Betina Krahn (31 page)

Connor felt his feet go numb.

“The damned newspapers—I didn’t even think about—” He snatched up the paper and stared at the print, unable to comprehend anything more than the horror of the headline. “How the devil did they find out about the charter? It was only voted on yesterday morning.”

“You can’t even belch or fart unnoticed in a state-house, Barrow. You know that. The place is crawlin’ with news writers,” Croker said, rising and pacing angrily back and forth.

“You’d have gotten less notice if you’d just put up billboards, hired criers, and taken out advertisements in the blasted
Daily News
,” Murphy declared.

Connor’s mind flew, trying to figure out who would have drawn the reporters’ attention to his participation in the process. But in truth, Croker was right—there were probably at least a dozen news reporters hanging around the statehouse—and he wasn’t exactly an unknown commodity in political circles. Just because he hadn’t seen
them,
didn’t mean they hadn’t seen
him.

“Look, it’s not a
women’s
bank,” Connor said earnestly. “It’s just a bank—a commercial venture—it’s got nothing to do with women’s suffrage.”

“That’s not what the paper says,” Police Chief Byrne put in, pointing at the article. “New policies, it says. Special
treatment for women customers. Women won’t have to have a man’s signature on the papers.” He glanced around the room at the others. “Sounds like that ‘female rights’ crap to me.”

There were strong murmurs of agreement and Connor tried to think how things said in the committee room could have ended up in the papers.

“I’m telling you,” he said in his most persuasive tones, “it’s just a
bank.
”

“No, it’s not.” Murphy stalked over to him. “Come on, Barrow, you’re smarter than that. It’s a bank started by and associated with a woman who is known to be in the thick of this move for suffrage and women’s rights. She challenged you on it at the debate and has used this ‘bank’ business
twice
to drag you in and associate you with their cause in the newspapers.”

“Now, she’s got you workin’ for her, and is making political hay off your name,” Croker declared, planting himself squarely in Connor’s face, hooking Connor’s gaze and probing his motivations. “But what worries me is, you don’t seem to see anything wrong with that.”

When the boss turned away, Connor felt as if his world were tilting and he struggled for balance. Everything they said was the truth. But there was so much more to the story. Of course he was working for her—she had blackmailed him into it. And of course she was using his name—she was a tough, savvy businesswoman who was used to seizing every advantage …

A chill raced through his heated thoughts. He hadn’t thought about it like that … her using him … at least, not since …

When had he lowered his guard and abandoned his own best interest with her? He had gone to Albany to
discharge a debt—a blackmail debt at that. And he had ended up not only arguing her case, but seeing things through her eyes, defending her, and making, mad passionate …

The blood drained instantly from his head.

Love.
Dear God. He was in
love
with …

“This Von Furstenberg woman must be some piece of work,” Alderman McCloskey said with an insinuating smirk.

“Must be,” Alderman Burke agreed with a sneer. “She’s got him hooked so hard he can’t see nothin’ but her petticoats.”

“That it, Barrow?” Boss Croker pinned him with a stare. “You involved with this woman?” When Connor didn’t answer straightaway he drew his own conclusion and turned aside, giving the air a furious punch. “Damn it! You finally get a candidate you can run with, and along comes a slip of a skirt and the bastard goes straight to rack an’ ruin on you!” He turned to the others. “It’s the curse of the Democratic party!”

“Look, I’ll fix it.” Connor jolted back to his senses, but his head still felt spongy and everything seemed to be far away. It was as if his whole world were turning inside out. “I’ll talk to her … get her to change the name of the bank—”

“No you won’t.” Croker wheeled on him. “You won’t go near that woman or her ‘shriekin’ sister’ friends. You’re goin’ to campaign hard, keep your nose clean, and keep your pants
on.
” He looked at Murphy, who drew a long, quiet breath. “Maybe—just to make sure you keep your mind on the campaign—we should have somebody move in with you for a bit.”

“I can take care of this myself,” Connor said, feeling
more lucid and grounded as he grew more irritated. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“The hell you don’t,” Croker snapped. “This is the second time it’s all over the papers that you’re cozy with suffragettes. Once, people forget. Twice, people take note. Three times, people take it for a
fact
.” He stabbed a blocky finger into Connor’s chest. “There ain’t gonna be a third time. You got that?”

Connor’s heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. In the silence, the depth of their anger struck deep and he scrambled for a response, while he tried to reconcile his personal feelings and convictions with Croker’s demands.

Give up Bebe? Lose the woman he loved for a second time in his life?

“Come on, it’s not that big of a deal,” he said with a smile so forced that it made his face hurt. If ever there was a time for sweet-talking … “It’s not like I ever said I would support votes for women. My personal feelings—”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Croker said, stepping closer, shoving his face into Connor’s. “You’re in no position to decide what you’ll support and what you won’t. As long as you’re on the Democratic ticket, you’ll do what we tell you to do. You won’t have any part of women voting or women banking. And you’ll stay the hell away from that Von Furstenberg woman. You got that?”

The declaration was nothing short of an ultimatum.

Had Murphy been right? Would they really go so far as to kill his candidacy over his relationship with Bebe?

“I believe I am beginning to understand,” he said tersely.

Croker took that statement as submission to Tammany’s larger wisdom. “Good. Now we’ll have to get a—whadda
ye call it when ye take it all back in the papers?” Croker snapped his fingers in Murphy’s direction for help.

“A retraction. But I don’t think that’s necessary.” Murphy supplied, watching Connor carefully. “Claiming our candidate is
not
for women’s suffrage might just call attention to the charges that he
is.
On the other hand, we can pass the word informally and make a fuller explanation at the second debate. We don’t want to look arse over elbows on policy.”

“Ye think that’s enough?” Croker demanded.

Murphy nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

Croker started for the door, then paused by Connor to issue one last warning. “Tammany can make you or Tammany can break you. Think about it, son.”

Connor had his answer.

THE DAYS AFTER
Beatrice arrived home from Albany were a whirlwind of activity. She spent long hours at her offices, consulting with the company’s lawyers on setting up the stock offering that would fund the remaining part of the capital she needed to raise.

She recruited Lacey and Frannie to call on the suffrage association members who might be interested in helping fund a woman-friendly bank, and paid calls herself on Susan Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. She notified every individual and agency she thought might be interested in the project, and made lists of “favors” to be collected. Each evening she arrived home late, had a cold supper in her room, and fell into bed. It wasn’t until the third day, when things slowed enough for her to catch her breath, that she began to wonder why she hadn’t heard from Connor.

He had campaigning to do, she told herself. Three and a half days out of his schedule, at this point in the campaign, had been a sacrifice. He had warned her that he would be busy for the next several days, but she
couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he hadn’t found time to pay even a brief call.

She couldn’t help wondering what he thought of the newspaper articles announcing Consolidated’s new bank. They couldn’t have asked for better publicity. Even the controversy over the new bank’s policies would eventually work to their advantage. Before long, everyone would know that there was one lending institution in the city that respected and served women.

A NUMBER OF
velum envelopes were hand delivered to the Oriental Palace that evening. In the midst of the gaiety and revelry, Mary Katherine, Annie, Pansy, Eleanor, Millie, Tessa, Jane, and Diedre opened engraved invitations to participate in the initial stock offering for a new financial institution: The Barrow State Bank. Even more impressive, was the short, handwritten note from Beatrice Von Furstenberg in each envelope, assuring them that their money would be entirely welcome at the new bank.

After most of the trade slowed that evening, that select group collected in Mary Kate’s room on the third floor, invitations in hand, and talked excitedly about the first genuine printed invitation any of them had ever received. Then as they clutched those precious envelopes, things grew quiet in the room and more than one woman lowered her eyes to hide the moisture in them.

“She wrote us,” Annie whispered. “I ain’t never got a letter before.”

“Me either,” Pansy said. “An’ a proper invite. Like a regular lady.”

The others nodded and Mary Kate began to smile through her tears.

“That Bebe … she’s a good one, all right. A real lady.”

“She’s better than that,” Diedre said forcefully. “She’s a real
woman”

ON THE FIFTH
morning after her return from Albany, Beatrice was standing in an empty office building with a building contractor, discussing the best locations for tellers’ windows, desks, accounting offices, and the new steel and concrete vault. Plans for the physical facilities of the bank had been developing in her mind for some time, but only the previous afternoon had she learned that the building she wanted on Broadway was available and in her price range. She sent instantly for the construction engineer she had used for work on several of Consolidated’s properties, and after a close inspection, he had agreed that the structure was sound and that the desired renovations were possible.

As he took his men down to the basement level to check footings and space for a vault, Beatrice stood in the large, empty space and tucked her arms beneath her cloak and around her waist. Exciting as seeing her dream take shape was, she had imagined a good bit more pleasure and satisfaction in this day. She walked around the space, listening to the echo of her heels on the wooden floors. It sounded as empty as she felt inside. She still hadn’t heard from Connor and had finally sent him a note the day before, along with one of the invitations for the stock offering. There had been no reply.

She worried as much about her reaction to his absence as she did about the absence itself. This, she told herself, was why she had kept people at a distance for so long … this uncertainty, this anxiety, this ache beginning deep in her heart. There were any number of
reasons he might not have called; she defended him in her thoughts. No doubt he was very busy with the election just over three weeks away. Two days ago there was an article in the paper reporting his visits to a labor congress and a Democratic rally on the Lower East Side. He had a lot on his mind. He was tending to the business he had neglected to help her.

She sighed sharply and went to the front windows to take in the view her bank patrons would have while waiting. To her surprise, she saw Alice hurrying toward the front door. She went to meet her.

“Here—” Alice shoved a letter into her hands and braced against a stone pillar to catch her breath. “This just came … it’s important.”

Beatrice saw that Alice had already opened and read it, as she did all of Beatrice’s business correspondence. It was from the Vice President of Consolidated Industries. Just two short sentences. “There will be an emergency meeting of the Board of Directors of Consolidated Industries on Thursday morning, promptly at ten o’clock.” and “Your presence is required.” She looked on the back and all over for more …

“No reason? Just come to an emergency meeting?”

Alice, pale except for two bright red spots on her cheeks, thrust the newspaper she was holding into Beatrice’s hands.

“Page four … at the top …”

The headline struck her like a hammer:

Beatrice’s eyes widened in horror as she skimmed the article. “Eyewitnesses charge that the female president
of Consolidated Industries, wealthy financier and suffragette Beatrice Von Furstenberg, has been observed indulging in obscene and immoral acts at a house of ill repute known as the Oriental Palace …”

Her stomach slid to her knees as she read the inflammatory prose detailing how she had been observed “performing” for the drunken patrons with one of the brothel’s male employees. The article went on to associate her with the anti-marriage, “free-love” contingent of the women’s rights movement. It further stated that more men would undoubtedly come forward to “unmask her as a hardened devotee of the pleasures of the flesh.” The scurrilous piece ended by saying that these charges had resulted in “a call by mortified board members for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning” and it was “expected that they will immediately remove Mrs. Von Furstenberg from the presidency of Consolidated Industries.”