Band of Sisters (43 page)

Curtis nodded. “If their purpose is to make the women’s existence totally dependent on complying with their jailer’s demands, they’re not likely being treated well.”

“No,” Maureen replied quietly, remembering. “They’re not.”

“But whatever they’re feedin’ them,” Joshua said, “they must be carryin’ food somewhere—if not within the mansion itself, then somewhere on the estate. And that’s somethin’ to look for.” He frowned again.

He doesn’t like this any more than I do. At least there will be three of us there, and, Joshua Keeton, I’m more than glad you’re one of those three.

“The house is huge and, from Belgadt’s boasts, probably riddled with hidden passageways and false cupboards,” Curtis continued.

“He told you that?”

“He told me—boasted, in fact—that the mansion and surrounding area, with its hiding places and tunnels, were built by a slave smuggler early last century when it became illegal to import slaves. Belgadt claims it’s the perfect place to keep his ‘merchandise in storage’ until he’s ready to transport.” Curtis sat back, his shoulders suddenly rounded. “Finding the captives he’s holding there now is one thing and perhaps, after all, will be the easiest. But we mustn’t forget the bigger picture. We need documentary evidence to present in court—Belgadt’s records. That’s as much our goal as finding the women. Otherwise, we’re only saving a handful at best.”

“Records?” Joshua objected. “The women can’t be more than inventory to him.”

“Which is why he’s bound to have details regarding when and where he bought or picked up his goods; his contacts for buying and selling; costs in feeding, clothing, transporting. He’s a businessman, and white slavery is, for him, a very lucrative investment. There may be no actual names, but Belgadt’s a man who keeps his fingers on everything and everyone.” Curtis leaned forward again. “And we must consider just how and where we’ll find such documents. I’m assuming he keeps them under lock and key.”

“A desk? A safe?” Joshua suggested.

Curtis opened a bag on the table between them, pulling out three flat pouches of thin tools and three small, thick bottles with stoppers and seals. “These are the tools of our temporary trade in the event we come across such a treasure.”

“For pickin’ locks, are they?” Maureen asked, opening one of the pouches, certain she was in over her head and yet somehow thrilled to be part of something daring.

“That would be ideal. If it’s a combination lock, we’ll likely need to use acid—a risky but quiet method of entry.” Curtis handed each of them a bottle and pouch. “Not something you want to open on a whim.”

Maureen picked through her slender tools. “I’m more adept with a long hairpin.”

Joshua’s brows shot up.

She smiled in return, happy to have surprised him.

“If Belgadt’s kept records of the women he’s trafficked—anything at all—then we stand the added chance of finding those women and helping return them to their families, even if they . . . even if they’ve been heavily drugged or badly used.” Curtis stopped, as though the intense energy of his mission had suddenly blown away, and said quietly, “And if we can’t find them, perhaps we can determine what happened to them.”

Maureen glanced up at Joshua, whose concern for his employer was etched on his face.
What have they not told me?
She was vaguely surprised by the thought.
And what happens if we find them—if their families don’t want them back or if they have no families? What will we do with them then?

“Whatever happens, we must each maintain our roles at all times. I’m sending Drake on a wild-goose chase for women in Washington. If he comes to the dead end it is before we find what we need . . .” Curtis looked up and, imitating Madame’s earlier gesture, mimicked, “Then ‘the jig is up.’”

Curtis had secured a private railcar, both to continue their ruse of an eccentric millionaire traveling with his trusted domestics and so they might continue laying their plans.

Maureen had never ridden a train, nor had she seen such a vast land. Paved streets, concrete buildings, and all semblance of energy fell quickly away once the tracks left the city. The thrill of the ride itself was more than enough.

But Curtis demanded her attention and recitation from each of them detailing their fabricated history as siblings who had immigrated to America four years before. Backward and forward, much as she and Joshua had practiced their new duties, they rehearsed their background stories.

“It’s hard-pressed I am to be thinkin’ of you as my sister.” Joshua half smiled.

“Better than as your wife,” Maureen responded dryly.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He grinned.

She felt herself blush.

Curtis passed each of them a packet of letters, written as if from family members still in Ireland. “Easy to falsify. Not so quick or simple to check. Read them, trade, and read them again, then pack your own group among your belongings. Your luggage will certainly be searched sooner or later. You’ve an hour to come up with a half-dozen family traditions and stories based on your new parents and siblings.”

“Who would be askin’ such questions?” Maureen would rather look out the window, so new was the experience.

Curtis pulled the shade, shutting out the swiftly passing landscape and capturing her full attention. “We don’t know, and that could be the very slip that ruins us—all of us.” He stared at her for a moment. “Watch what you say—remain in character at all times. You never know who might be listening or how. Be especially careful of Harder, Belgadt’s butler. There’s something in the man—something that takes pleasure in cruelty. I’m sure he and all there stand vigilant. Belgadt would have it no other way.”

Maureen sobered and opened the first letter.

After they’d read and traded letters, Joshua prayed aloud for the success of their venture and God’s protection on each one. Curtis prayed for the safe restoration of the women to their homes and families, nearly choking, so earnest were his pleas. Maureen prayed silently that the Lord would hear the prayers of these good men. She doubted He would hear or heed her own. But just in case, she prayed for Katie Rose, for Eliza, for Alice, trusting them to a God she barely knew and equally feared.

Half an hour before the train slowed, Curtis opened a bottle and poured three drinks. After handing them round, he raised a toast. “To Mary and David Carmichael, émigrés of Dublin, oldest children of Keith and Ailene Carmichael, and first in their family to set foot in this fair land, with the hope of bringing younger siblings along. Hence—” he smiled—“your strict devotion to a wealthy and eccentric dandy. May your lucrative employment be short, safe, and accomplish its purposes. May your wits be sharpened, your powers of perception clear, and all our exits swift.”

Three crystal flutes clinked.

“Welcome to Sedgebrook, Mr. Morrow.” The too-young, broad-shouldered butler in full uniform bowed smartly, stepping back from the doorway.

Curtis strode through the marbled foyer. Removing his gloves, he said, without turning, “My entourage, the Carmichaels. You’ll see to their needs that they might see to mine.”

“Very good, sir. Mr. Belgadt has informed us to expect your staff.”

“Excellent.” Curtis removed his hat, but before Harder could take the hat and gloves, Joshua smoothly retrieved them.

Harder shifted his jaw, a flash of slight in his glance. “Mr. Belgadt is expecting you. This way, sir.”

An hour later Maureen had settled into her new duties. Between them, she and Joshua had made the agreed-upon adjustments to their employer’s bedchamber: books, papers, and writing instruments positioned at exact angles across the desktop; toiletries lined in a row with labels facing forward; suits hung two inches apart, matching shoes directly beneath—all designed to give the impression of an eccentric and fastidious character, a man of habits, accustomed to having his demands met.

“Pity the woman he marries!” Maureen chuckled.

But Joshua frowned sharply, raised a finger to his lips, and shook his head.

Maureen nodded in return, accepting his rebuke.
It’s no game we’ve entered, and no tellin’ who might be listenin’ at doors.

“We’d best make our way to the kitchen,” Joshua said plainly, “meet the staff, and see to the master’s meals.”

“Yes, sir,” Maureen responded obediently, for although they portrayed brother and sister, she knew his position as gentleman’s gentleman was well superior to hers as chambermaid.

He quickly squeezed her hand and motioned “chin up.”

Maureen returned his smile, stopped by the looking glass to adjust her wig with a slight forward tug, and followed down the stairs.

Curtis had timed their entrance for the middle of the afternoon, shortly before they were expected, knowing it would give Maureen and Joshua an opportunity to settle in and liberty to observe the room assignments of arriving guests.

Once his simple needs were met, he begrudgingly offered Belgadt the supplemental services of Mary and David Carmichael, saying he wished to help alleviate strain on the harried household staff.

Waiting for the other guests to join them, Curtis and Victor Belgadt shared drinks in the library.

“Good of you to offer your staff, Morrow,” Belgadt observed. “You can appreciate why I would not want to bring in outside help for this occasion.”

Curtis nodded. “The very reason I travel with my own people.”

“Sure of them, are you?”

“Four years.”

“I envy you that. It’s always a risk—what they know, who they know, their sense of loyalty.”

“Not when you own their father’s farm.”

“Here? In Ireland?”

Curtis snorted softly, swirling his drink. “I told you my assets are far-reaching. Nothing like the Atlantic and the dependence of their parents and siblings to ensure discretion.”

“Particularly among the Irish—clannish lot.” Belgadt laughed. “I like you, Morrow.”

Curtis lifted his brows and raised his glass.