Home Before Sundown

by Tinnean

  “Just see I get that miniature.”

  St. Claire glowered at him, then turned to his son. “Lewis, are you coming with me?”

  “Of course, Father.” He took out his billfold and handed Sam a few bills. “This should be enough for now.” He leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “My sister thinks the world of that boy. I’m sorry our father has taken a dislike to him—so irrational—but I want to see he has a home and contact with her and the children. Find him, and I’ll give you a bonus.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good man.” Lewis clapped him on the shoulder and hurried after his father.

  Sam stared after him. Rich people. They all think we’re too stupid to know what’s going on. He picked up the whiskey and knocked it back, then finished the beer.

  “You gonna pay me, Sam?”

  Of course, neither St. Claire senior nor junior had bothered to leave any coins for the drinks.

  “Yeah, Joe. I’ve got it.”

  * * * *

  Later that evening, a boy turned up at Sam’s rooms with the miniature of Olivia Pettigrew. She was a pretty girl, and Sam could see why Tom had married her.

  In spite of what the senior St. Claire had said, Sam found the empty lot in Chelsea where the Pettigrews had lived. The neighbors had liked the little family and were more than willing to talk about them.

  From there it wasn’t hard for him to learn where the woman lived, and that was why he stood across the street from the rundown tenement, although by now he knew she wasn’t likely to make an appearance.

  “Mama! Mama!” The sound of crying jolted him out of his thoughts.

  He looked up to see four men coming out of the building, the pine box supported between them. They crossed the street and slid the coffin into the wagon.

  Two little girls and a small boy trailed along behind them, and the young man that St. Claire wanted caught them up in his arms.

  Josie came out of the building holding a carpetbag. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her hair was in a tangle, and Sam hadn’t been so taken by a woman since he’d first seen Analeigh more than twenty years before.

  “I’ll take the bag, Ma,” another of the young men said. He kissed her cheek. “I’ll stay with them.”

  “You’re a good boy.” She patted his shoulder, then went to the small group. She used her apron to dry the children’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Georgie.” She dried his cheeks as well.

  “You’ve been such a help, Mrs. Hall.” George’s voice broke.

  “Do you want to leave the children with me?”

  “No!” The younger girl looked like she was about to throw a tantrum.

  “No, pequeña,” George said. Of course Analeigh’s son would speak Spanish. “Father Ed is letting us stay at the rectory for now.” The little girl calmed down.

  Sam dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his toe, and walked away. Time to give his final report to Julius St. Claire.

  It had taken him a few months, but he’d learned more than both St. Claires would like. For instance, he knew they were behind numerous attempts on Tom’s life during the war, finally succeeding at Appomattox—and Sam had dealt with the son of a bitch who’d shot Tom. Sam also knew Tom’s little family had had no recourse but to move out of the pretty cottage in Chelsea because St. Claire bought the property and kept raising the rent. They were also the reason behind George being unable to find a job.

  All this in an attempt to force Olivia Pettigrew to return to the big house in Gramercy.

  Well, the poor lady wouldn’t be going anywhere now, other than a plot in the Church of the Beloved Apostle’s cemetery.

  Sam didn’t know what would happen to the children, if the priest would keep them or turn them over to the men who’d destroyed their parents, but he intended to keep watch over them.

  Chapter 38

  How did my life become such a disaster? George harnessed the spirited team of bays to Lewis St. Claire’s carriage.

  Shortly after the funeral, Father Ed had come to him and informed him he’d found Mama’s father, who was eager to have the children in his care.

  “But I’m going to take care of them. I promised Mama.”

  “I’m sorry, George. You’re a young man, not yet out of your teens. There’s no possibility of you obtaining guardianship of two girls and a small boy. The judge wouldn’t permit it.”

  Working for St. Claire was the only way George could stay in contact with his sisters and his little brother, something he was sure Father Ed had no idea about.

  “I know you want to be close to your family, so I’m offering you this job. And also because I know what a good coachman you are,” St. Claire had told him.

  “How?” George could tell from the expression in St. Claire’s eyes that he didn’t like being challenged like that.

  However, St. Claire had simply said, “Word gets around town.”

  George didn’t buy it, but he had no choice, so he accepted. But he also made sure to keep his distance as much as he could. He remembered the way St. Claire had looked at him when they’d met almost two years before.

  He had every intention of saving every cent of his pay until he could get his family out of New York City and to the Dakota Territory, but he’d been required to supply his own uniform and meals, and somehow ten months had passed, and all he had to show for the unending work were a handful of dollars.

  Added to that, St. Claire had recently begun crowding him, rubbing up against him, stroking his chest or his ass.

  George would have been willing to put up with it, but to make matters worse, he’d been unable to see the children for the past couple of months, and he’d missed not only Little Thomas’s birthday, but Charlie’s also.

  “I’m having a late supper with my father,” St. Claire had announced after he’d sent for George. “Have the carriage ready by ten.”

  “Yes, sir.” The only good thing about this late visit was the probability of seeing his sisters and brother while their grandfather and uncle drank themselves under the table. He’d find a way to slip up to their bedrooms, bring Charlie and Little Thomas their birthday presents as well as something for Noelle, cuddle with them for a while, read them a story, and sing to them.

  George didn’t bother asking if Mrs. St. Claire would be joining him—she rarely did, since there appeared to be no love lost between them. However, the lady was summering at Saratoga with their children, and that was the reason St. Claire had become bolder in his attentions.

  George couldn’t tell Bart what was happening, since they’d both been so busy with work neither of them had the time to visit, although they were able to write on occasion. George wasn’t sure he would have told Bart anyway—Bart most likely would have taken a hammer to St. Claire’s head, and George didn’t want his lover in prison.

  * * * *

  A little before ten, George brought the carriage around to the front of the mansion, and he kept the horses steady while they waited for St. Claire to appear. When he finally did, George hopped down, opened the door, and lowered the step. He angled himself so the door protected him from being mauled.

  “Since Mrs. St. Claire is away, I’ll most likely be staying overnight at Father’s. You can settle the horses in his stable and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  St. Claire gave him a faint smirk and climbed into the carriage.

  George got the step back in place and moved away smoothly when he felt St. Claire’s hand on his hair, pretending to be unaware of the touch. He closed the door and climbed up onto the seat. He gathered up the reins, cracked the whip, making sure not to hit the horses with it, and began the drive to Gramercy.

  Once they arrived, the actions were repeated, and George stood behind the door.

  St. Claire frowned at him, then said, “There’s a room attached to the stable with a bed. Remember to make yourself comfortable—get some sleep.” He bared his teeth in a shark’s grin. He prob
ably meant George should strip down and get under the covers.

  “Yes, sir.” Unless that room had a door with a lock, George had no intention of removing a stitch of clothing. He went to the horses’ heads, caught their bridles just above the bits, and led them down the drive to the stable.

  He left the horses and the carriage in the yard, entered the stable, and lit a lantern so he could see what he was doing.

  “Luther?” He expected Julius St. Claire’s groom to answer his call, but only the sound of the St. Claire carriage horse and Noelle’s pony moving in their stalls greeted him. He crossed to rub the chestnut pony’s broad forehead. She was almost as tall as Salida, and was a good fit for his sister—Noelle would be able to ride the pony for at least another few years. “Luther?”

  “Luther’s not here.”

  George whirled around to find St. Claire standing there. The look in his eyes made him nervous. “Where is he?”

  “It’s his night off.” St. Claire sounded pleased. “I made sure of that before I decided to have you drive me here.”

  “Were you even supposed to have dinner with your father?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why come here?” Although the way St. Claire was looking at him, George was afraid he knew.

  “I’m tired of you teasing me.” He took the lantern from George’s hand and hung it from a nail.

  “I never—”

  “I’m going to have you tonight, and it’s going to be here. I’d like to have you in my bed at home, but there are too many people there, and even though I’m the master of the house, I can’t take the risk that some of them would inform my wife. But here…” St. Claire grinned at him. “There’s no one here, and we can enjoy ourselves.”

  “What makes you think I won’t tell Mrs. St. Claire?” George tried to back away, but St. Claire had him hemmed in.

  “You won’t. You’re going to let me do whatever I want with you, and do you know why?” He didn’t wait for George to respond. “Because if you don’t, you’ll never see those girls and that boy ever again. The very same judge who would have denied you guardianship will see you imprisoned on my word alone. I’ll tell him you’re a sodomite who made up lies about me in an attempt to blackmail me.”

  “Father Ed said something similar to me about a judge not giving me guardianship of my sisters and my brother.” George narrowed his eyes at St. Claire. “You told him that.”

  “Of course. My father wanted Olivia’s oldest daughter under his roof, and having the unwitting help of a priest would work perfectly.”

  “Mr. St. Claire only wants Noelle? What about Charlotte and Little Thomas?”

  “He’s got no use for them. That’s another reason why you’ll let me do whatever I want to you—if you don’t, I’ll tell him to give those two brats to the house of a certain woman who lives in Elizabeth Street.”

  George thought he was going to vomit. He knew what went on in those houses—when he’d worked for Doggett, he’d had occasion to take passengers to places like that, where children were procured for men who had a taste for them.

  “Ah. So that bothers you more than the thought of going to prison. I wonder if it should. You’re a pretty boy, and those prisoners would have a good time with you. So tell me. What is it going to be?”

  George drew in a deep breath. Here it was. He’d been afraid this moment might come, and now that it had, it was even worse than he’d anticipated.

  “All right.” George sagged in St. Claire’s arms. “All right. I’ve never been…Just…don’t hurt me.”

  St. Claire gave a triumphant laugh. “I thought you’d say don’t keep you away from those brats, but you’re more concerned about yourself than them.” He loosened his grip, although he kept a tight hold on George’s right arm, and began to drag him to Luther’s room. He paused when they heard hurrying footsteps.

  “George?”

  St. Claire swore. “Get out of here, Noelle. You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

  “No. I need him.”

  “Get back in the house.”

  “No!”

  “You—”

  “Why are you holding onto my brother like that?”

  “He’s not your brother, you stupid girl. Your mother isn’t his mother. His father isn’t your father.”

  George tried to pull free, but St. Claire tightened his grip on George’s right wrist.

  “Yes, he is,” Noelle insisted stubbornly. “Now let him go. I said I needed him.”

  “Jesus. Do you see the birthmark on your wrist? You got that from your real father.”

  “Then Papa is her real father, because he had the exact same mark on his wrist.”

  “What?” St. Claire actually shrieked. “That’s impossible!”

  George took advantage of his distraction, closed his left fist, and swung as hard as he could, landing the blow on St. Claire’s ear.

  St. Claire turned his head to stare at George, an obviously stunned look on his face. “What…” He crumpled to the ground.

  “I’m left-handed, you stupid son of a bitch.” He drew back his steel-toed boot and kicked St. Claire’s jaw. There was a sickening crunch, but George didn’t care. He landed more kicks against St. Claire’s ribs.

  “George. George!” Noelle grabbed his sleeve and tugged. “Please!”

  The red haze of fury faded as George realized she was crying. “What is it, Christmas angel? Why did you come out here? Were you looking for me?”

  “I didn’t know you were here. I was going to take Socks and ride to Uncle’s house to get you.” She threw herself at him. “Oh, Georgie, I did something awful.”

  He picked her up, and wiped a palm over her cheeks. “It’s all right,” he whispered in Spanish. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I think I killed Grandfather.”

  Oh Jesus. “What happened?”

  “Put me down, please. We have to go back to Charlotte and Thomas.”

  George looked down at St. Claire. “You bastard,” he muttered.

  “Is he dead?” Noelle asked.

  He pressed his fingers against St. Clair’s throat. “No, I can feel his pulse.” St. Claire’s fingers twitched, and George stomped down hard on his right hand, breaking the bones. “Just be glad I don’t cut your throat,” he snarled, then stomped down again three times more.

  George looked around until he spotted the carriage horse’s harness hanging from a hook by his stall. He used the knife that had been in Papa’s effects to cut loose the reins and used them to tie St. Claire’s hands behind his back, then secured his ankles, bent his legs, and fastened them to his wrists. George searched St. Claire’s pockets for a handkerchief and instead found a billfold with a good deal of money in it. He pocketed the cash, returned the billfold to the pocket he’d found it in, then got the handkerchief and stuffed it in St. Claire’s mouth.

  “Noelle, I need a strip of your nightie.”

  “You’ll have to do it. I can’t tear it.”

  He sliced the hem, then tore it free.

  “What do you need that for?”

  “I’m going to make sure the gag I put in your uncle’s mouth stays in place. We’re getting out of here, and the last thing we need is having him raise the alarm.”

  “George?” Noelle’s hand was trembling on his shoulder. “We’re taking Charlotte and Thomas, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are.”

  She sagged in relief, and he gathered her up in his arms and began striding toward the house.

  “Okay, suppose you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Grandfather’s been beating Charlotte. I didn’t know, I swear it, George. I have my own room on the second floor, but Grandfather said she and Thomas would be more comfortable on the third floor. I didn’t know!” She burst into tears. “B-big people are s-supposed to take care of ch-children.”

  “Yes, they are. Mama and Papa did, and you’d expect Mama’s Papa to do so as well.”

  She tucked
her head under his chin. “Thomas came to my room tonight. He’s not supposed to—neither is Charlotte. He told me Grandfather was hurting her.”

  Oh God, had the old man raped his little sister? Charlie had only turned six. George swallowed hard. The back door to the kitchen wasn’t locked, and he opened it and made his way quietly into the house.

  “You’ll have to tell me how to get to Charlie and Little Thomas.”

  She pointed out the servants’ stairs, and he began the climb up to the third floor.

  “Okay, Christmas angel. Tell me what happened.”

  “Charlie was huddled on her bed, and Grandfather stood over her, hitting her with his belt. I could see speckles of blood on the back of her nightie. I ran at Grandfather and hit his back, screaming at him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He shoved me aside. Oh, Georgie, I didn’t know what else to do. I grabbed a piece of firewood and hit him behind the knees, the way you taught us. He fell down, just like you said would happen, and I hit him over the head with the wood before he could get up. I hit him, and I hit him, and…and I think I may have killed him.”

  “Good girl. You saved me the trouble of doing that myself. I’m proud of you, Noelle.”

  She tightened her grip around his neck. “This is the door to the third floor,” she said, and George gave her a reassuring squeeze, put her down, and opened it. He peered out cautiously, but no one was in sight.

  “Georgie, why haven’t you been to see us?”

  “They wouldn’t let me. Every time I came by these past two months, your grandfather sent word you were visiting or shopping or something.”

  “He told us you didn’t love us anymore—that you didn’t want to be our brother.”

  George swore under this breath. “I’ve been trying to save money to take us all away from here.”

  “Is Bart coming too?”

  “I hope so.”

  “This is Charlotte’s room.” She pointed it out.

  George put her behind him and used care entering. Noelle was a dainty little girl, and just because she’d hit her grandfather again and again didn’t mean she’d done as much damage as she’d thought.

  “Georgie!” Thomas stood over the old man, holding a chunk of firewood. “Christmas! I do just what you tell me and watch the mean old man. He not move.” He nudged the body with his little foot.