City of Light (47 page)

When Tom returned he bantered, “Well, I’d better speak to the groom about locking the kitchen door when he goes in and out!”

“That’s all you can say? Didn’t you understand him?” I demanded. “He’ll destroy you. All of us.”

“I don’t think so, my dear. Don’t let him fool you.” Tom put his hands on my face, then slid them to my shoulders; enclosing me, protecting me. He kissed my forehead.

“But he knows about Grace. He—”

“He knows nothing. He’s guessing. Bluffing. He didn’t even hear my plan to approach McKinley.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if he had, he would have been more angry—more specifically angry, instead of generically angry, if you see what I mean. Don’t let him worry you, darling.” He caressed my hair. “His threats are empty. If it comes to it, I’ve got a few things I could threaten to reveal.”

“Such as?” I asked, although instantly I understood.

“All the bribes we’ve passed to the state to let us get as far as we’ve come. Now, there’s an unflattering tale guaranteed to please the newspapers. Are you shocked?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t dare tell him that I’d read his papers. Once more my moral compass was askew.

The telephone rang again.

“I’d better answer this time. Get the story moving along. I’ll have to go back to the station later, to supervise repairs,” he added with bleak sarcasm. “You’ll be all right here on your own, won’t you? Of course you will.” He squeezed my shoulders before going into the parlor to answer the telephone.

I stood at the long windows, breathing in the sweet morning air. It was a calm summer day. Birds flitting; butterflies roving. The trellised roses hung in fat blossoms. I wanted to believe Tom’s reassurances, I wanted to allow him to protect me. I wanted to stop fighting every second for my own survival and my daughter’s. I could still smell him on me—on my clothes, my hair, my arms. I could still feel the pressure of his hands upon me. Of course there was a chance that the threats were empty: Grace was not Millicent Talbert, whose race alone made her vulnerable—there was an appalling history of precedents for what had happened to Millicent. Furthermore, Miss Love had told me that I was under Mr. Rumsey’s protection and that she herself would look after Grace. Perhaps Tom was the only one of us truly at risk, and he had his counterthreats ready.

How peaceful the house was in the radiance of the morning. I could almost convince myself that everything Tom said was right.

CHAPTER XXXI

L
ess than twenty-four hours had passed since Susannah Riley had come to my office with the drawings, but when I returned to my desk at school I felt as if I’d been on a journey of such length that home had become a foreign country. How strange everything was: Latin vs. botany, a class schedule to prepare—what was a class schedule? The papers before me turned into lines of indecipherable scrawl as my mind replayed all that had happened. I felt numb. I yearned for sleep to provide the quiet I needed to sort my thoughts. But I had no time for sleep, only for work.

Saturday, August 31, became Sunday, September 1. One day closer to the arrival of the president and to the deadline for putting Powerhouse 3 on-line. No arrests had been made for the explosion. Due to the lack of concrete evidence, the newspapers were predictably blaming everyone from the directors of competing hydroelectric power projects around the country (while affirming that no project could compete with Niagara) to the dark forces of the supernatural.

I went to church that Sunday morning. The eleven A.M. service at Trinity. Grace was there with Mrs. Sheehan. A Catholic housekeeper bringing Grace to an Episcopal church—it was so, well, inappropriate. If Tom were occupied,
I
should have been asked to take Grace to church. And furthermore, would Mrs. Sheehan be able to protect Grace from Krakauer if necessary? But then, I had to admit how cleverly the presence of the housekeeper deflected public attention from me.

After the service, the parishioners milled outside, all conversations turning to McKinley’s imminent visit. He would arrive on Wednesday the 4th: The weather must be perfect, the streets must be immaculate, there must be no union protests, and nothing must disturb the First Lady, who was rumored to suffer from a nerve disorder. A challenging list of necessities. Everyone behaved as if the future of the city itself were at stake, and like a self-fulfilling prophecy, it became so.

Oblivious, Grace and her friends played hopscotch on the churchyard’s shaded sandstone path. She pressed her straw hat down on her head to stop it from flying off, and her white-and-pink-striped dress bounced with every hop. Mrs. Sheehan sat on a nearby bench while I lingered at the edge of the churchyard, standing guard over my daughter against the threats of Frederick Krakauer, whether actual or feigned. I was relieved I would be seeing her later. She and I were having dinner together tonight at my home while Tom was working. When the adults began to collect their children, Mrs. Sheehan calling to Grace, I too headed home.

At four o’clock that Sunday afternoon—at the hour he could expect me to offer him tea—Franklin Fiske presented himself at my door. He looked tousled and tired, but when I asked him how he’d been, he shrugged off the question. I hadn’t been alone with him since our walk together the day the school was defaced. However, I’d seen him frequently in the past weeks at parties and receptions, and he’d always sought me out to exchange pleasantries, confide a bit of gossip, and in short be ever so much himself. But now he seemed angry with me, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend. We sat in the shaded inner courtyard that my home shared with the school. Because it was the afternoon, because we were outside, Katarzyna used the “Russian” tea service: glasses and teapot held in silver filigree. Apart from our voices, the only sound was the gurgle of water playing through the Italian Renaissance fountain, a gift to the school from the Coatsworth family years ago.

Franklin came directly to the point, without pleasantries. “Last evening a messenger delivered an invitation to me.” The statement was like an accusation. Waiting for my response, he stared at me stiffly.

“Yes? Something I should be jealous of?”

“Possibly. An invitation to brunch with Mr. Thomas Sinclair at his home this morning.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise.

“You had no idea?”

“None at all.”

“Good. Well, that relieves my mind.” He relaxed a bit, his anger ebbing.

“Why?”

“Because he knows everything about me—my secret, in other words, and since you’re the only one here who knows that, I began to worry about whether I could trust you.”

“I would never tell anyone,” I said sincerely. “I value my own secrets too much to reveal anyone else’s.” He stared at me, obviously waiting for me to say more about myself, but I avoided his gaze. “Did Mr. Sinclair tell you how he found out?”

Franklin stirred and shifted. “No, he didn’t, and somehow I got the feeling that I shouldn’t ask.”

So. Franklin, as cynical and worldly as he was, had also been touched by a sense of Tom’s power. All at once I felt an edge of intimidation: Tom was gentle toward me now, but what if I ever truly crossed him, stumbling into areas he needed to protect? Would he use his knowledge of me against me?

“Why did he want to see you?” I asked, trying to calm myself.

“He wanted to tell me something. And he certainly tried to impress me. Our meal was quite the elaborate event for just the two of us. Crystal and silver laid out on the second-floor veranda, cut flowers everywhere, a succession of courses and wines, servants disappearing at the proper moment.”

“Don’t let all that go to your head: It sounds like standard procedure in this neighborhood.”

“Granted, but put on for me alone? The child was nowhere in sight.”

“She was at church.”

“Well, that was convenient. At any rate, the whole thing felt very much like a nonsexual seduction—forgive me, an entrapment.” He nodded in recognition that his initial choice of words had been inappropriate for a lady, and I felt a wave of regret that he’d come to view me as prudish and proper. “Well, no matter. He shared with me some interesting information. Perhaps you already know it, from your lofty position as godmother.”

“It was?”

“His plans for the power station. To begin giving electricity away. To make an ally of McKinley—although that seems unlikely. Have you heard about any of this?”

“He’s told me in general terms.”

“Do you believe him? I don’t necessarily believe him.”

“Do you ever believe anyone?” I asked brusquely, taking my fears and confusions out on him.

“Sometimes,” he replied with a flash of a smile. “Anyway, he told me a complex tale about the bribery of water inspectors. He corroborated information I’ve gathered elsewhere, although he offered no concrete proof—while assuring me that such proof exists and can be produced whenever necessary. Although again, I don’t necessarily believe him.”

I said nothing. From his inquiring gaze, I knew Franklin suspected me of withholding something from him, but just as I wouldn’t betray Franklin’s secret, I wouldn’t betray Tom’s.

Finally Franklin continued. “Sinclair’s a sly one. He was entirely too cavalier for my liking. As if he were engaged in a high-stakes game that only he fully understands.”

I let Franklin’s truth echo away. “Are you going to publish what he told you?”

“Not yet. Maybe never. First I really do need some concrete proof.”

“I’ve never noticed mere questions of proof standing in the way of newspapermen.”

“How right you are! But believe it or not, my fearless editor prefers that investigative stories be based on at least some kind of verifiable reality—assuming there is such a thing as verifiable reality.”

I was beginning to doubt it myself.

“And he also prefers his heroes and villains crystal clear. Alas, Sinclair doesn’t impress me as a Robin Hood–type. But I can’t make him into the devil either: the deaths of Speyer and Fitzhugh—what an opportunity to prove something there, all gone to waste because nothing sticks to Thomas Sinclair. He’s going to be in trouble now, though. He’s making his life altogether too complicated, in my humble opinion. Trying to play both sides at once. Help the benighted while appeasing the investors. An untenable situation. I believe he wants to use me as a kind of insurance. When the pressure becomes too pressing, he can always say that he’s told the whole sorry story to yours truly and if the pressure doesn’t cease and desist, yours truly can be counted upon to write it up—especially if the universally beloved Mr. Sinclair is no longer available to defend himself personally.”

Frederick Krakauer’s dawn visit preyed upon my mind. I wondered why Tom had chosen Franklin to be his insurance. Perhaps because Franklin was outside the mainstream of journalists while still working for a crusading newspaper—the
World
could be expected to be in sympathy with Tom’s goals. In addition there was Franklin’s unusual position in society, welcomed as he was at every garden party. He could be a valuable, knowledgeable ally. If I told Franklin what I knew—told him about the papers I’d seen on Tom’s desk—would that help Tom and Grace, or hurt them? I didn’t know. How could I know? The prism of facts seemed to shift so quickly. Perhaps Tom was using Franklin not as insurance but for some other reason altogether, a reason hidden from me. I wasn’t capable of discerning every nuance in this situation. The proof of bribery remained Tom’s to give, not mine, I decided. And what about Krakauer: Should I tell Franklin about his threats against Grace and me? But to do so I would have to reveal the depth of my concern for Grace and the cause of my concern for her …

Franklin interrupted my thoughts. “Anything you’d like to add or comment on?”

“No,” I said. Too quickly.

For a moment Franklin regarded me with probing skepticism. Then, as if changing the subject: “I must say my colleagues have come to feel obscurely set up in this business of the power station bombing. The whole thing seems overly orchestrated. But they can’t pinpoint anything, so they’re left reporting whatever sensational possibilities they can dream up. But I’ll confide in you, at least, that if Sinclair even begins to do what he apparently intends to do, I don’t think he’ll live out the year.”

“Why don’t you help him, then?” I demanded.

“First of all, I wouldn’t say—professionally speaking—that it’s precisely my job to help him. And let’s not forget that no matter what he intends to do with the electricity, he’s going to need to take all the water from Niagara to do it. I must say I rather like the mighty cataract. I enjoyed our day there. Didn’t you?”

I remembered my feelings that day: the comfortableness of him, the easy camaraderie. “I did enjoy it,” I said sadly. Most likely our closeness wasn’t appropriate now, as I contemplated the possibility of life with Tom and Grace, certain choices inevitably eliminating others.

“Thank you for saying that, at least.” He gazed at me, and I looked away. “I don’t suppose you’d consider marrying me?” he asked. Caught off-guard, I glanced sharply at him.

And I realized that I did like him. Very much. I was attracted to him … most likely I could even give myself permission to feel passion for him. Certainly a life with him would be constantly interesting and enjoyable. And yet … I couldn’t even entertain his question. For me there was only one path, the path leading toward Grace.

His eyes were cheerless; he had sensed my answer.

“I’m sorry, Franklin.”

“I didn’t think so. But why don’t you at least consider it. I wouldn’t make any demands on you—apart from the usual ones entailed by matrimony,” he said bleakly, unable to summon up the licentious irony that he might otherwise have given this reference. “I mean, I would never ask you to give up the school. And of course I do love you,” he added, looking away. This was the first time a man had ever told me that he loved me. How odd. When I was younger, I had often imagined this happening to me, but now I felt too exhausted to appreciate it. “Well, think it over,” he repeated, meeting my gaze once more. “We’ll call it an open invitation.” He managed to make his voice sound almost normal.

I wanted to reassure him of my feelings for him, but I didn’t know how. Nor could I confess the reason that prevented me from accepting his proposal. I could only take refuge in politeness. What was it that ladies were supposed to say in such situations? “Franklin, I’m so very flattered—”

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Rising, he waved the conversation away. “Well, I’m off, then. Thank you for tea.”

“Franklin—”

Hurriedly he saw himself out, leaving me to stare after him.

• • •

Returning to my desk at home, Franklin’s words in my mind, I felt utterly drained. As I tried to work, the walls of my study seemed to imprison me. I couldn’t escape the lingering sense of regret brought by Franklin’s question. It would be lovely to marry him; what a wonderful companion he would be. But I couldn’t desert my daughter or turn away from my commitment to Tom, tenuous as it was.

And I couldn’t focus on my work now either; too much had happened in the past few days, bringing on more emotions than I could process. I needed to be outside, walking, running. Impulsively I got my bag and hurried out.

What to do? Where to go? The beauty of late afternoon contrasted with the anguish inside me. I walked into the sunlight, toward Elmwood Avenue and its charming stores. Unexpectedly I felt a desire to visit the confectioner’s. Momentarily all thoughts of Franklin, Tom, and even Krakauer were banished from my mind. I knew exactly what I wanted: a bittersweet-chocolate-covered marshmallow bar.