Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  “Oh, dear,” she said regretfully. “I wasn’t supposed to mention that. I’m making a muddle of everything.” With a disheartened sigh, she reached for the papers. “Perhaps I should wait for my husband—”

  He slapped a palm on the folder, anchoring it to the middle of the desk. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Kerrigan. He requires us to tend these matters, and so we shall.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lufkin. I’m sure he will be most grateful. And loyal.”

  “How much do you think you might need?”

  Margaret gave it some thought, her fingers idly playing over the buttons between her breasts. “He said I should put up no more than five certificates as collateral, which would be a hundred shares. How much could I borrow against that?”

  He named a figure. Margaret refrained from gasping. “I suppose that will be sufficient to get me started,” she murmured once she caught her breath. “But I would need it right away.” She motioned to the valise. “As you can see I have only just arrived and will need to find a suitable hotel and make arrangements for my father’s funeral and tend his affairs and . . . oh, it exhausts me just to think about it. Is there a hotel close by you could recommend? Someplace where my things would be secure?” She gently thumped the necklace against her chest.

  He swallowed. “If you’re worried about your valuables or the other certificates, we could set up a safe deposit box for you here in the bank.”

  “Oh, would you?” Another arm squeeze. “You’ve been such a help, Mr. Lufkin. Doyle will be so pleased to learn how well you’ve taken care of me.”

  A moment later, the secretary magically appeared in the doorway.

  Lufkin listed the forms he required and wrote down a sum on a piece of paper with instructions to have the funds brought directly to him once the forms were filled out. The secretary whisked away again. As the door closed behind him, the banker aimed a honeyed smile at Margaret’s breasts. “You say your husband will be arriving in a few days?”

  “Two weeks at most. Perhaps a month. He’s involved in some sort of secret negotiations over a branch line up north somewhere.” She fluttered fingers in airy dismissal. “It’s always something. I can scarcely keep up with him.”

  “I’m leery of you traveling about with that much cash on your person, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Lufkin said with a frown. “Perhaps you should open an account here at the bank.”

  Margaret gently rubbed a fingertip back and forth along her lower lip as she thought it over. Then with a sigh, said, “I’d best wait for my husband, I think. But I can certainly put the greater portion of it in your safe deposit box, and the rest in the hotel safe.”

  “Of course.”

  The secretary returned with the completed paperwork, a stack of bank notes, and a drooping canvas bag that clinked when he set it in Mr. Lufkin’s pale, pudgy hands.

  As the banker carefully studied the papers, Margaret checked the clock on the wall. Almost noon. She should have ample time once she finished here to purchase a few items, dine, and arrive back at the station to board the six o’clock train to Pittsburgh.

  Six more hours and she would be free. The thought almost made her giddy.

  “And now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Mr. Lufkin said, having completed his inspection of the loan papers, “I’ll need to see some identification. Purely as a formality, of course.”

  Margaret’s heartbeat faltered. “Identification?”

  “Just something to show you’re who you say you are. For the forms.”

  Margaret stared at him, her thoughts so scattered, she couldn’t think of a response.

  His smile faded into an expression of consternation. “A letter addressed to you, perhaps? A bill? A receipt? Anything with your name on it, besides these certificates.” As he spoke, he thumbed through the papers in the folder, then stopped. “What’s this?”

  Margaret looked across the desk and felt a jolt of surprise. “My marriage certificate.” Not having looked in the folder since leaving the Fifth Avenue, she hadn’t been aware that she had inadvertently picked it up, too.

  “What’s it doing in here?”

  “I-I’m not sure.” Margaret remembered scooping up the stock folder to fan Mrs. Throckmorton. Had she accidentally grabbed the certificate along with it? Or had her guardian slipped it in with the stocks when she’d packed her valise?

  “Dear lady, it hasn’t been witnessed or registered. Look, there’s no stamp on it.” He pointed to a blank space near the bottom of the document.

  “E-Everything was so rushed, I guess it got pushed into the folder by mistake. We only married yesterday. Then news this morning of my father’s death . . .” This time she didn’t have to fake the tears. Panic was making her voice wobble and her eyes burn. “Oh, dear. What does this mean?”

  Something in her tone must have made him panicky, too. “There, there, Mrs. Kerrigan,” he said hastily. “A marriage certificate is sufficient for identification. But as soon as your husband arrives, you must have him register it with the proper authorities. Until it is, your marriage isn’t really considered legal.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The words were slow to penetrate. When they did, panic gave way to mind-churning euphoria. She wasn’t truly married? Even if he found her, Doyle couldn’t force her to go back? Ever?

  She was scarcely aware when the banker rose and came around to assist her from her chair. “Let’s see to that safe deposit box now, shall we, Mrs. Kerrigan?”

  In a daze, Margaret followed him down the hall and through a heavy metal door that opened into a windowless room, the walls of which were lined with small, locked doors similar to those in a mausoleum.

  Lufkin unlocked one of the doors, extracted a long metal box, and set it on the table in the center of the room. “I shall leave you in privacy, Mrs. Kerrigan,” he said gravely, and bowed himself out.

  Margaret quickly removed her necklace and earbobs, but instead of putting them into the box, she slipped them back into her valise, along with most of the money, which she stuffed into her toiletries case. The rest—five medium denomination bank notes and several each of half eagles, eagles, and double eagles—she put into her reticule. When she returned the deposit box to its slot on the wall of locked compartments, all it contained was her copy of the paperwork she had signed.

  Ten minutes later, she was climbing into the back of a hansom cab, so frazzled by what she had done she was shaking like the palsied old woman she was pretending to be.

  “Where can I take you, ma’am?” the coachman asked.

  Margaret thought for a moment, then grinned. “What’s the finest and most exclusive women’s clothier in the city?”

  “That would be Hillman’s on Broad.”

  “Then take me to Hillman’s.”

  With a snap of the whip, the cab lurched forward.

  Margaret sank back, one trembling hand pressed over her mouth to stifle giggles of pure relief.

  She had done it.

  She was free.

  And not married.

  And rich.

  Mrs. Throckmorton would be so proud.

  Six

  As Tait waited in the ticket line at Philadelphia’s Thirtieth Street Station, he scanned the faces of the travelers shuffling through, hoping he’d chosen the right stop.

  It was the closest to the heart of the city. He doubted she would pick one of the rural stations where there would be fewer people to blend in with and less opportunity to disappear. Plus, if she planned to go on west to Pittsburgh or south to Baltimore, she would have to come through here. According to the schedule, there was an afternoon train to Baltimore, and another departing for Pittsburgh at six o’clock. He would have to watch both.

  He yawned and scratched his stubbled chin. He was s
o tired his eyes felt coated with sand. His suit looked like he’d slept in it—which he wished he’d been able to do—and his teeth hadn’t been cleaned since yesterday.

  When he’d left Doyle’s office the previous night to begin backtracking Margaret’s movements, he hadn’t expected to be on his way to Philadelphia only a few hours later. He hadn’t even stopped to pack spare clothes or pick up traveling money. His credit was good; any big bank within two hundred miles would extend him funds on his signature alone. It was finding the time to go by one that was the problem.

  As soon as he verified the train schedule and questioned the ticket agent, he would attend to that. If the Baltimore run was delayed, he would have time to go by a bank and purchase the necessaries. Maybe a suit if he could find a ready-made big enough, then a bath and a shave and something to eat. His stomach was so empty it felt like it was rubbing against his backbone.

  He almost hoped the woman had slipped past him. He wasn’t sure what he might say if he caught up to her in his present frame of mind.

  “Help you, sir?”

  Realizing his turn had come, Tait stepped up to the counter where a pinch-faced man wearing a visor bearing the PRR emblem sat on a high stool. “The Baltimore train on time?”

  “So far. Arrives in an hour. Departs in two. Give or take.”

  That wouldn’t allow him time to tend his errands and get back to see who boarded. Which left Pittsburgh. “The six o’clock to Pittsburgh still on time?”

  “More or less.”

  That was probably the one she would take—assuming she wasn’t stopping permanently in Philadelphia and planned to continue west rather than south, and that she hadn’t gotten off at an earlier stop. Lots of assumptions. Tait didn’t like assumptions, but at this point, he had no choice. “How much for a Pullman sleeping compartment to Pittsburgh?”

  When the agent told him, Tait checked his cash and saw he didn’t have enough. “Can I reserve one now and pay for it before I board?”

  “You could, sir. If one was available.”

  Hell. Another sleepless night. “Do you have a list of passengers who have already reserved or bought Pullman tickets to either Pittsburgh or Baltimore?”

  The lips pinched even tighter. Tait wondered how the fellow could even speak. “As I explained to the other gentleman, sir, we’re not allowed to—”

  “Look!” Tait slapped a palm down on the counter, making the man flinch and his eyes widen. “This is a family emergency. I need to locate my aunt. Widow lady. Dressed in black. Hat with a veil. One bag. Has anyone by that description bought or reserved a Pullman sleeper berth on either the Pittsburgh or Baltimore train departing this evening? Sir?”

  “N-Not from me. But I just came on an hour ago.”

  With a curse, Tait turned and left the station. There were several hansom cabs parked outside. He walked to the first in line, hoping they made regular runs to and from the station.

  None had picked up a passenger meeting Margaret’s description.

  Which left Tait a choice: Either go to the bank and do his shopping—which he had time to do if she was taking the later train to Pittsburgh. Or stay here in case she took the earlier train to Baltimore, instead.

  Muttering, he stomped back inside.

  * * *

  The first thing she did after alighting from the buggy was to toss the veiled hat into a trash bin in an alley. The second was to drop the fur wrap into the grateful hands of an elderly woman wearing a thin worsted coat and clutching a tattered bundle as she trudged down Broad Street. The third was to sweep into Hillman’s and announce to the saleswoman hovering inside the door that she was done with widow’s weeds and required several new ensembles.

  Three hours later, she exited the shop carrying her valise, four ribbon-tied parcels, and wearing one of her altered-to-fit dresses—a heavy silk in a soft lilac that boasted the new narrow sleeves and elliptical overskirt, which was looped up to reveal a ruffled ivory underskirt. Over that she wore a knee-length heavy-weight wool traveling cape in a dark green, and she completed the ensemble with dainty kid half boots and a matching green Marie Stuart bonnet with a shirred ivory under-brim and two sets of ribbons—one tied under the chin, and the other trailed off the back. The parcels contained a heavy robe, sleeping attire, a square ivory shawl of the softest wool, a simple traveling dress in a lovely shade of yellow, and another in a delicate rose.

  It had all cost her a fortune. But she had a fortune, so why not?

  A thorough wash would have been nice, too, but that would have to wait until she boarded the train and made use of the washroom that was—as stated on the window advertisement at the depot—“the standard of excellence on the newest and most luxurious Pullman sleeping cars the Pennsylvania Railroad has to offer.”

  She ardently hoped that was true.

  From Broad she walked past City Hall to Eleventh Street. Finding a shop that offered leather goods, she stepped in to buy another valise, which she filled with her recent purchases. Then carrying both valises, she walked two doors down to an over-priced restaurant in an expensive hotel. It was certainly nice—but not as elegant as the Fifth Avenue Hotel had been. Taking a seat by the window, she happily ordered more food than she could possibly eat.

  She enjoyed it immensely, but by the time she set her napkin aside, the sleepless hours had begun to catch up with her. After settling her bill—and leaving a generous gratuity—she allowed the doorman to help her into a cab and headed back up to the train station. By the watch pinned inside her reticule, she calculated she had ample time to return to the depot, pay for the compartment she had reserved, and board the train to Pittsburgh. Then her new life could begin.

  As she watched the city buildings roll by, she wondered what she should call herself now. Chloe? Lucretia? No, Lucinda. She’d always liked that name. It had a fresh, happy ring to it. Lucinda Hathaway. That would do nicely.

  * * *

  Tait jerked upright, not sure where he was or what had alerted him. Groggily, he looked around.

  People sat on benches, luggage at their feet. Children whined. Somewhere nearby, a locomotive exhaled panting breaths like a blown horse.

  Philadelphia. The Thirtieth Street Station. He must have dozed off.

  Yawning, he reached for his hat, couldn’t find it, and realized someone had relieved him of it while he slept. His pocket watch was gone, too. With a curse, he felt his other pockets and was relieved that what money he had was still there.

  He checked the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes past six.

  Twenty minutes past six?

  He lurched to his feet, almost staggering on legs that were still half asleep. Outside, a man called “all aboard” to people hurrying across the platform to a waiting train.

  His train?

  He rushed to the ticket window. The same pinch-faced man in the PRR visor stared back at him. “Is that the train to Pittsburgh?” Tait asked, pointing at the cars lined up at the platform. Earlier he’d checked the train to Baltimore but hadn’t seen her board. She had to be taking this one.

  “It is.”

  Son of a bitch. He scanned the figures crowding the steps at the end of the two Pullman cars. Had she boarded already? Had he missed her? Not seeing the trim, familiar figure, he turned back to the agent. “Did you see the widow lady board? The one I asked about earlier?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I-I mean I saw no widow. But then, I just came back from break. You might check with the other agent. I believe he was talking to a man about a woman wearing black. He might know.”

  Tait itched to grab the man’s throat, but the conductor was shouting, “Last call to Pittsburgh,” and he knew he was running out of time. All he could do was board and check every car. If he didn’t find her, he could get off at the next stop and
start backtracking again. He reached into his pocket. “Just give me a ticket.”

  “To Pittsburgh?”

  Tait slammed a handful of money on the counter. “Of course to Pittsburgh!”

  A minute later, he was sprinting across the platform.

  “I’m looking for my aunt,” he told the conductor as the portly man stowed the steps and closed the gate. “A widow lady. Traveling alone. Wearing black. Maybe this tall.” He raised a flattened palm level with the top button on his waistcoat. “And slim. Could be staying in one of the sleeper cars.”

  The conductor thought it over, lips pursed to one side as he tugged on the corner of his mustache, which was only slightly less bushy than his eyebrows. “Nope. No widows up here. But you might check with the Pullman porters.”

  “Thanks.” Tait started down the aisle of the passenger car.

  “That’s where I sent the other fellow.”

  Stopping abruptly, Tait swung back. “Other fellow?”

  “Looking for his sister, he said. Sounds like your aunt.”

  Someone else was tracking Margaret? “What did he look like?”

  The conductor gave it more thought. “English. Stocky. Bent nose. Dark hair like yours, but turning gray.” He gave a smug smile. “Got an eye for faces, people tell me. Part of my job, I guess. Tell a lot from a man’s face. Hands, too. You were a bare-knuckle fighter, I’m guessing. I’d peg the other fellow as a dock worker, considering his build and that he was missing two fingers on his left hand.”

  Tait thanked him and hurried down to the next car, almost losing his balance when the train lurched forward.

  Had Doyle sent another tracker after his wife? Or was it someone else entirely? But who? And why would someone else be following Margaret?

  The porter in the first sleeper was a gray-haired ex-slave wearing the standard pressed white jacket and visored Pullman cap. He also carried the standard name of “George” in deference to his employer, George Pullman. He said there were no unattended elderly widow ladies in any of the four sleeping compartments on his car, although he recollected that there might be a woman traveling alone in the second Pullman car.