Death of a Robber Baron (15 page)

As the song ended and the babble resumed, he whispered to Pamela, “Thirty years ago, half a million men suffered dreadful deaths and many more were crippled for life. Why? For the Union or the flag? To free the slaves? More likely because the nation lacked the wisdom and the will to resolve its differences as civilized Christians.” He sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, Pamela, you'd think I'd get over it.”

C
HAPTER
25

 

F
or an hour after dinner, guests rested in hammocks and lawn chairs, or walked about the estate, enjoying the warm, fresh air and the charming vistas, or viewed Mrs. Jennings's collection of French and British silverware and Sèvres porcelain. The children also had more games, including an egg-and-spoon race.

Meanwhile, Pamela accompanied Lydia to her rooms for a rest, intending to inform her of the threat to her life. Prescott was to go to Mr. Jennings's study, where he would proudly display his weapons and hunting trophies to the male visitors.

Lydia took a seat by the window and motioned for Pamela to join her. “You look as if you have something to tell me.”

“I didn't realize my expression was so transparent. Yes, I must report what I heard in the greenhouse.” She described the conversation between Henry Jennings and Helen Allen but spared Lydia the latter's insulting remarks.

Lydia showed no emotion throughout this recital. “I'm not surprised that she would want me dead. I'm the chief obstacle to her lust for my husband's wealth and power. Nor am I surprised that he would entertain her suggestion—he must want to get me out of the way. But with you and Jeremiah Prescott looking after me, I feel perfectly safe. Henry Jennings is too practical to do Helen Allen's bidding. Eventually, he'll tire of her and look for another young, beautiful, but less demanding and greedy lover, perhaps the recent opera singer.”

“Forgive me for asking, Lydia, but why do you continue to live with this man?”

For a moment, Lydia gazed indulgently at Pamela. “He was a much better man when I married him. Wealth and power have brought out his worst instincts. Society understands my situation and thinks none the worse of me. Many prominent women are no more happily married than I. A legal separation is possible. But our property is already separated, so why bother. Henry doesn't beat me. His abuse is merely verbal, and I can respond in kind. Finally, I must admit that I enjoy matching wits with his mistresses. Mrs. Allen has been my most serious challenge thus far, but I'm sure that I'll prevail.” She paused on this note of stoic patience. “And now I should rest before tea. The evening will be strenuous.”

As Pamela quietly retreated to her own rooms, she pondered Lydia's failure to mention that without her husband's good will and financial support she would probably lose Broadmore Hall.

 

Late in the afternoon, Henry Jennings ordered another fanfare from the band and announced the shooting and archery contests in the firing range behind the cottage. Pamela joined a group of women who were to participate with pistols. Some brought their own, packed in highly burnished mahogany cases. Others, like Pamela, used pistols from Jennings's arsenal.

He had built the firing range on the far edge of the property, where a steep slope of thickly wooded land provided a safe background. Nearby was a similar arrangement for archery, a sport that had recently become popular. Pamela was pleased to see that he was concerned about safety. Only trained shooters and archers were allowed to compete. Jennings appeared to know them all.

First among the shooters was Helen Allen. As she entered the range, she gave her lover only a flicker of recognition. She had the air of an experienced amateur. With a two-handed grip, she raised her pistol, one of Jennings's Colt revolvers, and aimed at the target. At various distances all her shots hit the bull's-eye.

Thanks to Harry Miller's instruction, Pamela achieved a respectable score if not perfection. When the contest ended and Helen was crowned, Pamela approached her with congratulations. As she recognized Pamela, a wall of suspicion rose in her eyes. Pamela pretended not to notice and asked how she had become so proficient with the weapon.

“My father was a lieutenant in the Union army during the Great Southern Rebellion, as he called it. He had no sons, so he told me his war stories and taught me how to use firearms.” She gazed at Pamela. “And who taught you?”

“A friend in New York. He said it might prove useful.”

“As a companion to Mrs. Jennings?” Helen smiled wryly. “Or, should I have said, as her armed guard? Really, is Broadmore such a dangerous place?”

“I don't expect to use a pistol here. Still, any place is dangerous where people prey upon each other.”

 

While the women were shooting, a small group of men had gathered at the range. Prescott had come to watch Pamela. Another observer was George Allen, whose eyes seemed fixed on his wife. His expression was inscrutable. Prescott approached him.

Allen remarked, “Henry Jennings's fascination with weapons is remarkable, wouldn't you say.”

“Yes, indeed,” Prescott replied. “He collects them more for their monetary and artistic value than for self-defense. Did you notice the British flintlock dueling pistols mounted on the wall in his study?”

Allen nodded. “Beautiful weapons, the work of a master gunmaker.” His gaze shifted to his wife, who had just taken a shooting position in the pistol range. She fired six shots from the Colt revolver and every one hit the mark. “I suppose I should be careful not to antagonize a wife who has mastered a firearm. An argument with her could turn lethal.” He smiled sardonically.

“Does she own a pistol?” This newly discovered side of Helen Allen's character intrigued Prescott.

“Yes,” Allen replied. “She belongs to a women's pistol club that meets once a month to practice and to exchange information.”

It was now Pamela Thompson's turn. She performed to Prescott's satisfaction. For a moment Allen's eyes fixed on Pamela with a mixture of anxiety and dislike. Then he seemed to notice Prescott's interest in her.

“An acquaintance?” he asked.

“She's a widow from New York and a former client in a legal matter. She now works as one of my agents and as a companion to Mrs. Jennings.”

Allen was silent for a few moments, apparently fitting these pieces of information together.

“She's coming toward us,” said Prescott. “I'll introduce you.”

Allen stiffened and took a step back, as if about to withdraw.

Prescott guided him forward by the elbow. “Mrs. Thompson, this is Mr. George Allen, an expert tennis player from the University Athletic Club.”

Pamela smiled politely. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Allen—though I believe we met in Macy's jewelry department back in April. As I recall, you were wearing a luxurious beard at the time. The next night, we also passed each other on Fourteenth Street.”

He blinked. Then he rallied. “You must be mistaken, madam. I would surely remember a lady as attractive as you.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Pamela murmured. She excused herself and left the men.

Allen's gaze followed her for a moment, then he turned to Prescott. “Shall we find a more private place?”

Prescott gestured toward the garden. When they were out of earshot, Allen asked, “Have you uncovered yet the liaison between my wife and Henry Jennings?”

“As you already know, they appear attracted to each other. I haven't discovered any scandalous behavior, but I'll continue to observe them.”

Allen and Prescott walked back toward the cottage. Near the building, Allen said he had to speak to someone on the front terrace.

Prescott turned back. Pamela intercepted him near the stables.

“So now George Allen knows that we know that he's a thief,” said Prescott.

“And he also knows that we can't prove it,” added Pamela. “But presumably Wilson has proof and is using it to extort money from Allen. How long will that last?”

 

At sundown Oriental lanterns were lighted over the terrace in front of the cottage. The band played another fanfare. Guests who still had energy assembled for square dancing, some in costumes of the Revolutionary period. Many went to their rooms to rest. Others stayed to watch. A member of the band would call the steps while his comrades provided lively dance tunes.

Pamela sat on a lawn chair next to Lydia. As men and women chose partners and formed squares, she leaned over to Pamela. “Would you join my stepson, John, in one of the squares? He'd like to ask, but he thinks that you want to keep me company.”

“I'd be delighted. It's been a long time since I've square danced, but I'm willing to try.” She beckoned the young man. He brightened, took her hand, and led her to a group of three couples. The music began, the caller shouted a command, and the dancers swung into action. John was nimble on his feet and quick to catch on to the moves. Pamela enjoyed the dance more than she had expected. The oppressive concerns of the past few years washed away. She felt young again.

During a brief intermission, Pamela asked her partner, “What do you hope to do with the rest of your life?”

For a moment the question bemused him, then he replied, “Sing and dance, swim, eat well until the money runs out.”

“That will be forever—considering the size of your family's fortune.”

He smiled dryly. “It won't be as long as you think. I expect my father to write a new will when he returns to New York sometime tomorrow. He will leave his entire estate to a very remote cousin—a laughing heir, they say—rather than to his wife. Broadmore Hall will eat up her money. She will have little left over for me.”

Pamela tried to appear sympathetic, but financial conflicts, especially among rich families, left her cold. She tried to plant a seed. “Have you ever thought of sharing your talents with others?”

He looked at her quizzically. “And how would I do that?”

“Teach music and sports to children or young adults.”

“I think not—I'd starve. Somehow, money will come my way.” The light irony, so characteristic of him, had given way to a determined expression. Moments later, his carefree smile reappeared.

“The final set is forming,” he said. “Shall we dance?”

 

As the groups began to form, Pamela noticed that George Allen paired up with Clara Brown. They had been seen together off and on during the day—proper and discreet under the vigilant eye of the stout chaperone. But now their relationship seemed more intimate, especially from his side. His eyes were unusually bright. She was flush in the face from the music and dance and perhaps from secretly drinking lemonade laced with gin. The chaperone was now sitting to one side, slumped over, an empty glass on the table in front of her.

When the dance ended, Allen and Clara slipped away, arm in arm. Pamela exchanged glances with John. He winked and murmured, “When the cat's in dreamland, the mice will play.”

 

An evening meal of smoked ham, a large variety of cheeses, potato salad, and wine and beer was served under Oriental lanterns on the front lawn. Meanwhile, the band accompanied Helen Allen in popular tunes of the day. Her dark, sensuous beauty and her rich, clear alto voice thrilled the audience.

She acknowledged their applause with a deep bow and a winning smile, then announced, “Here's a special song from Lottie Collins in London. Everybody knows it. Join me in the refrain, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.”

In the first verse her voice was small and soft, her expression coy.

Then she beckoned the audience and launched boldly into the refrain: Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! Her body swayed sensually to the rousing beat of the music and the audience's full-throated, eightfold repetition of the refrain.

At a table off to one side, Pamela was tempted to join in. But she held back when she noticed that Lydia sat stiff and tight-lipped. Meanwhile, a servant came with food for each of them. Lydia seemed weary and ate little, but she focused intently on the singer. “She sings well. That I must grant.”

Pamela added, “I've heard that she has had professional voice training, and she has sung at Carnegie Hall.”

Lydia grimaced. “Helen has a siren's power over men. My husband lacked the prudence of Ulysses and failed to tie himself to the ship's mast when she began her seductive songs.”

As Helen's performance drew to an end amid lively applause, Henry Jennings approached Lydia. His dark, menacing expression foretold pressing, nasty business. He spoke directly to his wife. “Lydia, we must talk. Now. Alone in my study.” He glowered at Pamela.

“Couldn't this wait until tomorrow? As hosts, we shouldn't rush away from our guests.”

“I'll be brief. Our guests won't miss us. Tomorrow, I must take the early train to New York, where I have important business.”

For a moment, Lydia sat still, gazing at her husband. “I agree to this conversation if Pamela can help me get to the study. She will wait outside.”

Momentarily, Jennings seemed overcome by anger and bared his teeth. But he quickly recovered, apparently aware that guests sitting nearby had begun to take notice. In a measured, soft voice, he said, “Have it your way. I'll expect you in ten minutes.” He threw an unfriendly glance at Pamela and left.

Lydia and Pamela continued to sit at the table as if nothing had happened. With the rest of the audience they applauded Helen Allen's final song. She bowed and announced a popular encore. Lydia leaned over and whispered to Pamela, “Let's go. I've dreaded this moment for months. Please stand by me.”

 

Pamela stood in the hallway outside Jennings's study. With Lydia beside her, she knocked, heard Jennings's sharp command to enter, and opened the door. Lydia gripped Pamela's hand as she passed by into the room. Pamela closed the door and said a silent prayer.