Lions and Lace (13 page)

She nodded, and her bleak expression made him cynically add as an afterthought, "Take heart. If you're careful with your words, you may persuade them that though we're married, their cause is not lost."

Her mouth dropped
open,
she was so completely taken aback by his words. Her entire definition of marriage was undergoing a metamorphosis tonight. A husband didn't suggest things like that to his wife, not in the way she understood things. And though she didn't love this man whom she now had to call husband, his words were so crushing, they made her want to put her head into her hands and cry. Sheridan spoke vows to her one minute and the next encouraged her to string along other prospects until she might be free to consider them. It broke her heart to think of how she used to imagine marriage. Her fantasies had been nothing like this.

"Good night, Alana. I'll see you at St. Brendan's."

"Good night," she answered stiffly, unable even to look at him. She heard the pocket doors open. Before the front door had even shut behind him, she threw herself on the Belter settee and wept inconsolably.

The next morning Alana took the carriage to South Street, as she had done a hundred times before. The ferry across the East River was prompt, and the Van
Alen
brown coupé ambled off the ramp at the new Fulton Ferry Terminal at precisely noon. It took longer than expected to leave the dock area because of the work being done on the bridge. Already several blocks had been leveled to accommodate the bridge's tower and approach. Workmen were everywhere, many of them Irish.

Stopped in traffic while mules dragged huge granite stones to the construction site, she heard several of them shouting to one another in Irish Gaelic. Every now and then she'd hear part of a sentence in English. "Me
mudder's
cumin'
ta
Castle Garden" or "
T'ere's
the
divil
ta
pay if we
ain't
done in time," all spoken in a thick Irish brogue.

Discreetly, she lifted the lace curtain from the window of the coupé and watched them. In truth, there wasn't a lot to recommend these men. They certainly didn't possess Trevor's handsomeness. They had wide florid faces and short stubby bodies worn down from years of impossibly hard work. A group standing in the distance covertly passed around an indigo glass flask while the foreman oversaw the unloading of a dray. She recalled with biting clarity Mrs. Astor's words concerning the "
Irishers
" who worked on the streets. These men seemed to live up to every conception of the Irish she'd ever known and the words
Irish Need Not Apply
echoed back to her from a thousand signs she'd seen in the past.

But suddenly a man caught her attention. He was a worker listening with quiet intensity to the foreman as cranes lifted the stones off the cart. The man looked up, and Alana saw the same rebellious dark eyes that her husband had and the same lean, hungry expression on his face. The two men couldn't be related, but Alana couldn't get the picture of Trevor out of her mind.

Quickly the stones were unloaded, and traffic once more began moving, but from the hidden veil of lace at her carriage window, Alana watched the dark-eyed Irishman go back to his job, shovel in hand, as he and the others dug the deep pit that was to serve as the foundation for the bridge tower. It was terrible work this man had, and just from looking at him Alana could see his intelligence was wasted by the drudgery of the shovel. "Irish spoons" she'd heard shovels called before. She now knew why.

Letting the curtain fall back, she leaned against her seat. That man with his dark eyes and angry defiance wouldn't leave her mind. She hoped he made it—that the soul-stripping toil and tedium of his work didn't break him, working for pennies a day, a slave to the shovel. She was amazed anyone could overcome such odds, yet some had.

Her thoughts wandered to her husband. Trevor Sheridan had risen from the streets. Picturing him now as she pictured that worker, filthy from head to toe, a desperate edge to his expression, she suddenly understood a part of him. She could hardly imagine what he'd had to do to get where he was today, and as she thought of the chances against his succeeding, she was filled with a grudging, solemn admiration.

She gazed past the curtains and found they were already far into Brooklyn's countryside. Sheep grazed to her right, and to her left the claylike soil was already tilled and ready for spring planting. As usual, the closer she got to her sister's asylum, the more the pain seared her heart. It was terrible what the Irish had to do to survive in this new country of theirs, but poverty wasn't the only prison, as Alana well knew. She sat in her velvet-upholstered coach, the agonies of the past engulfing her as if she were reliving them again. Prejudice and poverty were tragedies, but there were other kinds of tragedy. As the carriage turned right at the sign quietly announcing entrance to the Park View Asylum, Alana found Tragedy's arms around her once again.

The nurse in her blue-and-white striped gown, white apron, and cap met her at the end of the drive, an unusually bright smile pasted upon her lips. She greeted Alana almost too warmly and took her hand.

While they walked the long glass corridor to the back of the home, Nurse
Steine
filled her in on her sister's progress. "She's having a good day, Miss Van
Alen
. See for yourself.
Out there, by the duck pond.
See? She's feeding the ducklings." Nurse
Steine
stopped and pointed through the glass atrium.

Alana's gaze followed, and she saw
Christabel's
figure on a green cast-iron bench, her flaxen hair blowing in the soft wind. Her sister made a heart-wrenchingly lovely sight. She'd recently turned sixteen and was becoming quite a beauty. Her figure was petite and well
formed,
her face as flawless as the face of the Madonna in the
Pieta.
And until she went to her grave, Alana would believe her sister was as beautiful inside as out. "Thank you. I'm so glad she's happy today." Alana looked at the nurse. "I'll go to her—"

"Wait, Miss Van
Alen
, if you will."

Alana paused.

"She's been having nightmares again. She's trying to remember the fire. I'm afraid she may ask you about it, and I strongly suggest you redirect her."

Alana nodded. When the nurse turned to leave her, she asked a question that had long been heavy on her mind. "I'm not a physician, Nurse
Steine
, but wouldn't my sister be better off remembering what happened that night? That might heal her better than any medicine."

"Killing one's parents is an ugly crime, Miss Van
Alen
. The shock of the truth could destroy her."

"Or set her free." Alana became insistent. "I keep saying this, but I'll say it again: She is not guilty. We must keep that foremost in our minds. If
Christabel
could remember the circumstances of the fire, we might be able to finally convince the police chief that the fire was indeed an accident."

"And what if it's otherwise? Can you accept that? Or is it better to live in this limbo?"

There was no softness in Nurse
Steine's
words. Alana attributed her callousness to years of working with grief-stricken relatives. "I know in my heart my sister did not commit the crimes of which she's been accused."

The nurse stared at her, a patronizing smile on her large mouth. "Miss Van
Alen
," she said, "you were very lucky that Park View was offered as an alternative to jail. Your sister's youth and the fact that your uncle lined the police
chiefs
palms with bank notes, placed her in a fine institution. I think it best not to rock the boat. We know what's right for your sister. Your uncle is happy with us. Can't you be also?"

"You've been kind to her, I know that. I'm not suggesting that—"

"Then visit your sister, Miss Van
Alen
." Nurse
Steine
again pointed to her sister at the end of the sweeping lawn that led to the pond. "You've precious little time with
Christabel
. Should you spend that time with me?"

Frustrated, Alana nodded mutely. She'd had this discussion many times—with her uncle, with the police chief, with this nurse. At the beginning she'd been much more passionate, much more outspoken,
much
more hopeful. But given the same answers and alternatives again and again, she now felt as if she were merely playing out a recurring dream.

"Go see your sister, Miss Van
Alen
. I'll instruct your driver to have the carriage pulled around in an hour."

The nurse's words were civil, and the woman had always been kind to
Christabel
, but Alana would never like her. There was something about her she didn't quite trust. With that thought on her mind, Alana opened the wrought-iron door of the atrium and went to seek her sister.

"Christal?" she said softly when she had crossed the velvety lawn. Using her sister's nickname again, Alana said, "Christal, have you forgotten me in just two short weeks?"

Christal turned around, and her sky blue eyes filled with delight and pain. She rose from the bench and threw her arms around her. Alana hugged her as she always did, desperately, tightly.

"Oh, Alana, I was thinking of you today," Christal whispered against her hair. "Remember how father used to take us to Loft's confectionery? I've such a craving for licorice right now, I don't know if I can endure it."

Alana smiled. Reluctantly she pulled back and looked at Christal. Her sister was wearing a pale blue taffeta gown that exactly matched her eyes and a
basque
of plum velvet trimmed with fringe along the corset. She looked beautiful, far too beautiful to be imprisoned in this home with no one to ever see her.

"Come sit with me a minute. It's such a warm, lovely day, is it not?" Christal led her back to the cast-iron bench. They both sat, and the fluffy brown ducklings gathered at their ankles looking for bread crumbs.

"I'm so glad you're in high spirits today, Christal," Alana began, unsure of how to approach the subject of her marriage. "I've something to tell you and—"

"It's not bad news, is it?" Christal interrupted, her luminous eyes shadowed with fear.

"Of course not."
Alana took her hands and held them to reassure her. She considered her marriage bad news, but for Christal it was salvation, and for that reason alone Alana was determined to show she was happy.

"Why, that's a diamond ring," Christal murmured, staring down at her sister's hands. "Have you gotten engaged, then?"

Alana opened her mouth to respond, but the words escaped her. She hardly knew how to begin. "I'm not engaged, Christal. It's much more than that." She
paused,
knowing what she had to say would come as a shock. "I'm already married, in fact. Last night I was wed."

ChristaPs
expression was an odd mixture of joy and wounded feelings. She whispered, "That's wonderful news. I'm so glad. Truly I am. I wish you
every happiness
." Her eyes turned toward the pond so that Alana could not see how hurt she was. "I know I'd never be allowed to attend your wedding, Alana. I understand why you didn't tell me. I just wish I was involved in your life—even just a little bit." A small frown furrowed her brow. "I don't even know his name, do I?"

Alana impulsively gathered her in her arms. She was close to weeping. "You
are
my life, Christal. Not a minute goes by that I don't think of you. Don't ever think that while you're in this place, I plan on forgetting you."

"But you should forget me." Christal began to tremble. "Good heavens, what does your husband think?"

"I haven't told him," Alana answered defiantly. "And I'm not going to tell him. Someday I'll get you out of this place, Christal, and I'm not going to air the family's dirty laundry for any stranger to see."

"This man is no stranger. He's your husband. You'll have to tell him one day." Christal tried to hide a shudder. "Did you marry Anson, then? I know he was calling on you a lot."

Alana stiffened. How could she explain everything that had happened to her? "I didn't marry Anson," she answered slowly. "I married an Irishman named Trevor Sheridan. And the reason I didn't tell you, love,
is
because I didn't even know this man myself until last Monday. It's a very complicated story—"

"An Irishman?"
Christal exclaimed. "Do we know any
Irishers
?" Her eyes lit up with a deliciously scandalous idea. "Did you marry one of the help, then?"

Alana laughed. Her sister wasn't being malicious. On the contrary,
Christal's
limited experience was simply catching up to her. Her naïveté was charming, and Alana wished desperately that she could be there tomorrow at St. Brendan's for her wedding. "Trevor Sheridan is as far from being a servant as Caroline Astor is," she said, still smiling. "In fact, he's got millions and millions. I'll be able to take care of you forever, Christal. We'll buy a little farmhouse here in Brooklyn when I get you out of here, and we'll spend the rest of our lives there without a care in the world. I can already see it. It'll be atop a grassy green hill, with
newly whitewashed clapboards, just a simple house. . . ."
Alana became so caught up in her
imaginings,
she didn't see the strange look her sister gave her until she had almost gone too far.

"But you're married now, Alana. What can you
be
thinking of?" Christal frowned.

"Oh, but that's not—" Alana began,
then
stopped herself. She couldn't tell Christal about her arrangement with Sheridan. Her sister would see quite clearly that Alana had sacrificed herself. Then Christal would feel guilty, and Alana couldn't bear that.