Reece laughed out loud, indicating with a gesture that his current circumstances were anything but lavish.
“All right, smart guy. You know what I mean. Besides, the boarding house is a lot more homelike than this. And Delores’d never forgive me if she found out you were sleepin’ here, in a warehouse.”
And so Reece agreed to move in with Hap and Delores. Oddly enough, he ended up living in Tara’s old room.
His plans for a factory, like his search for Tara, were stymied. Without access to his family’s money, he could not afford to finance the necessary research himself. Undaunted, he sought to attract venture capital. Reece counted many wealthy, powerful men among his family’s acquaintances. He was relieved to find that Emory had not managed to turn them against Reece. But the goodwill of these men did not automatically translate into dollars. They turned him down, one after the other. A factory to build airplanes? Flying machines were a fad that would not last. They were dangerous. Of limited use. Novelties. They couldn’t fly far enough to be valuable. Customers would mainly be daredevil barnstormers, and there weren’t enough of them to make an airplane factory profitable.
Reece was encouraged to turn his attention and talents to other things.
He could bear the frustration as long as he kept Tara firmly in his thoughts. Any day now, she’d be back in his arms. He’d explain everything to her: why he’d kept himself at a distance from her, why he’d become engaged to Miriam. Why he’d wasted so much time when he knew he loved her the first moment he met her. He knew she felt the same. Her kisses hadn’t lied.
He was sure that his lack of funds would have no effect on her feelings for him. She wouldn’t care if he were broke. They would figure out a future together. Rich or poor, they’d be happy. Tara didn’t let circumstances stand in her way—look at what a penniless immigrant off theTitanic had managed to accomplish, before that monster Muldoon got in her way! He wished she would have turned to him for help, wished he’d known how dangerous Muldoon was when he met him. How different things might have been if she had.
It could still be fixed, all of it. He just had to find Tara. With her at his side, he’d find some way to throw down the obstacles that blocked him.
By day he looked for Tara. Late into each night he tinkered with new engineering ideas. Better lift. Higher altitudes and speeds. Wings of laminated wood. Reconfigured fuel systems. Engines repositioned for more efficiency.
Find Tara.
These were the goals that pulled him along, day after day. In time, the man he’d hired to locate Tara returned and made his report to Reece. It was a discouraging conclusion. There was no Tara McLaughlin to be found in New York City.
Chapter Sixteen
“Kitty! Kitty Logan! Are you deaf that you didn’t hear me callin’ you?”
Tara pushed the heavy beer keg up the last few steps and into place behind the bar, looking at her employer in annoyance.
“I was in the cellar,” she said pointedly. “After the keg you sent me for.”
Mrs. McGuigan sniffed. “It’s not so far as all that that you couldn’t answer me. One would think you didn’t know your own name.”
Mrs. McGuigan was a thin-lipped, angular woman who sometimes came close to the truth by accident. After all these months of answering to her mother’s name, Tara almost didn’t remember her own. The ruse was necessary. If Muldoon’s men came sniffing around after a Tara McLaughlin, they wouldn’t find her here. How long before she’d feel safe from the man? Perhaps he’d be satisfied with merely destroying her vaudeville career and driving her from her home and her friends. Maybe that was enough for him. Maybe by now he’d forgotten all about her, but she couldn’t take that chance. Not yet…
“If you’re quite finished with that, get the scrubbing brush and bucket over to that back corner. Someone had a bit too much to drink.”
“Kitty” did as she was told, glad for a few minutes away from Mrs. McGuigan’s irritating presence. Out of range of that trumpeting, self-important voice, it was easier to pretend herself out of this awful place. She brought the power of her imagination to bear upon the task, focusing hard. She wasn’t really scrubbing vomit off a tavern floor. She was on a stage. A Broadway stage this time. Why not? She was dressed in chiffon and feathers, like those glamorous Ziegfeld girls she’d heard about.
“Kitty! When you’re finished there, there’s glasses need washing.”
Tara sighed. It was no use. That voice cut cleanly through her daydreams. There was no use trying to pretend today.
She was not yet twenty years old. Was this what the rest of her life would be like? She wondered what Hap and Delores were doing right now. Was Kathleen still angry with her? It was too dangerous even to write to any of them. For all she knew, Muldoon had threatened or hurt friends of hers besides Hap. She hoped not.
Were Lotte and her family any closer to getting their farm in Wisconsin? Tara didn’t think so. If she’d learned anything, it was how quickly those dreams hovering just beyond your reach could be snatched completely away.
And Reece… Reece. It hurt her to think of him. The pain was almost physical. It must have been a grand wedding, he and Miriam had. Was he happy? Oh, Reece, she thought sadly. Did you ever guess how much I cared for you? Did you ever let yourself imagine how it could be between the two of us? How happy I could have made you?
“Kitty! Aren’t you finished with that yet? I’ve a mind to replace you, if this is all the faster you’re goin’ to work for me.”
“Sure and it was a mess, Mrs. McGuigan,” she said, in her defense. “I know how clean you like your floor to be, so I did a good job of it.” It was a ludicrous statement. The chipped tile floor of this tavern hadn’t been clean since 1890, by the look of it. However, Mrs. McGuigan missed the irony in Tara’s tone and was momentarily placated.
“Ya dirty bog-picker,” Tara muttered under her breath. “Your floor’s not fit for barnyard animals, so I guess it’ll do for the kind of people you entertain here.”
To think she’d been grateful for this job at first. It met all of her requirements. She was not likely to attract Muldoon’s attention in this grim corner of the Bowery. Mrs. McGuigan paid a pitiably small wage, but she did allow Tara and Sheila the use of a room upstairs. It was little bigger than a closet and the eerie scratching sounds of rats often kept them awake at night, but it was a place to stay.
It wasn’t easy living on her salary. She’d insisted that Sheila continue her schooling, though the girl didn’t devote much energy to it. Sheila caused her other worries, too. Tara tried to keep her young cousin to the upper floor, but Sheila showed a distinct preference for the tavern and the men she met in it. The patrons of this wretched place were the refuse of the city: scoundrels, criminals, drunkards and the kind of women who went with men for money. Tara almost wished Sheila were still keeping company with James. At least he was a clean, decent lad. But Sheila had only met with him once since they’d left the boarding house, to tell him good-bye. He lived too far away now, Sheila said. Tara suspected she’d simply grown tired of him. It was a relief. She needed no trail from their old lives that might lead Muldoon to their present hiding place.
Mrs. McGuigan did nothing to discourage Sheila from loitering about the place, young as the girl was. The same cozy arrangement with the police that allowed her to remain quietly open on Sundays—when taverns were supposed to be closed—made her indifferent to the illegality of having an underage girl on the premises. Sheila was pretty and unlike Tara, friendly to the tavern’s male customers.
Tara finished with the floor and stood up, her lower back aching, her hands red and raw.
Sheila came into the tavern when she was nearly done washing the glasses. She was accompanied by Webb, a dissolute-looking man with a greasy black beard and a slick, ingratiating smile. Tara thoroughly distrusted him.
“Did you hear, Kitty?” Sheila said. “The Germans went and sank a British liner. Just like that! Webb was after tellin’ me all about it.
What was the name of the ship again, Webb?”
“The Lusitania,” he answered, looking bored.
Sheila continued with her big news. “It was terrible. Thousands of people were drowned. A lot of them Americans.”
Tara closed her eyes for a moment, the nightmare of the Titanic’s sinking coming back to her in an instant. Those poor people. She could imagine their terror as the cold water closed over them. And the memory that she tried so hard to keep at bay washed over her: poor Paddy.
“Are you all right, Ta—Kitty?” Sheila, bless her heart, actually noticed that something was wrong.
“Just tired. Tired of it all, I think.” She wasn’t sure whether she meant the war in Europe or her own trials.
Sheila and Webb went to sit at a table in the corner. Tara didn’t like the intimate way Webb linked hands with his cousin. He was far too old for Sheila, had been in some troubles with the police. Tara was sure he had no intention of marrying her cousin.
A warning bell went off in the back of her head. She needed to find a better environment for both of them, before it was too late.
It was time for Tara to shake herself out of her stupor and make some changes.
• • •
Fifth Avenue. This was where the biggest, grandest mansions were. “Millionaire’s Row,” it was called. The first door she rang at was answered by a maid who stared rudely at Tara’s less-than-stylish clothing.
“We have no positions available here,” she said curtly. “And the next house you apply at, you might think about using the servants’ entrance. You’ll find it around the back.” With that, she shut the door in Tara’s face.
Tara’s next attempt went a little better. At the servants’ entrance she was greeted by a friendly cook who let her sit in the kitchen and drink a cup of tea while she waited to speak to the head housekeeper.
“Have you any experience as a maid?” the housekeeper asked her.
“No, but I’ve served in a tavern.”
That was the end of that interview. At each mansion, Tara learned a new lesson. In addition to using the servants’ entrance and not mentioning her tavern employment (girls who did such work were thought to be slatternly), she needed a letter of reference extolling her skills as a maid and her high moral character. How could she possibly get one?
Her day off from the tavern was passing by quickly, with poor results so far. She would try a few more mansions. At the next one, the pinched face of the maid who answered the door seemed familiar to her. She tried to place it. Somehow it seemed important to remember.
“We’ve no openings here,” the maid said impatiently.
Just then an anxious, high-pitched voice pealed out from a nearby room. “Brigid? Brigid, where are you?”
Of course! After all these years, Tara was surprised at how quickly the name came back to her. Brigid Connelly. The arrogant visitor to her mother’s parlor.
Tara jammed her foot in the door just as Brigid went to close it on her.
“Brigid Connelly,” she said forcefully. “Do ye not remember me? I’m Tara McLaughlin, from your own county back in Ireland. You visited me mither and told tales about the grand home you had in America.”
Brigid looked panic-stricken. “I told you. We’ve no need for more staff at the moment. You could come back at a later—”
“Brigid!” The shrill voice was closer.
“Is that the woman of the house? D’ya think she’d like to hear about the tales you told us? Wouldn’t she be surprised to know that this is your mansion, and not hers?”
Brigid inhaled sharply. The woman of the house suddenly appeared at her side. Tara could understand why it had taken her so long to get there. The absurd, trendy hobble skirt she wore limited her to short, mincing steps. As full-figured as she was, the style did not flatter her.
“Didn’t you hear me, Brigid?” she said breathlessly. “I need another server in the main dining room. That clumsy girl—oh, what is her name—dropped my silver tureen, and there’s cream of barley soup all over the floor.” She noticed Tara. “And who is this?”
“A friend of hers from Ireland, mum,” Tara said quickly, shaping her tone into a suitably subservient one. “Brigid always said how much she enjoyed working for you. What a lovely home you had. I was hopin’ to find work here as a maid.”
“Oh, I’m afraid we’ve no openings at present. Cook!” she shrilled. “Where is that boiled ox tongue?” And she was gone.
Brigid looked at Tara consideringly. “I appreciate your not tellin’ her about me little stories. You’ve done me a good turn so I’ll do you one as well. There’s a home just up the street from here that’s needin’a maid. One of their girls just left to get married.”
“I’ll need a letter of reference.” Tara was not about to let this opportunity get away.
Momentarily taken aback by Tara’s boldness, Brigid nonetheless shrugged. “Fine. I’ll give you a note to take to the head of staff there. She’s a particular friend of mine. You’ll get the job for sure.”
“I’m grateful to you, Brigid,” Tara said sincerely, feeling just a little guilty at the way in which she’d blackmailed the other woman into helping her. The qualm passed quickly. She needed a new job and had done what she had to do to get it. “Which house is it?
“It’ll not be hard to find. I’ll write down the address for ya. It’s grander than this one, even. Set back behind a wrought iron fence.
“It’s the Millinder mansion.”
Chapter Seventeen
“President Wilson has it right, to my way of thinking. Let the Europeans handle their own petty squabbles. Why even entertain the idea of getting mixed up in it?”
Having delivered himself of this opinion, Mr. Wilfred Dunphrey gave his attention over to the plate of roast spring lamb with mint sauce that Tara placed in front of him. Garnished artfully with sliced cucumbers and dressed lettuce, it made a pretty picture.
“It’s hardly a petty squabble, Father.” Hollowell Dunphrey, brimming with youthful intensity, was eager for a spirited yet civilized argument. “After all, the Germans seem intent on sinking just about every ship on the high seas!”
“It’s not even safe to travel to Europe anymore. What a shame. I do so miss it.” Eleanor Dunphrey, a bosomy woman with a deep, mannish voice directed these remarks to Adrienne, hoping to entice her hostess into the conversation.
“Ah went there many times, when Ah was young,” Adrienne said wistfully.
“War! War! War!” Lila Dunphrey cried out petulantly. “I’m sick to death of hearing the word, ‘war.’ Is that all anyone can talk of these days?”
Emory Millinder leaned forward, ever the genial host. It was, Tara knew already, his favorite role.
“Now, now, my dear Miss Dunphrey. There’s no need to trouble yourself. Your father is right. The civil war in Europe has little to do with us.”
“Oh really, Emory?” Wilfred Dunphrey looked up slyly from his dinner. “Is that why you’ve just purchased that munitions factory in Cleveland?”
Emory chuckled jovially and signaled Tara to refill his wine glass.
“There’s no reason why a man can’t profit from the idiocy of others.”
Wilfred wasn’t finished with his joke yet. “Then tell me: which side do you intend to sell to?”
Emory thought for a moment.
“Both.”
Everyone laughed at that. Even Adrienne managed a tremulous smile, but Tara could tell the evening was a strain on her, even though this was a fairly small dinner party. She ate little. Tara knew she was waiting a respectable amount of time until she could make apologies and retire to her room, leaving Emory to finish entertaining the guests in the drawing room. It was a pattern Tara had seen played out again and again in the few months she’d worked here.
Tara couldn’t blame her tonight. These Dunphreys were a tiresome lot. When Lila Dunphrey handed her kid gloves to Tara at the door, she looked as if she half-expected Tara to steal them.
; “Why do they entertain so much, as ill is Mrs. Millinder is?” she’d asked Cook once.
“It’s him. He’s the one who wants all the parties. He’s a social climber, he is. Doesn’t care a fig that it’s hard on her, as long as he can have his fancy friends over and show off the mansion. She’s a lady. Comes from old money in the South. But he’s new to it. His father,” Cook hissed viciously, “was an undertaker.”
The mansion was, indeed, deserving of being “shown off,” thought Tara. She stood against a wall, making herself invisible until needed—as she’d been trained to—and stole glances around her. The dining room alone was magnificent. As much time as she spent serving in here, she never entered it without thrilling to its grandeur.
The carved teak table—now covered by an Irish lace cloth—would have overpowered a room of lesser proportions. Fortunately, the dining room was quite long, and the red alabaster columns lining the walls drew the eye upward to gilded cornices and an ornate beamed ceiling two stories overhead. Antique tapestries on the walls gave the room a rich texture. Dresden urns gleamed like plump, blank-faced sentinels on either side of the twin onyx-faced fireplaces.
She remembered that Mr. Dunphrey the Senior owned several banks. Possibly, the Dunphrey home was even grander than this one, though that was hard to imagine.
Mr. Millinder was looking her way in annoyance. What was needed? He would not, of course, simply tell her. She scanned the table. It was not time for dessert yet. Everyone had wine aplenty. One of the other maids caught her eyes and motioned toward something at Mr. Millinder’s elbow.
Of course. The crystal salt cellar was nearly empty! It was an unacceptable state of affairs. Her starched uniform rustled softly as she stepped forward to remove the offending object and take it to the kitchen. She was careful not to drop the tiny silver spoon that nestled in the salt cellar.
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