Conor's Way (51 page)

The stout landlady followed the sound of his
voice, dodging her way around moving men, steamer trunks,
furniture, and wooden crates. In the center of the room she paused,
unable to find her new tenant amid the chaotic jumble of his
belongings. "Mr. Chase?"

"Over here," he called.

Peeking between a tall wooden Indian and a
large telescope, she saw him on his knees beneath a table, his back
to her, rummaging in a box.

She cast a curious glance at the tools and
machinery that littered the table before bending to peer at the man
beneath. "Mr. Chase, sure did I not say to have your things off the
stairs by five o'clock?"

Nathaniel stopped ransacking the box and
lifted his head to reply, forgetting that he was kneeling beneath
the table. He hit his head with a bang, nearly tumbling his
equipment onto the floor. "Ouch!"

He caught the legs of the table to prevent it
from falling. Once it was stable again, he moved out from under it
and jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, rubbing his
sore head and doing his best to look contrite, "but moving in is
taking longer than I thought."

"Where do you want this one, guv'nor?"

Nathaniel glanced at the two men who stood
nearby holding a huge crate between them. "Ah, my trains!" He
pointed to an empty space beside the table. "Put it here, if you
please. And be careful," he added. "It's somewhat fragile."

He returned his attention to his new
landlady. "Mrs. O'Brien, I will have my things off the stairs as
soon as I can find a place to put them."

She placed her hands on her ample hips. "You
said you'd be moved in by the end of the day. Other tenants will be
returnin' from work soon and won't like findin' they can't get up
the stairs, yer boxes and things bein' scattered hither and yon.
You promised me—"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted. "By the time
my neighbors return from work, my things will be out of the way."
He looked around with a frown. "I don't know where I'll put them.
It seems I have underestimated the quantity of my luggage."

Mrs. O'Brien was never one to miss an
opportunity. "I've a cellar you could use. Only two shillings the
week."

Nathaniel considered that option for a
moment. These were only temporary lodgings, of course, but he
wasn't certain how long it would be before he could find permanent
rooms. In the meantime, he would have to use his rooms as his
laboratory, and he wanted his things close at hand. Mrs. O'Brien's
cellar simply wouldn't do. There had to be another solution.

He raked a hand through his hair and glanced
up, then paused as an idea struck him.

"The attic is directly above me, is it
not?"

"It is." The landlady frowned suspiciously.
"But I don't see—"

He pointed to the ceiling. "If I put in a
hole, I could use the attic."

"A hole in my ceiling? Heavens, no!"

Nathaniel paid no attention to her protest.
"Yes, that would work," he muttered to himself. His decision made,
he turned to one of the men who was bringing in his things. "Mr.
Boggs, could you come here a moment?"

The burly, bald-headed man stepped up beside
him, and Nathaniel pointed above his head. "Could you cut a hole
here and give me access to the attic?"

"Mr. Chase, I won't allow it. I won't let you
tear me house down!"

Mrs. O'Brien's declaration was lost on the
two men, who began to discuss the project. "Very good," Nathaniel
finally said. "When can you begin?"

The man rubbed his jaw. "I'd need t'get me
tools and buy the goods. And I'll want me boy to 'elp. Tomorrow
afternoon be all right, guv'nor?"

"Of course. Before you leave today, would you
and your men bring the rest of my things off the stairs? Just pile
them anywhere you can find room."

A wail from Mrs. O'Brien caused Nathaniel to
turn to her. "Are you unwell?" he asked, noting her flushed face
and distraught expression.

She placed a hand to her heart. "Holes in me
ceiling. Oh, heavens."

She seemed quite upset to Nathaniel. This was
a matter of simple carpentry, easily repaired when he moved
out,

and he couldn't understand her distress—until
he looked into her eyes and perceived a shrewd gleam in their green
depths.

He pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of
his jacket. "If I leave, I will pay to have everything put back
exactly the way it was before," he assured her. "And I'll pay you
half rent for the attic."

He began to count out money. "And there's
five pounds to you, my dear lady, for all the inconvenience."

"Well, now," she said, brightening
considerably, "that's somethin' I can agree to." She snatched the
money from his hand.

Nathaniel turned and tossed his wallet toward
his desk, where it landed in an open drawer. He took the landlady
by the elbow and turned her gently toward the door. "Mrs. O'Brien,
you are a pearl beyond price. I thank you."

"Will ye be needin' anything else, sir?" she
asked, tucking the money into the pocket of her apron as Nathaniel
guided her past Mr. Boggs and around a stack of crates. "Breakfast,
tea, an' dinner? I'm a fine cook, I don't mind sayin'. Three meals
a day for, say, two quid the week?"

"That's a tempting offer. A man does
appreciate home cooking. I will consider it." He gave her his most
charming smile and pushed her out the door. "I'll have my things
off the stairs shortly," he promised. "Good day."

She hesitated a moment, then bobbed her head
and turned to go down the stairs. "Very good, sir. If there's
anything else you need—"

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"Lad's got more money than sense," she
muttered as she descended the stairs and finally disappeared.

Nathaniel turned back around and caught sight
of the huge crate that contained his trains. He grinned. He didn't
have much money, and he probably didn't have much sense either. But
he had his dream, and that was enough.

***

Mara Elliot walked along the mezzanine of the
factory with a brisk, no-nonsense stride that bounced the ostrich
plume of her straw bonnet and caused the heels of her high-button
shoes to hit the floor in rhythm with the steam engines on the
production floor below.

The six o'clock whistle sounded, a loud
squeal over the rumble of machinery, and she turned, leaning over
the rail to watch as activity ceased below. Steam engines shut
down, conveyor belts came to a stop, and the deafening roar of
machinery faded away. People began heading for the doors.

When she caught sight of her secretary
beckoning her to come down she turned away from the rail and joined
the women leaving the mezzanine.

"If me Alfie thinks of gettin' any tonight,
he's off his chump," one woman declared to another, pausing on the
stairs in front of Mara. “Passing me wages to a pub keeper! I won't
stand it."

"Good for you, Emma," the woman beside her
said.

"And shovin' me around. Who's 'e think 'e
is?" Emma paused for breath and glanced over her shoulder,
catching sight of her employer standing only a few feet behind
them. "Evenin', ma'am," she said respectfully and moved back,
pressing herself against the wall to let Mara pass. The other woman
did the same, and Mara walked between them.

She had never been the sort to fraternize
with her employees. She knew other small business operators who
did, regarding their workers as a sort of extended family, but Mara
preferred to keep some distance between herself and her staff,
feeling it gave her more respect.

She was very conscious of her position. She
was not the owner, she was the owner's wife. Her authority was
always at risk, and she knew the best way to maintain respect was
to remain cool and efficient.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs,
her secretary was waiting for her. "What is it, Percy?"

"Mr. Finch is waiting in your office. He
needs to speak with you."

"Here?" Mara was surprised. She couldn't
recall the solicitor ever coming to her office before. "I'll go
immediately."

She started across the production floor, and
her secretary fell in step beside her. "Did he say what he wanted
to see me about?" she asked.

"No, but perhaps it's about the gentleman who
was here this morning."

Mara stopped walking. "What gentleman?"

Percy also came to a halt. "I didn't have the
chance to tell you earlier, but a man came this morning asking to
see Mr. Elliot while you were out. He seemed surprised to find that
your husband wasn't here."

Mara's brows drew together in a frown. "James
is in America now. At least, I thought he was." One never knew with
him. He could be anywhere. "Did the man say what he wanted?"

"No, just that he had business with Mr.
Elliot and was expected. Mr. Elliot supposedly had arranged a
meeting with him here."

She almost laughed out loud. It was just like
James to arrange a meeting in London when he was probably
wandering around the Arizona desert. "Did you tell him James has
been away for quite some time?"
Four years
. "And that we
don't anticipate his return in the near future?"

"Yes, ma'am. He mentioned that Mr. Elliot had
arranged for them to meet here in London, and that he had come all
the way from San Francisco, expecting Mr. Elliot to be
waiting."

More fool him
, Mara thought cynically.
Anyone who expected her husband to be where he was supposed to be
was doomed to disappointment. "San Francisco? An American
gentleman?"

"No, he was British, I believe. I explained
to him that you were in charge during Mr. Elliot's absence, and he
requested a meeting with you. I made an appointment for him to meet
with you Thursday morning at eleven."

She sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll meet with
him if I have time. Go home, Percy. I'll see you tomorrow."

Percy walked away, but Mara remained where
she was, lost in thought. She couldn't help wondering why someone
had come all the way from San Francisco to see James. She didn't
like the sound of it. Knowing her husband, it was probably some
get-rich-quick scheme. Well, if he intended to take out another
loan to pay for it, he was mistaken. It was hard enough to make
interest payments on what he'd already borrowed.

With a shake of her head, she dismissed the
stranger and her wandering husband from her mind and turned down
the hallway leading to her office.

"Mr. Finch," she greeted the gray-haired
gentleman as she entered her office and closed the door behind her.
"What brings you down here?"

The solicitor rose to his feet, but he did
not give her his usual smile of greeting. "A matter of some
importance, I'm afraid."

Mara caught the stilted sound of his words
and began to feel slightly uneasy as she studied the solicitor's
worried face. "Is something wrong?"

Finch tugged at his collar. "Perhaps we
should sit down."

"Of course." Mara crossed the small room.
"What is this about?" she asked, circling her desk.

"Mara, dear, you'd best sit down."

"What's the matter?" He looked so grave, her
uneasy feeling grew into alarm, and she knew something terrible had
happened. "Mr. Finch, what is it? You're beginning to frighten
me."

"Mara..." He paused and sighed deeply. "James
is dead."

"Dead?" The news hit her like a punch in the
stomach, and she sank into her chair. Numbly, she stared up at the
solicitor. "How? When?"

Finch sat down, taking the chair opposite her
across the desk. "I received a cable from California a few hours
ago. Evidently, he had purchased a gold mine near San Francisco and
was there to take a look at it. I'm told there was an earthquake
while he was in the mine, and he was killed. Seven days ago. They
dug his body out and buried it, but it took a bit of time to learn
who he was."

She leaned her elbows on the desk and pressed
her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. Then she closed her
eyes, recalling the last time she'd seen James. He'd been packing
to depart for America, babbling rubbish about adventures in the
untamed West, and some new deal in railway stocks.

He'd said he would send for her and Helen
once he was settled, but she had told him no, that this time she
wasn't dragging their daughter halfway across the world to follow
him. She had reminded him of all his past promises to settle down.
She'd asked him to stay for Helen's sake. Then she'd thrown pride
away and begged him to stay, using the only plea she had left.

If you truly love me, you'll stay
.
You'll do it for me
.

That, of course, had not worked. He'd gone to
America anyway. He had handed over the reins of the company to her
and left her with the debts. Alone, she'd had to take care of their
daughter. Alone, she'd had to deal with the pain when Helen had
died. Alone, she'd been forced to make a living from the tattered
remnants of a company he'd tired of after less than a year.

The company. Mara lifted her head sharply.
"What about Elliot's? Do I inherit it?"

"Although your husband evidently died without
making a will, the company would still come to you as his wife,
but—"

"Thank heaven." She breathed a sigh of
relief. "At least I have that."

"No, Mara, I'm afraid you don't."

For a moment, she didn't understand. Then the
realization hit her, and she sucked in a sharp breath. "The bank.
The loan. Dear God."

The solicitor's slow nod confirmed her worst
fear. "Joslyn Brothers is calling in the loan on Elliot's. I'm
sorry, Mara."

The past repeated itself over and over again.
No matter how hard she worked, how hard she fought, it never made
any difference.
Think, Mara
, she told herself, fighting to
remain calm.
Think
. "What about this gold mine he bought?
Wouldn't I inherit that as well?"