Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  The door closed. The conductor moved down the aisle, calling out the next stops on their route as he punched vouchers. The train didn’t move.

  She sat sweating beneath her fur wrap, her gaze pinned to the station doors, expecting to see Doyle and Rylander burst out and try to stop the train.

  They didn’t.

  Minutes ticked by.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, the train jerked, then rolled forward.

  Margaret almost wept in relief.

  Moving at a snail’s pace, the train left the station and crawled past loading docks behind unlit warehouses and factories.

  Hurry, Margaret urged silently, counting every clack of the wheels over the joints in the track. Slowly they picked up speed. There was still enough light as they crossed the Hackensack River for her to see the fishing boats returning home, but by the time they crossed the new bridge over the Passaic, it was too dark to see anything but the faint glitter of lights on the far shore. Once past the river, buildings gave way to moonlit fields and the train settled into a swaying rhythm.

  Slumping back, Margaret heaved a great sigh. Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy and breathless. The palms of her black cotton gloves were damp with sweat, and she felt weak from the unrelenting tension. But it was done.

  The first part of her escape was over.

  With a trembling hand, she pulled her watch from her reticule.

  Eight forty-one. Less than three hours had passed since she had gone upstairs with Mrs. Throckmorton. If the day had proceeded as planned, the wedding guests would now be enjoying the baked meringue puffs with bourbon raspberry sauce she had so carefully picked out.

  Instead, Doyle would be looking in earnest now. His initial anger that she had left him to tend her guardian would have faded into puzzlement over why she was taking so long. He would send someone—Mrs. Bradshaw or Rylander—to hurry her along. When they reported they couldn’t find her, the first doubts would form. He would wonder if something sinister had happened. He had enemies. She suspected he took pride in that, seeing it as proof of his power. The thought might come to him that one of them could have spirited her away.

  At that point he would demand the hotel staff check every floor and room, the exits, the kitchens, the pantries and linen closets, the basement and roof. When she still couldn’t be found, he would call in the police.

  First, they would question Mrs. Throckmorton, the floor maid, and Mrs. Bradshaw. Then they would question the guests. Even now, men might be searching the hotel suite, going through her private things. They would find the dresses she’d left behind in the wardrobe. Her coat. They would see her extra brush on the vanity, her robe on the hook in the water closet, and her slippers beside the bed.

  But they wouldn’t find her wedding gown. Or her jewelry. Or her valise. They wouldn’t find the folder containing the railroad shares. And when they reported that to Doyle, he would know.

  Then God help her.

  * * *

  Doyle swirled his cup and watched the dark liquid rise up the sides, exposing a thick sludge of coffee grounds in the bottom. He needed something stronger. Something to calm his nerves. Take the edge off the anger and worry. His gaze shifted to the decanter of brandy on the table beside the bookcases in his office.

  Just one drink. That’s all. Surely Tait wouldn’t begrudge him that.

  Instead, he shoved the cup aside. Rising, he walked to the window overlooking the street that ran in front of his house. The tall streetlamps cast pools of light on the cobbled street, flashing briefly off the badges of uniformed men clustered around a closed police wagon. More men moved through his house—he heard them cross the floor overhead, tromp up and down the stairs, slam shut doors on cabinets and wardrobes.

  He hated this invasion of his privacy. But after they’d found nothing at the Fifth Avenue, he’d had no choice but to call in the police. Within half an hour, they were swarming the hotel like blue-backed ants. Wasting their time, searching the same places Tait had already checked, and badgering the guests with the same questions he’d already asked. They even went to Mrs. Throckmorton’s house to search Margaret’s room there. And now they were here in his home, doing another useless search rather than combing the streets for his wife. When he’d seen them digging through the luggage Margaret had sent over earlier, putting their hands on her underthings and intimate items, he’d been so filled with frustration and disgust he’d had to walk away.

  Five hours ago he’d been anticipating his wedding night. He thought he finally had everything he wanted within his reach. Now he was watching strange men paw through his wife’s personal belongings.

  Where was she?

  Cursing under his breath, he walked back to his desk and sank into the chair.

  Jasus, what a mess. Dealing with the wedding guests had been humiliating. He had put it off as long as he could, but when Tait insisted he call in the police, he’d had no choice but to inform them that his wife was missing.

  Shock. Concern. Sly smirks. He could guess the thoughts behind those knowing looks—that they knew all along no decent woman would marry an uneducated Irish immigrant no matter how rich and powerful he was. No surprise to them that she would leave him the first chance she got.

  But Margaret wasn’t like that. Despite her lofty ways, she seemed to understand and accept him. And once he explained what he expected of her, she would have made the perfect wife and hostess and mother for his children. She would understand her role as his bridge from the past to the future—from what he had been to what he wanted to be. She would help him build a dynasty.

  Assuming he found her. Faith, where could she be? What happened?

  With a sigh, he rested his elbows on the desk and threaded his fingers through the hair at his temples. Staring blindly at the wood grain of his walnut desk, he tried to come up with a logical explanation for her disappearance.

  He could draw only two conclusions, neither of which made sense.

  His wife had been taken, either for ransom—but then where was the demand for money?—or by someone who wanted to harm him—but who?

  Or she had left him. Why? For what reason? Two days ago she had been more affectionate toward him than she’d ever been. They were fine.

  And yet, she was gone. He couldn’t escape that.

  Gone on purpose? Or under duress?

  A knock on the door brought his head around. News, at last. He was desperate for something, good or bad. He couldn’t take the not knowing much longer. “Enter.”

  Tait walked in. Doyle knew it wasn’t good news when he saw his friend’s face. Then he noticed the wad of cloth under his arm. Stained white silk. Torn lace and tiny crushed pearls. Margaret’s wedding dress.

  The air left him.

  “It was caught on a nail in a garbage chute, halfway between the second and third floors.” Tait dropped the ruined gown over the back of one of the chairs in front of Doyle’s desk, then slumped in the other, weariness evident in the deep lines bracketing his wide mouth. “There was no blood on it, thank God.”

  Doyle stared stupidly at the crumpled dress, remembering the last time he’d seen it hours earlier. Margaret had looked so beautiful coming down the aisle toward him. His bride. Slim. Petite.

  Trembling. Why?

  Nerves? Or something else?

  “We also found this. Wrapped up inside the veil.” Tait pulled an item from his pocket and set it on the desk.

  Smooth and golden. Small enough to fit his little finger. The wedding band he had given his bride.

  It took a moment for it to sink in. Then rage arced through his chest. A red haze formed behind his eyes. He started to shake.

  Goddamn her.

  His fury built with every heartbeat, hammered through his head. He had trusted her. Given her wealth, the promise of an easy life,
a position as one of the most powerful hostesses in New York. And this is how she repaid him?

  “Goddamn her to hell!”

  Tait straightened in the chair. “You’re blaming Margaret? For what? We don’t even know yet what happened.”

  “She left me. That’s what happened.” The realization exploded in Doyle’s mind, loosening a maelstrom of other thoughts that swirled and circled and bounced back at him from a dozen directions. “The bitch played me for a fool.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “By this.” With shaking fingers, Doyle held up the ring. The words he’d had engraved on the inside of the band caught the light. Ta gra agam duit—I love you. Faith, he was such an idiot. “If she’d been taken for ransom, they would have sent this back to me as proof that they had her. Or if it was someone who intended to harm her or threaten me, they would have sent it back still on her finger. No, boyo.” He let the band drop back to the desk, where it landed with a clink and spun to a stop. “This ring wasn’t stolen or lost. It was thrown away. Like garbage.”

  Like me.

  She would pay for that, may the devil take her soul. And for making a fool of him in front of all those people. By God, she would pay.

  “Margaret wouldn’t do such a thing,” Tait said flatly. “There was no reason for it.”

  “Oh, there was reason.” Another burst of anger almost sent Doyle from his chair. “She had plenty of reasons. Twenty-five of them. And each worth twenty shares in the Hudson and Erie Railroad.”

  Tait slumped back. Doyle could see him working it through in his logical way. His friend had a brilliant mind but a soft nature. He was too easily swayed by sentiment. He lacked the ruthlessness, the kind of ambition and drive it took to claw out a handhold in the highest reaches of the business world. He was a man of such high-minded principle he had fought for the Union even though he knew the defeat of the South would destroy the home he loved.

  Fortunately, Doyle wasn’t burdened with that kind of self-defeating weakness. He had no time for blind loyalty or faltering excuses. He knew the baseness of people—he’d seen it—lived it. Principles never stoked a fire or filled a belly, and Doyle was determined he would never be cold or hungry again.

  He would find her. She couldn’t run far enough to evade his reach. And then she would pay for this humiliation.

  “That doesn’t wash,” Tait said, apparently still trying to find an acceptable reason for Margaret’s defection. “She stood to gain more as your wife than as a thief on the run. Besides, she didn’t even know about the stock certificates until you gave them to her. And even if she had, how did she plan to sell them? No bank would buy them without wiring for verification of the serial numbers, and as members of the board of the Hudson and Erie, we would know immediately.” He shook his head. “More to the point, Margaret wouldn’t do it. She’s not a devious woman. I don’t believe it.”

  Doyle didn’t want to believe it, either. He wasn’t often deceived, especially by women. He wouldn’t have thought his wife smart enough to conceive such a plan, much less execute it all on her own. And he knew she didn’t have help. The men he’d had watching over her up until this morning had kept him apprised of every contact in her life.

  Unless he’d been wrong about that, too.

  Angry all over again, he yanked open the center drawer and swept the ring inside. Slamming it closed, he sat forward, arms folded on the desk. “Start over. Figure out how she left the hotel, then track her from there. If she’s running, she’ll go by train since that’s the fastest. But not to a small town where she would be easy to find. She’ll go to a city, someplace big enough to get lost in. North is Albany. I’ll wire a man I know up there and have him watch the stations. If she’s headed west, she’ll have to go south, then across to Philadelphia. That’s where I want you, Tait. Meanwhile, I’ll get some boys to start looking closer by. If she’s still on this island, we’ll find her.”

  Abruptly, Tait rose and walked to the window. He stood for a moment, looking out, then turned and faced Doyle. He recognized the mulish look. “And then what, Doyle? When you find her, what do you intend to do?”

  Doyle didn’t answer because he didn’t know what he would do once he caught up with his runaway bride. Divorce her? Such a public scandal would be impossible to live down.

  A quiet annulment? On what grounds—desertion? The smirks would never end, then.

  Take her back? He could do that, pretend everything was a simple misunderstanding. Sure, and he would have to keep a watch on her, but once she provided the children he needed, he could send her into a quiet retirement in a carefully chosen institution. Not a particularly pleasant idea, but doable.

  Forcing a smile, he sat back. “Don’t you worry about that, boyo. Just find her. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  * * *

  Margaret dozed on and off throughout the night, awakening to bright morning sunlight as they clattered over the bridge across the Delaware River on their approach into Philadelphia. She felt wretched, every muscle stiff from fighting the bounce and sway of the passenger car, and so weary she was numb.

  Several minutes later the train shuddered to a stop at the Thirtieth Street Station. She studied the figures on the platform. She didn’t expect to see Doyle or Rylander, knowing they couldn’t have gotten here ahead of her even if they’d known which route she would take. But a telegram could cover the hundred miles from New York to Philadelphia in a matter of minutes. Doyle could have wired ahead to the authorities. Sheriffs, marshals, tellers, detectives, even hotel keepers within several hundred miles of Manhattan could all be looking for her now.

  But no one meeting the arriving passengers stood out as being overly watchful. Just to be sure, she waited for a family of four to pass down the aisle toward the exit, then slipped in behind them. Making appropriate cooing noises at the infant peering at her over her father’s shoulder, she struck up a conversation with the mother, a sweet-faced woman with a quick smile. Chatting amiably in what she hoped was an old woman’s voice, she accompanied them into the depot before bidding them good-bye and ducking into the ladies’ washroom.

  Ten minutes later, she emerged as fresh as a woman could be after spending the night on a hard bench on a moving train. Seeing no one lurking suspiciously about, she went to check the schedule. There was a train bound for Pittsburgh leaving late that afternoon. Hopefully that would give her ample time to complete her business, and by then she would have enough money to purchase a sleeping berth. She couldn’t take another night without sleep.

  After reserving a private compartment on the afternoon westbound, she picked up her valise and walked out onto the street. Approaching the first hansom cab in the line awaiting fares, she asked him to take her to the Girard Bank.

  While the coachman negotiated the narrow cobbled streets, Margaret took her jewelry case out of her valise. Selecting to impress, rather than for style, she quickly put on the amethyst and diamond necklace Doyle had given her and the diamond earbobs from Mrs. Throckmorton. Then she covered herself once again with the heavy veil and fur wrap and sat back, her mind racing.

  During the long hours of the night, she had come up with a plan to get her through the next phase of her escape. She went over the details one more time, but her thoughts kept tangling up and she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Exhaustion was setting in. She felt it in aching muscles and in the numbness of her mind after all the hours of fear and tension. But she couldn’t relax yet. She had to set this next part of her plan in motion and get out as quickly as possible. Then she could rest.

  The sun arced higher, shining through the window behind her seat. The nasty fur Mrs. Throckmorton had insisted she wear had been welcome in the coolness of the night. But now, as it warmed in the sun, it gave off a faint musty animal odor.

  She wondered how Mrs. Throckmorton was doing, and if Doyle had been harsh with
her. She knew he was capable of it. She wasn’t sure about Tait Rylander. He had surprised her with his kind treatment of her guardian and his defense of the widow O’Reilly. Hopefully, he had been there to curb Doyle’s temper when he had questioned Mrs. Throckmorton.

  Weariness sapped her spirit, opened her mind to regret and doubt. But determined not to let weakness overcome her, she concentrated instead on exactly what she would say when she met with the banker.

  That was the key. The most dangerous step. If she could get through the next few hours and escape Philadelphia before Doyle found her, she would finally be free.

  Five

  Leaning a shoulder against the window frame by his seat, Tait Rylander tried to doze despite the constant motion of the passenger car and the glare of morning sunlight shining into his face. He’d been awake and on the move all night. But even though his body was worn out, his mind wouldn’t slow.

  Thoughts of her kept circling in his head—the stricken look on her face when he’d led her toward the altar; the tremble in the gloved hand on his arm; the short, rapid breaths that had sent a quiver through the white bridal veil; the way she smelled.

  Had it been nerves? Fear? An act? The woman had him so confused he didn’t know what to think.

  The woman.

  The clever and enigmatic Margaret.

  His business partner’s wife.

  Giving up on sleep, Tait straightened. As he rubbed the stiffness from his neck, he looked around. The car was almost full. Mostly businessmen. A few farmers. A couple of families. The New York to Philadelphia route was one of the busiest. The PRR ran four trains a day, which was lucky for him, because that would give him his best chance of catching up with her.

  She must be exhausted by now—he sure as hell was—and she had to sleep sometime. Philadelphia was a big city, a good place to hole up, get some rest, and reorganize. That’s what he would do if he were on the run.