“You do that.”
“Mr. Milton?” a man suddenly inquired from behind. “Do you have a moment?”
Matthew bit back a groan. So much for reveling. He swiveled toward a mustached gent he’d never met, whose overgrown graying hair was snipped in all the wrong places. That evening attire, however, exuded prestige. “Yes, sir? How might I be of assistance?”
The gentleman hesitated, then stepped toward him. “The name is Mr. Grigg. I was hoping to call on you regarding an article pertaining to a disappearance.”
Matthew paused. “A disappearance?”
Mr. Grigg glanced about and lowered his voice. It cracked from strained emotion. “A close friend of mine, the owner of this here theater, had their six-
year-old daughter disappear from her bed fourteen days ago. Someone broke a window and got in. Though the marshals have been relentlessly investigating the matter, I thought a well-circulated newspaper such as yours might be able to assist in their investigation.”
Matthew’s throat tightened. “Yes. Of course we’d assist. Please. Call on the office tomorrow morning at nine. We only print once a week, but I’d be willing to push out an extra edition for it.”
The man nodded, blinking back tears. “Thank you. I will call in the morning. Good evening to you.”
“And you.” Matthew stared after the old man, who set his chin and slowly made his way out, his gloved hand tightening on his cane. When a child wasn’t even safe in her own bed and in her own home—much like Coleman’s own sad story—what hope was there for those children who wandered the street alone? The world deserved to burn for it.
He glanced toward Bernadette and grabbed her hand, tugging her onward. “We should leave.” He heaved out a breath, desperately trying to shake off the acrid feeling that this poor six-year-old girl was already dead.
Bernadette allowed herself to be hurried down the staircase, toward the entrance hall and through the crowds leading out to the line of carriages.
When they were inside his carriage and had pulled away from the theater, he swiped his face and confessed, “I hate this piss of a city.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “It’s been too many days. That poor child is dead.”
“Do not say that! For heaven’s sake, if you hold no hope for that child, what hope does she have?”
“Hope is a pointless emotion to cradle in the real world, Bernadette. It breaks you when you’re not ready to break.”
The rustling of her gown made him open his eyes. She seated herself beside him and wrapped her arms around him, tucking her head against his arm.
He tugged her close, fitting her beneath his arm, and buried his face into her hair, drawing in that soothing scent of citrus she was back to wearing again. They swayed against each other with each movement of the carriage as the night wavered beyond the glass windows.
She eventually shifted in his arms and peered up at him. “Do not say such things, Matthew. Hope is the one thing everyone can touch and is the one thing that keeps humanity afloat.”
He glanced down at her, his heart pounding. Hope. Did it still exist in this misbegotten world? In her eyes it did. And it made him want to believe in it just for the sake of this six-year-old girl.
She smiled brokenly up at him in the shadows of the dim lantern hanging above them. “We will bring her home safely. I know we will. Especially with the vast readership you have.”
He set both hands against her beautiful face, wishing life could be as noble and just as she was. “I pray you’re right.” He lingered and searched her face, desperately wanting to kiss her but knowing if he did, he’d never stop.
He released her, rose and seated himself opposite her. “I’ll take you home. I’m going to have a long few days ahead of me. We probably won’t be able to see each other this week.”
She nodded, her gaze lowering to her gloved hands. “Of course.”
Sensing that she was disappointed, he added, “Actually...promise me you’ll be at the office tomorrow and every day thereafter until we can get back to finding time for ourselves again. I could use you there. I could use a smile and this thing you call hope.”
She glanced up and smiled, her sad eyes brightening. “I will be there every day until we find her. And I know we will.”
This was exactly why he not only wanted but desperately needed Bernadette in his life for the rest of his life. Because she gave him hope when there was none.
Four days later
NOT EVEN A DAY AFTER an extensive front-page article had been printed pertaining to the disappearance of six-year-old Annabelle Netta Carson, her naked, mutilated and ravaged body was discovered floating in the Hudson. The heart-wrenching news was delivered by none other than Marshal Royce himself right there in the office of The Truth Teller.
Tears blinded Bernadette as she struggled to bite back a sob. It was like losing her own child. She had hoped and hoped and hoped. The girl was only six.
Matthew raked both hands through his hair and fell against a nearby wall with a thud. “Christ.”
Marshal Royce inclined his head and departed, clearly aware that no one was capable of hearing or saying more.
Swallowing back tears, Bernadette rounded toward Matthew.
He continued to hold his hands against his head.
She reached up, gently drawing those large, warm hands down toward her. “Matthew.”
A lone tear slid down the length of his shaven cheek.
Lifting a trembling finger to it, she smoothed it away.
He turned away his face from hers and sniffed, pulling away. He jerked toward the wall. “Jesus fecking Christ. How could anyone—” Gnashing his teeth, he slammed a rigid fist straight into the wall, thudding his knuckles deep into the plaster.
She jumped and grabbed his arm before he could hit that wall again. “Matthew. Please. Don’t—”
He yanked it away and paused, glancing toward her. “I don’t want you seeing me like this.” Seething out a breath, he rounded her and boomed across the room, “Kerner! Pull all the goddamn trays before they press. We’re going to rewrite the main page. Everyone, from street to heaven, is going to know every last rancid detail of what happened to that poor child. Humanity deserves to choke on what little is being done. We’re also going to ensure we find the son of a bitch who did this.”
Bernadette didn’t know how she found her voice again, but somehow, she did. “I will take the expense of a fifty-thousand-dollar reward on any information pertaining to an arrest. Print that.”
He swung toward her, his stern features acknowledging her for the first time. He pointed. “Done.”
Lowering his hand, he exhaled. “I want you to go home, Bernadette.” He paused, his expression stilling. “Not to your home. Mine. I want you to go and stay there. Ronan will take you. I’ve got a long day ahead of me, but I need to know that you’ll be waiting for me when I’m done. All right?” He set his jaw.
Bernadette nodded, sensing that he was struggling to remain composed.
He commenced swiping up parchment after parchment from each table he passed. He riffled through them and disappeared into one of the back rooms leading to the printing floor, where a long line of men hovered over tables placing individual letters into iron trays.
Ronan wandered over to her and after a long moment quietly offered, “I’ll take you. If you don’t mind me doing it.”
Bernadette grabbed the youth and hugged him. “Thank you.”
Ronan nodded but didn’t say anything.
She shook him, desperately needing assurance. “I want you to come right back here afterward. I want you to be with him for however long he stays. Promise me you will stay at his side and ensure he remains calm and doesn’t hit any more walls.”
Ronan stiffened and pulled away. “He’ll most likely bloody up his knuckles by the end of the day. It’s what he does when injustice rides in a bit hard. He’s never been one to take these things well.”
She swallowed, searching those
young brown eyes. “I cannot have that, Ronan. Do you understand? I cannot. And given that he is like a father to you, you shouldn’t allow for it, either.”
He winced. “He does what he wants. Always has. You know that much about him, don’t you?”
She half nodded and prayed that her Matthew didn’t return at the end of the day with bloody knuckles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
One particular gentleman, whilst out driving his chaise, was met by another gentleman also driving a chaise. Neither would accommodate the other, despite the narrow road, and as if by mutual impulse, they drove furiously against each other. Both were, on the instant, precipitated to the ground and lacerated beyond comprehension. If only one had the sense to pull the chaise aside, both would have been spared.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Late evening
BERNADETTE PACED MATTHEW’S parlor and glanced again toward the doorway, wondering if it was time to go back to the office. All of the servants had long retired and it had been well over nine hours since she’d last seen him or any sign of Ronan.
The chiming of a bell announcing that someone was at the main entrance made her heart leap. Was it him? It couldn’t be. Why would he be ringing the bell to his own door?
She hurried out of the parlor and glanced down the corridor. Knowing that all of the servants had already retired for the night, she paused.
The bell chimed again.
What if Matthew had sent word from the office pertaining to something important? What if—
She hurried to the door and unlatched the bolt. She edged the door open, a whirl of wind and snow breezing in.
A tall youth with soft green eyes, dressed in evening attire and a top hat caked with snow, lingered on the step. It took a moment for her to realize that it was Jacob Astor.
Her eyes widened. Heavens, she hadn’t seen him in...months. From what Mr. Astor had told her, the boy had thrown a fit about going to London. Mr. Astor was still anything but pleased. “Is everything all right, Jacob? What are you doing here?”
He removed his top hat, scattering blond hair across his forehead and shook off the snow from it. “Emerson informed me that you’d most likely be here.” He leaned toward her. “Might I come in? The weather is a bit rough.”
She hesitated, the cold wind scraping her into feeling a chill that went beyond mere skin. Given the late hour and that it wasn’t her house, she honestly didn’t feel she had the right to invite him in. She gripped the door, edging it back toward herself. “Forgive me for being rude, Jacob, but it’s late and I have no right inviting you into a home that isn’t my own. But you most certainly can call on me tomorrow in the afternoon. I will be at home.” She smiled. “Good night, and I look forward to seeing you then.” She stepped back to close the door.
“Wait!” He shot out a gloved hand, pushing the door back open. “I have something for you. It’s why I came.” He dug into his embroidered vest pocket and retrieved a letter. “My grandfather received this in the afternoon post. He only opened it because it was addressed to him, but it’s for you.” He held it out.
She hesitated, drawing the door wider, and took the letter. She lowered her eyes to the piece of parchment in her hands. Recognizing her father’s crest embedded in the broken red wax seal, her eyes widened.
It could mean only one thing.
She hurriedly unfolded it and turned away from the door, veering toward one of the oil lamps set on a side table in the foyer to better illuminate the scrawled words she knew, in fact, to be her father’s.
Mr. Astor,
If you would be so kind as to deliver this to my daughter, I would be most grateful. The old fool that I am, I never asked for the new address she was forced to take after that most unfortunate incident in New Orleans. Please inform her that I regret the way we parted and I wish to see her again, if she is willing to travel and forgive. I intend to be a better father and wish to be a part of her life in any manner she sees fit, for however long I have left. Which, I fear, may not be long at all.
Lord Westrop
Bernadette choked, tears blinding her, thankful that the news wasn’t pertaining to his death or an illness. For him to have written this letter, it would seem her father’s loneliness had devoured the very last of his soul. He was probably sitting alone in the library, as he always did, reading a book or silently praying, as he always did, or staring out the window, as he always did. Damn him. Why did she have to love him?
Jacob stepped inside and closed the door behind himself. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She sniffed, trying to compose herself and refolded the letter. “Thank you for delivering this.”
“Of course.” He set his gloved hands behind his back and set his shoulders. “Does this mean you’re going back to London?”
She fingered the parchment. “He is old and has no one but me. So yes, I must go to him.”
He nodded. “You and he will reach a mutual understanding in this. I know you will.”
“Thank you, Jacob. I hope so.”
He nodded again and glanced around. “I was rather concerned that you hadn’t returned to your house at this hour. As was Emerson. I’ll be sure to inform him that you are, in fact, here, as he had hoped.” After a long, pulsing moment, he added, “Might I ask what you’re doing here, given the late hour? Is everything all right?”
She awkwardly glanced toward him, knowing full well she had to protect Matthew’s name in honor of not only him but his paper. “I am here merely awaiting Mr. Milton’s return after a most tragic incident. I haven’t announced it quite yet to your grandfather but...he and I have commenced courting.”
His lips parted. “You and he are courting?”
“Yes. As of this week.”
“As in to marry?” he echoed.
She rolled her eyes, knowing full well his astonishment was going to reflect his grandfather’s. “Yes. As in to marry. This wild little cuckoo has finally found a nest.”
Jacob momentarily closed his eyes and threw back his head. He sighed, his shoulders slumping.
She blinked. “Jacob? Are you all right? What is it?”
Opening his eyes, he leveled his head and tossed his top hat, causing it to roll across the marble foyer floor. He stepped closer and lowered himself to one knee, his gloved hands gently skimming the length of her skirts as he went down. “Bernadette. My dearest, dearest Bernadette.”
She sucked in a breath, crushing her father’s letter in a fist, and lowered her gaze to his as he continued to kneel before her. Panic seized her ability to breathe or move. “Jacob...what are you doing?”
The door at the far end of the corridor suddenly opened and Matthew strode in, stripping his snow-covered black riding coat from his muscled body.
Her eyes widened. “Matthew!” She almost staggered as she crushed her father’s letter to her heaving chest.
Matthew jerked to a halt, his rugged face taut. His gaze snapped to Jacob. “What the hell is going on?”
Her hands trembled right along with the rest of her in disbelief of what was happening. “Matthew. I am as equally astounded as you are. If not more so.” She frantically gestured toward Jacob in exasperation and stepped back. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Jacob Astor!
Ronan, who had also entered by now, raised his dark brows as he lingered behind Matthew, glancing at Jacob, who was still on one knee.
Matthew tossed his riding coat onto the railing of the staircase, his broad chest and embroidered waistcoat rising and falling more heavily with each stalking step he took toward them. “Might I ask why he’s even here?” It sounded like a gruff accusation. “How did he know you were here, Bernadette? Because I’m trying to make sense of what I’m looking at.”
She cringed and, trying not to whine at the incredibly bad timing of it all, held up her father’s crushed letter. “Emerson told him that I would most likely be here. He merely came to deliver this to me and—”<
br />
“Fell upon his knee,” Matthew provided in a very dark and anything but understanding tone.
She winced. “Yes. More or less.” She really needed to get Jacob out of the house before Matthew maimed him. Quickly turning back to poor Jacob, she said, “Whilst I am genuinely touched by all of this, surely you know that this could have never amounted to anything.”
Jacob tightened his hold on both her hands and stubbornly jerked her back toward him, remaining on his knee. “I must say it. Allow me to say it. I won’t leave until I do.”
Her eyes widened. “Jacob, please—”
Matthew stepped toward them and rigidly hit his chest hard with a clenched fist, the sound thudding through the foyer like a war drum. “This is my genuine attempt at remaining calm. Now, I suggest, Jacob, you get the feck up off that knee and get out of my goddamn house while you still have a knee.”
Oh, dear. That was the Five Points talking. Bernadette quickly leaned back toward Jacob, shaking his hands with both of her own. “Jacob. Please. For the love of your grandparents, do not perpetuate this.”
Jacob tightened his hold on her hands and set his shoulders, capturing her gaze. In a low, self-assured tone, he announced, “I realize, Bernadette, that I’m about to be mocked and rejected and cuffed until I bleed for what I’m about to say, but I have carried this with me for far too long and must be rid of it.”
Jacob drew in a breath and exhaled. “I love you. I do. I’ve loved you since I first saw you on the streets of New Orleans fighting off those men with more fire than I’ve ever seen in a woman since. My only regret is having never told you. I just...I never thought a woman like you would ever see me in that way. And I was right. After all, I’ve only ever been a boy in your eyes.” Jacob lowered his gaze and kissed each of her hands for a lingering breath with warm lips before altogether releasing them. “And now it’s time for me to go.” Jacob slowly rose. Straightening, he stepped back and back, his youthful face twisting in silent anguish.
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