Betina Krahn (32 page)

Beatrice couldn’t seem to expel the breath she had taken as she read that vile bit of yellow journalism. Bracing against the wall, she struggled to maintain some semblance of control. Now, of all times. What was she going to do? Then Alice asked her the same question.

“What are you going to do?”

For Beatrice, there was only one possible response.

“Fight. What else?”

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR
hours were shrouded in a fog of disbelief for Beatrice. One minute she was basking in the glow of accomplishment and the memories of shared loving … the next, she was beset by a storm of visitors waving newspapers and demanding to know if she were indeed the Jezebel of Wall Street.

That afternoon, vice president Graham and secretary Wright from the Consolidated board arrived at her house to be sure she would attend the emergency board meeting. Soon afterward, Lacey Waterman and Frannie Excelsior arrived to offer support. Then came Martin Harriman from the Chase-Darlington bank, followed by Susan Anthony and Carrie Chapman Catt who came in the interest of fairness, to learn the whole story.

Just when she thought she might have a moment’s peace, a brace of lawyers arrived from a law firm that represented Consolidated in some ongoing business negotiations. Each visitor brought a copy of the article from Joseph Pulitzer’s
New York World,
and each stayed long enough to pry—slyly or oafishly—and outrage Beatrice. The one person she didn’t hear from was the one she was increasingly desperate to see … Connor.

After dinner that evening, when she had retreated to her rooms with Alice she paced, going over and over her possible courses of action. The truth was an option, of course, but that would mean revealing Connor, Priscilla, and Jeffrey’s parts in the absurd happenings. Worse still, the whole truth as she finally told it to Alice, sounded every bit as far-fetched in her own ears as she had feared it would.

At last she hit upon the notion of seeking out the writer of the article and learning where he had gotten his information. If she could prove Lynch and Winthrop were the “sources” cited in the article, then she could argue that it was just the same word of the same two men … who had publicly betrayed Consolidated’s best interests, in an attempt to force their will on the board. That sort of power grab would sit ill with the board members and they might be convinced to back her and ride out the scandal. The risk was, of course, that there might
truly have been someone else who saw and recognized her.

Her only other option, Beatrice realized, was to speak a truth and cling to it: She had never “cavorted” or “performed” at the Oriental Palace, nor participated in anything sordid or immoral. She could make that claim in all honesty.

She called for Dipper and Shorty and sent them out to some of the haunts around the newspaper offices on the Lower East Side, to see if they could learn the identity and whereabouts of the news reporter. But as they departed, arguing about which taverns and saloons to check first, she felt less than hopeful about their success.

She lay in bed that night, sleepless and anguished, realizing that more than just her position in the company was at stake. The news writer had taken pains to identify her as a suffragette and a social activist. Everything she had worked for—women’s rights, decent conditions for workers, a reduction in child labor, the establishment of a bank to serve women on an equal basis—was at risk of being tainted by the cloud that now hung over her. She needed desperately to talk to Connor.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he responded to her note or called on her as he said he would? She tried to imagine what he must have thought when he saw the paper that morning … if he saw it. Then she remembered how carefully he had pored over the morning papers when they were in Albany. Of course he had seen it. Surely he knew that the story could have dire implications for him as well.

Her heart began to beat erratically at the awful realization that Connor, too, was at risk. He had been linked with her in the newspapers and anything that tarnished
her reputation would sully him and give his opponents ammunition to use against him at the polls.

Was that it? Was he distancing himself from her? A chill went through her. When asked about her story, would he deny it all … claim he was her lawyer briefly … declare that he had nothing else to do with her? She thought of his defense of her at the charter committee. Could he speak so powerfully on her behalf then and simply abandon her now?

In the darkness of her bed, Hurst Barrow’s leathery voice returned to her.
“He’ll turn his back on you … just when you need him most.”
It seemed an eerie portent.

“Oh, please, Connor … please …” she murmured, pressing her face into her pillow to muffle her sobs. Had she finally opened herself to love and passion and companionship … had she finally rediscovered her heart … only to have it broken?

It was more than her career that depended on the morning’s business, she now realized. It was her entire life.

IT WAS HALF-PAST
ten that evening when Connor climbed down out of a cab in front of his brownstone and stumbled up the steps with Del Delaney at his heels. He had spent the afternoon addressing groups of city workers and crowds in Irish clubs and German cultural societies. Everywhere he went he shook hands, joked, cajoled, and sweet-talked his way into a few more votes. Now, he was out of energy, out of voice, and completely out of patience. He turned at the front door to face the burly Delaney with a glare that would have sliced through granite.

“I believe I can take it from here, Delaney,” he said acidly, though the effect of his sarcasm was dimmed by his hoarseness. “I doubt I’ll run into any wild, rampaging suffragettes between here and my bed.”

The veteran ward heeler backed off, but admonished him to wait for his escort before leaving the next morning for his campaign appearance. It was all Connor could do to enter his house without throwing a bare-knuckle punch.

The hall was dark and quiet. As he trudged up the stairs and stood in the doorway of his bedroom, he thought of Bebe and felt a powerful need to see her, to share with her what was happening to him. But after the physical and emotional stresses of the day, he settled for peeling his jacket off and falling facedown across the bed. The smell of the fresh linens reminded him of that first night in Albany … the soft bed … the feel of her skin … He smiled as he closed his eyes and he didn’t open them again until the next morning.

Mrs. O’Hara, his housekeeper, had breakfast ready when he came downstairs and as he ate she presented him with a rumpled copy of one of yesterday’s newspapers, open to an article reporting his statement after touring a textile factory in the garment district: “Children need schooling more than they need work.” Those unguarded, emotional words had landed him in hot water, yet again, with his campaign watchdogs. She lifted her chin and told him that she was proud of him for saying what needed saying … no matter what Mrs. O’Shaunessey’s housekeeper, Mildred, had to say.

“You just keep doin’ what you know to be right, lad,” she declared, giving him a motherly pat and returning to the kitchen.

He managed a weak smile, wishing fervently that
Mrs. O’Hara had the vote. Groaning at that thought, he turned the paper facedown and tried to finish his eggs and bacon before facing the words about child labor that Tammany would expected him to eat in public at the next debate.

But he couldn’t keep his eyes from that paper and as he drank his coffee, a word on the page finally registered in his vision. He refocused and realized he was looking at “Consolidated Industries.” Broadening his gaze, he spotted the name “Von Furstenberg.” Galvanized, he snatched up the paper and read the headline on the page opposite the article about him:

“Eyewitnesses charge that the female president of Consolidated Industries, the wealthy financier and suffragette Beatrice Von Furstenberg …” His stomach contracted into a hard knot as he skimmed the inflammatory prose claiming she had been seen “performing” in a notorious brothel. Then his gaze sank to the end of the article where it was revealed that Consolidated’s board would convene an emergency meeting on Thursday morning “to effect the immediate removal of Mrs. Von Furstenberg as president of Consolidated Industries.”

He shut his eyes. She had told him about the attempt to oust her as president. She seemed to think that she had prevailed. But what her enemies had failed to do at the board meeting, they were now trying to accomplish in the newspapers. And if that nasty piece of yellow journalism was any indication, they stood a good chance of succeeding.

Apparently, in the world of business a woman’s reputation
was just as fragile and subject to the judgments of others as it was in society. The scandal could make her a pariah, even if she were proven innocent at the board meeting.

Thursday was today—they were meeting this morning!

“Just keep doing what you know to be right,” Mrs. O’Hara had said. Every muscle in his body tightened. What he knew to be right and what Tammany insisted that he do, were worlds apart. They demanded that he cut all ties to Bebe, and turn his back on her and everything she meant to him. For the last five days he had grappled constantly with those demands.

With each empty night that passed, the conflict became clearer … between all Tammany had been to him and what it was now demanding of him … between the loyalty he owed them and the devotion he felt to the woman he loved. They owned him, body and soul, they said. His opinions had nothing to do with his election, they said. It wasn’t up to him, they said.

The hell it wasn’t.

He ripped the napkin from his vest and pulled out his pocket watch. Nearly nine. Damn—the board could be meeting already!

He was out in the street in a moment and racing for the cabstand at the end of the block with only a half-formed idea in his head. He had to go to her, had to help her. Bizarre and preposterous as it might sound, the truth was her only hope … even if it meant revealing his part in that disastrous elopement-cum-kidnap-ping. He would have to produce Dipper and Shorty … and if he could persuade Charlotte to give her version …

It was also time Priscilla and Jeffrey owned up to their misdeeds and took the blame they deserved.

PRISCILLA WAS UP
to her elbows in plaster dust, secondhand furnishings, and stacks of newly delivered mattresses, when Connor strode into the new dormitory and ordered her to get her jacket and hat.

“What for?” Priscilla demanded.

“Your aunt needs you.” He looked around. “Where’s Jeffrey?”

She frowned and looked petulantly at the mess around her. “He’s in the kitchen, I think. Maybe the yard. I’m not sure where he went. He’s always—”

“We’ll have to find him.” Connor consulted his watch. “We don’t have much time.” He looked around the long dormitory room. “Where are Dipper and Shorty?”

“They didn’t come this morning. Richards said Aunt Beatrice sent them out on an errand last night and they hadn’t come home. I’m the only one who’s—what’s happened?” Priscilla grew alarmed. “Is Aunt Beatrice all right?”

“No, she’s not. She’s about to lose control of Consolidated Industries.”

“Oh.” She backed away when Connor grabbed her short cloak off the pegs and held it for her. “What do you expect
me
to do about it?”

“You and Jeffrey are going to tell the board what you did to your aunt.”

Priscilla blanched. “We can’t do that!”

Connor towered above her and thrust the garment into her hands.

“Oh,
yes
you can.”

Jeffrey wasn’t in the kitchen … or the rear yard … or the linen room … or the pantry … or any other of his frequent hiding places. Connor consulted his watch once again and declared that they were out of time.

“But … I can’t go alone,” Priscilla said with genuine horror.

“You have to,” Connor said, taking her by the elbow and ushering her forcefully to the front doors. “Your aunt needs you, and you’re not going to let her down this time.” He paused for a moment, his gaze dark and troubled.
“We’re
not going to let her down.” His voice gentled slightly. “That’s what people who love each other do, Priscilla. When one of them is in trouble, the other pitches in and does everything he can to help. And when something goes wrong, they take responsibility for themselves and their mistakes, no matter what it costs.”

She felt his gaze boring into her and lowered her eyes, reddening. He watched her struggling with his words and her role in her aunt’s difficulties.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly.

They were just climbing into the cab when Dipper and Shorty hailed them from down the block. Connor whirled and beckoned them to hurry.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded as they lumbered up, out of breath from running and looking like they’d slept in their clothes. “Never mind—I’ve got a job for you.”

A BRISK TOUCH
of frost tinged the air as Beatrice arrived at Consolidated’s offices at half-past nine the next morning. In keeping with the gravity of the situation, she had chosen to wear a severely tailored black wool dress
with fitted jacket and a small black hat. She had spent a long, sleepless night preparing herself for the coming fight. She was ready, she told herself, for any witnesses or allegations that Lynch and Winthrop might throw at her. What she was not prepared for was the presence of a number of her friends from the suffrage association in the reception area of the offices.

Lacey Frannie, Carrie Catt, and Belva Vanderbilt hugged her and told her they believed in her, offering to besiege the board in her behalf. Frannie even offered to chain herself to something or someone in protest. Beatrice’s determined composure was nearly undone by the warmth of their support.

Blinking, refusing to allow tears to form, she led them down the hall to the boardroom, where the sergeant-at-arms refused entry to all but Beatrice and Alice. Her suffragist friends, out of consideration for her, declined to make a scene and took up a vigil just outside the boardroom doors.