Betina Krahn (2 page)

“How long this time?” she demanded.

“Just over ten minutes,” Alice Henry replied, closing the watch and allowing the cord to rewind to her shoulder.

“Damn.” Beatrice peered out the darkened window, following her secretary’s pointing finger. “Each time they stretch the bounds of decency and my patience a little more. They think they’re being so clever. I’d march down there and catch them red-handed, if I didn’t think they’d just find a more devious way to meet and satisfy their rampaging urge for romance.”

She kicked the train of her dress around, hiked her skirts, and sailed back down the hall.

“Damned nauseating adolescents. ‘But we’re in
lov-v-ve,
Aunt Beatrice,’” she muttered in falsetto. “‘But he’s so
won-n-nderful,
Aunt Beatrice. He’s so
smar-r-rt,
Aunt Beatrice. So
sen-n-nsitive
…’”

She paused at the top of the sweeping mahogany staircase of her grand country house, causing Alice to have to stop short to avoid bumping into her.

“He’s a spoiled, overbred, pimple-faced moron,” Beatrice declared hotly. “And eighteen.” She continued on down the stairs, speaking partly to Alice, who hurried along beside her, and partly to her own conscience. “What the hell does he know about anything at
eighteen?

“He hasn’t a clue what life is about. Making your way in a tough and daunting world … pitting your wits, nerve, and stamina against the odds and opposition … that’s what it’s about. You have to be prepared to recognize every opportunity and seize every advantage. And
perhaps—just perhaps—if you’re very, very lucky, you’ll be able to build something or change something for the better, and make a lasting mark on this world.”

She realized she had paused again and was jabbing a finger at Alice … who was scowling and leaning back to avoid being poked. She reddened, jerked her hand to her side, and continued down the steps, muttering.

“What the devil would an eighteen-year-old boy know about such things?” Halfway down she paused again to clarify her course and justify her actions.

“And what does a sheltered sixteen-year-old girl know of the tests and obstacles life has in store? Or even of the responsibilities that a marriage would thrust upon her? Claiming a place in a large household, forging a place in society, dealing constantly with a husband’s temperament, expectations, and demands. At seventeen, even
I
found it all—” She bit off the rest.

Crushing. She had found it all damned near obliterating. Even without the ever-present threat of childbed.

“The simple truth is that women have a hard time of it, even in the most affluent of households,” she continued, starting down the steps again. “And they have damned few rights and privileges to compensate. The longer I can postpone the trials of marriage for Priscilla the better. Someday, when she is older and wiser, she will appreciate how I have protected her freedom.”

By the time they reached the floor of the main hall, they could hear Priscilla running from the morning room, which faced the east terrace, into the drawing room. Beatrice planted herself between the drawing-room door and the staircase, folding her arms.

Priscilla entered the main hall gripping her fluttery silk organza skirts with both hands, and stopped dead at the sight of her aunt. Her face grew rosier and her lashes
lowered to hide the guilt and resentment in her huge brown eyes.

“And just where have you been, young lady?” Beatrice demanded.

“O-Out for a walk. I wanted to take a bit of fresh air before retiring.” Priscilla tensed, collecting herself behind her excuse.

Beatrice gave a tight smile. “You’ve become quite a devotee of ‘fresh air’ in recent days.”

“‘Fresh air and exercise are good for a young woman’s constitution,’” the girl countered. “Isn’t that what
you
always say?”

Beatrice considered the rebellion involved in Priscilla quoting her own words to her.

“Night air, however, can be downright dangerous.” Her expression took on a taut, clear warning. “I hear that the air in
France
is quite healthful.”

Priscilla’s eyes flew wide. “I won’t go. I won’t be shipped off to any old convent school in France. I’ll fling myself in the duck pond first!”

A potent threat indeed. The duck pond was all of three feet deep.

“You will go where I send you, young lady,” Beatrice declared with determined calm. “And you will comport yourself with decency, integrity, and whatever modicum of intelligence you possess.”

“Well, I won’t go to France,” Priscilla declared as crimson edged into her face. “If you send me there, I’ll—I’ll—run away and find my father. He would understand. He would let me marry Jeffrey!”

“Marry? You are only
sixteen,
Priscilla.” Beatrice was quickly losing what was left of her sense of humor.

“You were sixteen when
you
were married,” Priscilla said, ignoring the glint in Beatrice’s eyes.

Beatrice stepped closer to her young charge and lowered her voice to its most compelling register.

“I was married on my seventeenth birthday.
Not
by choice. I will not allow you to destroy your life by handing it over to a randy eighteen-year-old who hasn’t a clue what to do with his own idle, overprivileged existence. I have told you: When you’ve learned who and what you are and have enough experience of the world to judge wisely, then and only then will I sanction a marriage for you.” Her eyes now burned like bright stones. “If, after learning the ways of the world and of men, you still want to marry.”

Some of the high color in Priscilla’s face drained as she finally caught the reined anger in her aunt’s response, and her brashness dissolved into a puddle of adolescent uncertainty. Her chin began to quiver and her voice grew constricted.

“But I love him, Aunt Beatrice.” Tears collected once again in her dark eyes. “I will always love him. With all my heart. Nothing you make me do will ever,
e-e-ever
change that.” Choking back a sob, she jerked up her skirts and dashed for the stairs.

Beatrice watched her charge fly from her, up the steps. When a far off door slammed, she closed her eyes and tried to scour her niece’s youthful passion from her mind. For an instant, she had glimpsed in Priscilla’s big brown eyes—so very like her beloved sister’s—the pain of longing. Real pain. Real longing. For one moment, Beatrice allowed a part of her pragmatic heart to open to that raw emotion. What if she were wrong? What if this truly were Priscilla’s best chance for happi—

She caught herself and looked up to find Alice watching her with a discerning eye.

“Let me guess,” Alice said. “We’re heading back to the city.”

“Clever woman. Have I given you a raise, lately?”

“Just last month.”

“Well, put yourself down for another.” Beatrice kicked her bustle train out of the way yet again and headed for her library. “And have Williams bring up the trunks straightaway. I have to be back in the city in a few days anyway to review Consolidated’s quarterly report before it goes to press and to attend the suffrage association executive committee meeting. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning. I want to be well away from moonlit gardens and back on Fifth Avenue by this time tomorrow night.”

Throwing open the library door, she flicked on the electrical light and went straight to her desk, with its neat piles of documents, stacks of ledgers, and legal folios. Staring down at those reassuring reams and sheaves of paper, her gaze fell on the pamphlet she had been composing for the National American Woman Suffrage Association, and she felt her inner calm returning. This was
her
realm, her dream, the mark she would someday leave on the world.

“Love,”
she muttered as she began to collect and pack the documents. “What has that got to do with anything?”

EVERYONE IN NEW
York knew that if they wanted to find someone Irish in the city, O’Toole’s was the place to go.

The restaurant, located in the middle of the city’s sprawling Eighteenth Precinct, was one of three places where the burgeoning Irish community and rising political power met. Sooner or later every former resident of County Cork who landed in New York walked through those heavy glass and mahogany doors, stood on that checkered marble floor, and marveled at the polished wooden paneling, the giant gilt-framed mirror over the bar, and the heights to which an Irishman in America could aspire.

Seated around the remains of a hearty dinner that night, at the rear of the dining room, were a half dozen men who by virtue of moxy or muscle had burrowed deep into the marrow of the city … so deep, in fact, that their Irish organization “Tammany Hall” had become synonymous with city hall.

Each man there had worked his way up the ladder of
Tammany’s political organization, from “precinct runner” to “ward heeler,” to minor city official to officeholder. And it was that record of achievement that entitled them to be present for the election campaign strategy session now in progress.

“It’s set then, lads,” declared the barrel-chested leader, Richard Croker. The Tammany Hall boss removed the cigar from his mouth and tossed back a healthy draft of brandy. “We’ll have a round of debates with th’ reform party’s ‘willie.’ Murphy and McFadden, here”—he gestured to his two handpicked under-bosses—“will make sure the crowds are proper friendly. And we’ll pass the word to our friends in the papers, suggestin’ they’d be showin’ a bit of foresight if they was to declare our boy the winner early on.” He paused to smile at their youngest member. “Not that you’ll be needin’ much help with the papers, Connor lad. Not a word drips from your lips that isn’t just beggin’ fer print.”

Connor Sullivan Barrow smiled back. It was a bold slash of a grin containing a bit of rakishness, a bundle of charm, and an unmistakable bit of invitation. Its effect on the men seated around him was immediate. Nods and approving winks appeared as the election committee congratulated themselves on their candidate’s appeal.

“I hear the reformers may bring in William Jennings Bryan to campaign for Netherton,” Connor said.

“Doesn’t matter who they bring in.” The boss clamped down on his cigar. “The voters get one look at that sweet Irish mug of yours, my boy and you’ll be sittin’ under a landslide.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“A pity th’ women ain’t got the vote,” declared a wavery voice from the rear of the table. “We could schweep ever’ ward in th’—”

The political planners turned on the speaker with looks that ranged from mild disgust to out-and-out horror. The well-lubricated alderman pulled in his chin, blinked, and then had the grace to be appalled by what he’d said. After a moment, the others mercifully allowed him to sink back into oblivion.

“Give the women the vote,” Croker muttered in disbelief. That had to be the whiskey talking. No man in his right mind believed in females voting. Not even the reform-minded
one-man-one-vote
mongers.

Then he turned to under-boss Charles Murphy, on his left. “See to it. Set it up. I’m puttin’ you in charge, Murphy. I’ve got my hands full runnin’ Gilroy’s campaign for mayor.”

“Excuse th’ interruption, Mr. Croker,” a voice inserted, causing all present at the table to turn. “But, the lad here’s been waiting for a spell.” It was one of the Fourth Ward’s burly heelers holding a tense-looking young man by the arm.

“We got business.” Croker turned back to the others. “He’ll have to come by city hall tomorrow mornin’.”

The petitioner wrung his frayed tweed cap and looked a bit frantic as the heeler dismissed him with a jerk of the head.

“Wait.” Connor examined the young man’s weedy frame, thinking that he was much too young to have shoulders so rounded. There were only two things that weighed that heavily on a man: sorrow and responsibility. “What’s your name, my friend?”

“Grady sir. Thomas Grady”

Connor cocked his head to eye the young man at a slant. “Any relation to a fellow named Mick Grady over in Firth Alley?”

“My pa,” the young man said, straightening his spine.
“He died Tuesd’y last. That’s how come I need a better job. Ma’s got six little ones still at home an’ my wife …” He looked down and twisted his cap. “She be carryin’ our first.”

He scarcely looked old enough to be married, much less to have been thrust into the role of breadwinner for two households. Sorrow
and
responsibility. A deadly combination.

“I knew your pa,” Connor said, his voice taking on a bit of a lilt. “A fine, solid block of Cork stone he was. Could lay brick from dawn to dusk and then tell ye stories all the way to sunup.” The pride that mingled with wary hope in the young man’s eyes was wrenching. “A loyal supporter of Tammany, too. I heard he voted for Mayor Grant in the last election …
twenty-eight times!”

The others hooted with laughter while the young man reddened and grinned shyly.

“Then by all means, lad, we must see to your problem,” Croker said, wiping his eyes.

Connor sat back and watched with a smile as the young man was given the name of a builder who had just received a sweetheart of a contract for some waterworks.