oakmonte’s modern washrooms.
The greeting at the front door was a little awkward.
“You’ve brought your own meals?” Thomas said with a curious glance at the birdcage. It took Colin a moment to understand his meaning.
“Beatrice and Bianca are pets, not food,” he said, trying not to shudder. He’d been raising pigeons since boyhood, and he would no more eat a pigeon than a pet dog. “I noticed the balcony outside the second story of the house on my last trip. Might I store my birds there whilst visiting?”
Thomas raised a quizzical brow. “I’ll have to consult with my wife. I’m afraid Margaret can be particular about such things.” Apparently Mrs. Drake had little tolerance for animals unless they were dead, stuffed, and dressed in outfits as part of a tableau.
A moment later, the lady of the house swept into the foyer in a rush of rustling Chantilly lace, chiffon, and lavender perfume. “Sir Beckwith, welcome!” She extended both hands toward him as though they were old friends and offered her cheek for a kiss. He obliged.
“You look like the first rose of spring,” he said, and she beamed.
“Sir Beckwith has brought his pet birds along,” Thomas said, and Mrs. Drake recoiled as she noticed the caged pigeons at his feet. It was only for a moment.
“How lovely,” she said with an admirable recovery.
“They are homing pigeons,” he said. “I’m old-fashioned and still like to practice the art. Might they stay on the balcony upstairs? They are clean birds, and I can assure you they will make no mess.”
“Certainly! We’d be delighted to have them!” she said in a bright tone that didn’t quite match her eyes.
They loitered in the foyer, making polite chitchat for a few moments, but all Colin really wanted was to take Beatrice and Bianca upstairs and release them back to Manhattan. They still needed to imprint the final twenty miles of the journey in their memory, and the longer he kept them in this enclosed foyer, the more likely they were to become disoriented.
“Can we offer you something to drink?” Thomas asked as he gestured to a formal tea service in the front parlor.
Margaret looked at a footman standing at the far end of the foyer. “Philip, please tell Cecelia to bring in the strawberry tarts and watercress sandwiches. And the tea.”
“Actually, I was hoping for a chance to freshen up,” Colin said. Anything to get the pigeons on their way back to Manhattan as soon as possible.
“But of course!” Margaret said in a rush. “Please! Take all the time you need.”
It didn’t take long at all. He was shown to the same bedroom he’d had on the previous visit, and he immediately stepped onto the balcony to set the cage on the railing. He opened the door and coaxed both pigeons out, giving them each a friendly rub and low murmurs of approval. They had a two-hundred-mile flight ahead of them but should be in Manhattan well before sundown. His message to Lucy was brief.
I have arrived at Oakmonte. Please water and feed the birds. Being female, they will also require a bit of praise and coddling.
He attached the canister to Bianca’s leg, since Beatrice had carried the last message. Lucy had already been instructed to send only one bird back after he arrived in Oakmonte. Going forward, they would each keep a bird so they could initiate a message at will.
He released the birds and watched them fly confidently south. Soon they would reach the Hudson, and from there it was an easy journey to follow the river back to Manhattan.
Colin was about to walk back into the house when his gaze tracked down the balcony. It encompassed the length of the house, covering both the east and west wings. It would be an excellent way to get another glimpse inside those rooms in the closed-off wing.
That would have to be postponed until later. He did not want to keep his hosts waiting any longer.
It was during tea that Colin learned Mrs. Drake had planned a much more formal affair than he had been prepared for.
“A full Saturday to Monday, complete with formal dinners,” Margaret said brightly.
He silently groaned. In England, a Saturday to Monday meant three days of cards, shooting, country walks, and fine dining in a house swarming with guests. All he wanted was a chance to poke around Oakmonte in hope of verifying his suspicions about the NCC and a possible assassination plot. That would be harder to do in a house full of people. He’d also like a shot at figuring out what had happened to the missing patriarch of the family, but he’d yet to learn anything more about Jacob Drake.
The Saturday to Monday looked like it was actually a Thursday to Monday, for within an hour, two house guests had joined them for tea. Dr. Friedrich Schroeder and his wife were visiting from Manhattan. They were an elderly couple, with the sort of gentle good cheer that made Colin immediately like them both. Two more places were set at the tea table, where Dr. Schroeder put a healthy dent in Mrs. Drake’s supply of watercress sandwiches.
“Somehow everything always tastes better when it comes out of Oakmonte’s kitchens,” the doctor said as he reached for another sandwich.
Colin had to agree. The food here was excellent, but he believed there was something to be said for the power of association. He’d always thought food coming from the Whitefriars kitchen was ambrosia. He’d dined in the finest establishments in London, Berlin, and now New York, but anything served at Whitefriars simply tasted better to him. It was home, perhaps.
“Where is that handsome son of yours?” the doctor’s wife asked Mrs. Drake.
There was a slight stiffening around Margaret’s mouth, and Thomas scowled.
“Off to some political meeting,” Thomas said. “Heaven only knows when he’ll be back.”
“That’s all right, isn’t it?” Dr. Schroeder asked. “I thought you wanted Tom to expand his horizons beyond shooting.”
“I do, but it’s rude to Sir Beckwith,” Thomas said. “Colin has come all the way from the city for a visit. If Tom Jr. is serious about a political career, he needs to get accustomed to properly welcoming guests.”
Margaret laid a soothing hand on her husband’s fist. “I’m sure Tom will be here soon. Then we can all have a nice visit, hmm?”
Colin turned his attention to Dr. Schroeder, eager to smooth the ruffled feathers. “I imagine you have seen a world of change in the time you have been practicing medicine.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Schroeder agreed. “Of course, my specialty is psychology, the study of the human mind. Although science has made great strides in the treatment of the physical body, the human mind remains a mystery to us.”
Colin leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“The human mind is the most powerful organ in our body. It’s what sets us apart from the animals. We can train it to learn languages, write a symphony, and build cathedrals. It can grasp theoretical concepts like justice, or algebra, or imagine the future. But for all its marvels, we have yet to understand how to control it. What makes us fall in love? Or out of love, for that matter? We don’t know why some people are afraid of heights while others are exhilarated by them. When the mind overtakes our body, it can cause our heart rate to soar and the body to perspire. These are involuntary reactions triggered by nothing more t
han thoughts. We are getting better at figuring out how to manipulate the brain but still have plenty to learn.”
Colin was entranced. None of his attempts to control his mortifying attacks of panic had worked, but he had no idea that doctors were beginning to specialize in this phenomenon.
“How does one do this?” he asked. “Train the mind? Tell me more.”
Dr. Schroeder warmed to the topic, his eyes coming alive and his voice full of energy. “It can be done,” he said. “I am convinced we have the power to control our emotions. All it takes is practice—”
A door slammed in the distance, cutting off Dr. Schroeder, and a moment later Tom Jr. swaggered into the room. Colin gritted his teeth in frustration. Everyone rose to greet Tom Jr. and another visitor, but all Colin wanted was to pull Dr. Schroeder away to continue the fascinating discussion on the science of controlling the brain.
“Nice of you to join us,” the elder Drake said tersely, but Tom shrugged off his father’s disapproval and reached across the tea table for a chocolate éclair.
“I had a meeting,” he said casually. “Politics.”
“You remember Sir Beckwith,” Margaret said graciously. Colin had asked her repeatedly to call him by his given name, but apparently she enjoyed using the title.
Tom Jr. wiped his hand on a napkin and extended it gamely. “You bet. Want to go shooting tomorrow morning? We can talk then. Felix can join us.”
Felix was the middle-aged man who had arrived with Tom. With a dusting of silver in his dark hair and a thick set of muttonchop whiskers, he seemed an old-fashioned companion for such a firebrand.
“Tom, please join us,” Margaret said. “Felix as well. Sir Beckwith has been so gracious in coming all the way from New York to get to know us better.”
The gentle rebuke was clear to everyone except Tom, who swallowed the last of the éclair and washed it down with a swig of milk. “Must be on our way,” he said. “We just came to grab some papers and need to get back to town.” He met Colin’s eyes across the table. “Shooting? Tomorrow morning at eight?”
“I haven’t made any plans yet,” Colin hedged. “Let’s speak again at dinner.” While Tom Jr. could prove a treasure trove of information regarding who might have invested in the Nicaraguan canal, he’d rather learn more about Dr. Schroeder’s insights into the human brain.
Thomas glared at his son’s back as the young man dashed down the hall, his older companion in tow. Margaret seemed equally embarrassed by her son’s behavior as she reached for the teapot and topped off everyone’s cup.
“Forgive my son,” Thomas said uneasily. “Like many young men, he is ambitious and has it in his head to run for Congress soon. His zeal for politics rivals his skill as a marksman.”
“A political career is a natural extension of his interest in the Olympics,” Dr. Schroeder said. “There is a glamour in the political world that appeals to young men. The desire to prove oneself in competition with other men can be an irresistible temptation for someone like Tom, be it in the Olympics or on the political stage.”
“He’ll have a far better shot at the Olympics than Congress,” Thomas said, disapproval simmering in every word.
“We don’t know that,” Margaret said soothingly. “Tom’s interest in politics is still so new, but I don’t see any reason it can’t develop into something lasting and meaningful. It’s what we’ve always hoped for, right?”
Thomas seemed to take comfort in his wife’s words, and the lines eased from his forehead. He turned his attention to Colin. “My son is competing in the Galliard shooting contest over the Fourth of July holiday. It’s the most prestigious shooting match outside of the Olympics. The competition is supposedly the main thing, but most people attend for an excuse to enjoy three days of picnics, parties, and the chance to rub shoulders with the highest members of society. Perhaps you would like to attend as our guest?”
The question was tossed off casually, but Colin heard the command as though it came from the blast of a trumpet.
“I’d be delighted,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. It was one thing to barter his hand in marriage, but now he was bartering his friendship as well.
Lucy’s accusation at the train station stung worse than ever.
Chapter
Thirteen
For Lucy, the days after Colin left for Oakmonte stretched out interminably. She feared he had stepped into a lion’s den and there was nothing she could do to help. Still, her normal workaday chores had not evaporated. Her pantry at home was bare, and she had yet to settle up with her lawyer from last month’s hearing. Shopping for groceries would have to wait, but on Thursday, she decided to use her lunch hour to walk the eight blocks to Mr. Pritchard’s office and pay what she owed.
She entered the lawyer’s tiny waiting area to the sound of laughter coming from behind his closed office door, which was odd. Horace Pritchard ran his business on a shoestring and had never hired another assistant after Samuel quit working for him. He must be meeting with a client, although legal meetings were rarely the subject of hilarity.
Lucy was about to slide the envelope containing her payment beneath the door when it suddenly opened. She almost collided with Samuel Ballard, her onetime fiancé, heading out the door.
“Lucy!” He looked stunned to see her, taking a step back and bumping into a tall lady standing directly behind him.
It had been a year since they’d seen each other. He looked exactly the same, but seeing his quirky, funny face, with his too-big nose that didn’t rob an ounce of his handsome appeal . . . She drew a heavy breath. She’d forgotten how dear his face was to her.
“How are you, Samuel?” she managed to ask.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He turned and pulled the lady behind him forward. “I came to introduce Cecily to Mr. Pritchard. Cecily and I got married last week.”
It was as though someone had kicked her in the chest. She couldn’t draw a breath. They all stood in exquisite awkwardness, but for the life of her, she couldn’t breathe.
“Are you all right, Lucy?” Mr. Pritchard asked, coming forward and putting an arm around her shoulders.
“Yes, of course,” she stammered once she’d forced her lungs to function again.
But she wasn’t. She was hot and sweaty and felt faint and like her heart had just been torn from her chest and stomped flat. She managed to send Samuel and the pretty lady beside him a wobbly smile.
“Congratulations,” she said, wondering at the crushing sensation in her chest. It wasn’t as if she still carried a torch for Samuel, but she’d once had such hopes. During those few months, she’d been so deliriously happy. Those dreams had come crashing down more than a year ago, but now the wound felt fresh all over again.
She shoved the envelope into Mr. Pritchard’s hand. “This is what we owe you for the last court hearing. Good-bye!”
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She’d hoped to discuss their next motion to clear away the bad faith issue. The Drake valves had been taken out of Mr. Garzelli’s tenement, and she wanted the case to move forward as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t happen today.
She scurried down the sidewalk, skirting pedestrians and almost knocking over a newsboy she didn’t spot until she bumped into him. She didn’t even know where she was going or why she was so upset. She’d put Samuel behind her, hadn’t she? Her ridiculous fascination with Colin Beckwith had pretty well dominated her every waking thought, so why did Samuel’s marriage feel like a body blow?
Her life just felt so empty. So hopelessly, crushingly empty and hollow. She had so much love to give and nowhere to put it.
She headed for the hog house where Nick worked. It wouldn’t do to let her nerves unravel here on the street. Mercifully, Jack Ellis was manning the clerk’s desk at the hog house. Jack sometimes went to Brooklyn Dodgers games with her and Nick, and he was the attendant most likely to bend the rules for her.
She took three deep breaths before entering. If
Jack sensed how rattled she was, he’d want to probe, and she didn’t want to speak to anyone but Nick right now.
“Jack, I know it’s after lunchtime, but could I ask Nick to come above ground? I need to speak with him.”
Jack peered at her through concerned eyes. “You okay, Lucy? You don’t sound good.”
“I’m fine. I just want to talk to Nick. Please?”
“Wait here, kid.” He went through the door, and she heard his footsteps echo on the metal bars as he descended a ladder to the tunnels below.
She paced the small open space before the lunch tables, wishing she had someone else in her life she could lean on aside from Nick. No man with a brain in his head would want to court her as long as Uncle Thomas was alive. Most women her age had a husband and children, while all she had was a lawsuit. She twisted her hands while she paced. What was taking so long? The pumping station where Nick worked was less than a block farther down from the hog house, so he should be here by now.
It took ten minutes for Jack to return. He sent her a regretful look and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Lucy, he’s in a mood. Can’t get him to come up.”
She knew Nick was in a mood. He’d been freezing her out ever since they’d quarreled over the message she intercepted and took to the police. He’d been surly, rude, and even stopped cooking for her. Their recent squabbles aside, he was still her big brother, and if he knew how miserable she was, he’d want to help.
“Can I go down? I promise I won’t be long.”
Jack rubbed his jaw. Lucy was one of the few civilians who’d seen the waterworks beneath the streets, for Nick often took her below to show her the ongoing installations.
“Yeah, maybe you snuck down while I was stepping out for a smoke. I’m lookin’ the other way for a minute.”
“Thanks, Jack,” she said, embarrassed by the wobble in her voice.
She hiked up her skirts to descend the ladder. Most people had no idea there was an entirely separate world beneath the streets of their city. Miles of tunnels, pump stations, and distribution pipes operated to move millions of gallons of water in and out of the city each day. Far from being the dank, cramped space most people assumed the underground world to be, there was a strange sort of beauty in the brick-lined tunnels that stood eleven feet tall and wide enough for five men to walk side by side. Gaslit lanterns along the walls gave it a gothic illumination.
A Dangerous Legacy Page 14