Love on a Dime (19 page)

Jack soon reached Thames Street, a thoroughfare far too narrow for all the bustling traffic along the waterfront, he decided. Behind the row of stores that blocked a clear view of the water, he glimpsed long wharfs, a ferry steaming toward its landing, and the masts of tall ships rolling in the breeze. As he jumped down from the carriage, he sniffed the tang of seaweed at low tide. And he remembered the last time he ’d been on this street—when he had spied Lilly at Elna Price ’s book signing. He clenched his teeth. It was for her, first and foremost, that he must see through this task.

He looked around, unsure where to begin. Would MacIntyre go to a restaurant, tavern, clothing store, apothecary, or bakery? He didn’t know him and he couldn’t guess the man’s tastes or habits. Peering through the plate glass windows of each successive business, Jack slowly progressed down one side of the street then up the other. He strode beneath the storefront awnings and through the mist. A foghorn moaned as the clouds thickened to a gray mass and swirled to the ground.

The glorious day had gradually turned dreary, darkening the windows of the shops and making it difficult to see inside. After nearly half an hour he ’d glimpsed only sailors and housewives, but no one who could be the colonel. Though ready to return to Summerhill before a downpour soaked his new pin-striped suit, he was drawn inside Celeste ’s Patisserie by the smell of freshly baked cookies and pies. He spotted a batch of jelly donuts displayed among the éclairs, rolls, tarts, and tortes. Unable to resist, he bought a cup of black coffee and half a dozen of his favorite treats before glancing around for an empty table. Four lined the wall; three were occupied. As Jack took the only vacant spot, a lone man at the back table looked up at him.

Big and bulky, he wore a plaid sack suit. The yellow and black fabric stretched to the limit across his belly and looked ready to rip apart at the seams. A plate piled high with petit fours lay before him. A cigar stub burned in his ashtray, sending spirals of smoke up to the ceiling. Fanning the stinking air, Jack took a closer look. A red carnation in the fat man’s lapel caught his eye. This was Colonel Rufus MacIntyre, the bloodsucker himself, sporting his signature flower. With his appetite gone, Jack abandoned the donuts and coffee and eased over to the colonel’s table.

MacIntyre reared back, then continued to shove cake into his mouth. He patted his lips and double chin with a napkin. “May I help you with something, sir? Have we met?” His voice, smooth as oil, oozed with phony charm.

“I’m Jackson Grail, the publisher of Jones and Jarman. I know who you are, so there ’s no need to introduce yourself.”

The colonel stuck out his hand, but when Jack didn’t offer to shake, MacIntyre frowned and folded the sausage-like digits on his rounded lap. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I want you to stop harassing one of my authors—Miss Fannie Cole.”

MacIntyre’s smirk matched the menace in his eyes. He puffed on his cigar, then slowly blew a stream of smoke into Jack’s face. “If you mean those little items in
Talk of the Town
, you’re way off the mark. I might tell my readers her real name, but that’s perfectly legal. Just a bit of gossip that titillates the public.”

“The lady doesn’t want her identity revealed.” If she did, she ’d allow him to promote her, wouldn’t she?

MacIntyre shrugged. “Of course not. I understand that fact very well.” He snickered. “If I print her name, she ’ll be humiliated. She ’s playing a risky game. Chances were always great she ’d eventually get caught. Fannie did it to herself, so I don’t worry about the consequences.”

“But I do.” Jack balled his fists and planted them firmly on the table. “Are you going to expose her?”

The colonel sneered. “That doesn’t concern you.”

“She’s one of my writers, so it most definitely concerns me.”

“Fannie ’s a big girl—she can take care of herself.” The man shoved another petit four into his mouth.

“You can at least refer to her as Miss Cole.”

Doffing his bowler in a mock bow, MacIntyre leaned on the table and heaved himself to his feet. “Good day, Mr. Grail.”

“Listen, Colonel, you’d better not blackmail Miss Cole, because if you do, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what? Nothing, I’ll wager.”

The fat man’s nasty laugh sent fury through Jack’s chest. “You’d better leave Miss Cole alone, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

MacIntyre snorted. “I’m quaking, Mr. Grail.” Grabbing up his remaining petit fours, he sauntered from the bakery.

Jack followed him out the door into the rain that slanted down in cold sheets. MacIntyre heaved himself into a hired carriage and vanished. Shielded by the awning flapping in the wind, Jack stood against the shop window. If he’d driven an enclosed carriage instead of an open one, he could’ve returned to Summerhill right away. He stepped back into the warmth of the bakery, munched on a donut, gulped his tepid coffee, and waited for the rain to let up.

Misery engulfed him. Out of solutions, Jack weighed his mounting problems. Fannie Cole—Lilly?—about to be exposed. Reynolds in a sickbed, unable to write. Nothing of worth in his stacks to publish. He expected the road to success would wind as it climbed up steep mountains, but not dead end. If his luck didn’t return, he ’d soon find himself in the grip of poverty— right where he began.

He felt alone and out of luck. No, out of grace.

Jack sighed. He lacked a solution to his troubles with Fannie. It was time to humble himself before the Lord. Long past time, really. He finished his donut and sat staring out at the sheets of rain coming down the window, praying with a need sunk deep into his bones.

Heavenly Father, I’ve been working on my own far too long and striving for fame and fortune. I’m building a business, but I’m encountering more problems than I expected. The woman I love hesitates to marry me. She won’t reveal her identity, and I can’t see a way to help her stand up to an extortionist. Lord, I need Your guidance and I’m ready to listen. Amen
.

He sipped the dregs of his coffee and listened for some sort of response. Not words whispered in his ear, though that kind of assurance would certainly help, but a new insight, a practical solution. Really he wanted anything that suggested God was in His heaven and He cared for His people. For him in particular. Jack bought another cup of coffee and waited for the rain to end.

Slowly a peace he hadn’t felt for years spread through him. The Lord would guide him if only he would follow.

In his quest for money and respect, he ’d put aside the fervency of his childhood faith in exchange for self-reliance. Gradually, over the years, he’d neglected his relationship with the Lord. He’d ended up weak and out of clever ideas.

Jack arose from the rickety chair. The struggle wasn’t over yet. He’d find his authoress and protect her from Colonel MacIntyre, whether she appreciated it or not.

NINETEEN

R
aindrops sent Lilly and Miranda scurrying from the tennis court. Rackets in hand, they pounded up the veranda steps to find George talking to Papa.

“Dreadful weather.” Miranda shook the moisture from her skirt and glared at the gray mass of clouds reaching down into the rough waters. “I believe I’ll go inside and dress for tea. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I’ll head inside as well. A short nap would do me more good than staying out in this dampness,” Papa said as he followed Miranda inside the cottage.

Lilly dropped down on the rocker while George leaned against the porch rail, his long legs crossed at the ankle.

“George, I assume Irene told you Harlan refused to loan me money the other night. I’m so sorry.” She knew George was counting on her; he always had, though at his age he ought to stand on his own two feet.

“Thank you for trying. I’m sure you did your best. Harlan was always tight with a penny and this is quite a sum.” He cocked his head. “You didn’t end your engagement over the loan, did you? I’d hate to think my problems ruined your happiness.”

“Goodness, no. I should have realized how ill-suited Harlan and I were right from the start.” Lilly paused. “But if I may ask, how do you plan on paying Irene ’s debts?”

As the rain slanted toward the veranda, George moved away from the railing and took a seat beside Lilly. The wicker chair squeaked as he sat down. “I was desperate, so I told Papa about Irene ’s gambling and he gave me all the funds I needed—without much of a lecture. Of course, I wanted to keep my difficulties from him, but I had nowhere else to turn. He asked me to speak to Irene about her spending habits and I did this afternoon.” He pulled on his goatee and grunted. “She claimed she is normally a much better bridge player but she ’d had a streak of bad luck. She missed the point.”

Lilly sighed. “So your problem isn’t solved.”

George made a woeful face. “Not at all.” Then he brightened, looking more hopeful than she ’d seen him in a long while. “Since she ’s not going to change, I decided I had to.”

“Oh? What will do you differently?”

George straightened his slumped back. “I’m going to find a job. Now, don’t raise your eyebrows, Lilly. I’ve wanted a job for a long time, but I never found one I thought I might enjoy. And then there’s the added problem of needing a position that pays well.”

She’d never heard her brother so enthusiastic about working for a living. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve applied for a teaching position at several New England preparatory schools. I hope I have a knack for instructing young boys. At least I have a keen interest in youth and in history. You probably think Papa’s bank would be ideal, but to learn the business inch by inch, sitting behind a desk for ten hours a day, sets my nerves on edge.”

“I understand. And I agree you should do a job you’d enjoy. But have you considered a modest salary won’t satisfy Irene?”

George sighed. “I have, indeed. She ’ll be unhappy, but I’m hoping and praying she ’ll adjust. It’ll be a year’s experiment to see how we both like it.”

“A year is not too much to ask.”

George grinned, apparently heartened. “That’s what I thought. I won’t tell her until I receive an offer, but I’m hoping to hear soon. And then I’ll break the news—gently, of course.”

Irene would undoubtedly complain about exchanging her life in society for the position of faculty wife, even for a mere ten months. But if she truly loved her husband, she ’d concede.

When Lilly and George arose, Lilly grasped her brother’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” An embarrassed grin spread across his face. “I do believe I’m proud of myself as well.”

As the rain intensified, they left the veranda for the warmth and comfort of the cottage. In need of a few more hours of writing time, Lilly headed upstairs to her bedroom. She passed through the foyer as Mr. Ames opened the front door to Jack. He burst into the entrance hall, dripping water from his hat to his suit. He removed the wet derby, shrugged off his jacket and shook them over the area rug, avoiding the expensive Oriental carpet.

Lilly shot him a sly smile. “You must remember to carry an umbrella. It often doesn’t just rain in Newport, the very heavens themselves seem to open up.”

Jack ignored her playful advice. “Lilly, I need to speak to you after I change clothes. It won’t take long. It’s important.” He sounded so serious her heart lurched. No doubt, more bad news.

Lilly nodded, curious about the urgency of his appeal. “All right. I’ll be in the library.”

As usual, she found the reading room deserted. Needing a reference book about France, the setting for her current manuscript,
A Garland of Love
, she searched the stacks until she discovered a text filled with photographs of cathedrals, palaces, and monuments. She turned up the gaslight to dispel the gloom and sank into the sofa.

Ten minutes later Jack entered the library dressed in dry clothes. The worry etched in his brow gave her a jolt.

“What’s the matter?” Lilly placed her thick tome on the end table and turned her full attention to Jack. “You look agitated.”

His gaze swept the room. Apparently satisfied they were alone, he spoke in a rush. “Colonel MacIntyre is in town. I tracked him down this afternoon.”

She gasped. “He’s in Newport?”

“Unfortunately, yes. That means he’s going after someone and, given the articles we ’ve seen, I suspect it’s Fannie Cole.”

Lilly’s knees weakened, but she tightened her muscles so she wouldn’t fall at his feet and give herself away. “Oh my. How do you know?”

Jack groaned. “I have learned how he operates. It’s common knowledge he ’s extorted money from dozens of Newporters over the years. They pay dearly to keep their secrets out of
Talk of the Town
. They’re left with no other choice unless they’re so rich and powerful they can’t be cut from society.” He leveled a deadly serious stare. “Almost no one escapes his grasp.”

Lilly closed her eyes against her worst nightmare. “Are you quite certain?”

“I’m convinced of it. I’d like to help Miss Cole fend him off.”

Avoiding Jack’s steady, almost sympathetic gaze, she looked out the window at the shroud of hydrangea bushes shadowing the room. She’d burst into tears if she succumbed to his compassion.

“Lilly, please tell me Miss Cole ’s real name.”

When she remained mute, he dropped onto a nearby chair by the roaring fire. “Will you tell her that together, we can face this?”

She nodded.

He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he opened his leather satchel and spread its contents on the cushion. “I’d like you to take a look.”

“All right. What are these?” she asked, eager to change the topic of conversation. Obviously, the pile of handwritten notes weren’t manuscripts.

Jack leaned toward her. “I’d like you to hear some of the comments in these notes. They’re written by fans of Fannie Cole who—”

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t have time.” She tried to move, but her body still wouldn’t cooperate.

He rushed on undeterred. “You might find these letters enlightening. Miss Cole ’s readers sent them to her via Jones and Jarman. They’re full of praise for her writing and for Fannie herself.” He pulled out one of the notes and handed it to her.

She waved it away.

He sighed. “All right then. If you won’t read it, I’ll read it to you.

“Dear Miss Cole,

Your lovely book,
My Lady’s Fan
, set my heart to humming.How I nearly swooned at the hero’s rescue of his true love. It made me think maybe I’ll find my very own hero someday. I decided I should wait for a tenderhearted man who treats me like a lady and not settle for one of the clods who has pursued me. The good Lord wants us girls to keep our standards high and remember we’re His children, loved and protected by Him. Thank you ever so much for reminding me of that. It would be grand if I could meet you in person, Miss Cole. That would give my friends and me so much pleasure.

Sincerely,
An Ardent Fan, Sadie Smith”

Lilly drew her arms across her chest and trembled. “No doubt Miss Cole would enjoy such adulation from a reader.”

The rain trickled to a stop. Jack rose and walked to the window, opening it wide. Fresh air flooded the room. “Are you moved by that note?” He turned around and searched her face.

“Yes,” she answered in a voice barely audible.

“The rest are similar. Miss Cole has garnered an appreciative audience.”

Lilly’s cheeks flushed before she reached over and opened more of the letters. Minutes ticked by as she skimmed one letter after another. “Miss Cole is succeeding, isn’t she? She ’s reaching the girls she ’s writing for. She ’s doing some good.”

Despite the risks and the consequences of penning dime novels, her work for the Lord was bearing abundant fruit. She wanted to shout for joy that all the risks she ’d taken were well worth it. She was walking down the right road, and the Lord was truly directing her path. A sense of relief calmed her spirit which had been troubled for such a long time. In fact, ever since she ’d begun to write, she ’d questioned whether secrecy was the proper way to conduct her ministry. Yet, she hid her work and lied by failing to tell the truth. She couldn’t bear to stop scribbling her stories. And the money helped the Settlement House operate.
Lord, if You want me to admit this ministry You’ve given me, You also must give me the strength
.

Jack looked at her, his head cocked at an angle, as if he understood how deeply the letters were affecting her. “Yes, indeed, Fannie Cole is performing a great service. By pointing these young ladies to God, she ’s had a profound influence on their lives. Many have little guidance.”

Lilly coughed to cover the happiness swelling in her chest. Her efforts actually made a difference. “You’re probably exaggerating. But I’m glad her dime novels benefit those they’re designed to help.” She wanted to laugh and cry and throw her arms around Jack and thank him for the opportunity to publish. But she sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, her gaze averted so he couldn’t view the tears she fought to hold back. Nervously, she picked up another letter, trying to focus on the words.

Jack returned to sit beside her, watching as she read it.

After a moment, she gave up on the letter, unable to concentrate with him sitting so near.

She stood. “I know Miss Cole will seek your help—if she needs it.”

“Thank you,” he said with more weariness in his tone than hope.

She saw the web of lines around his eyes deepen and his mouth droop. Protecting Fannie and his publishing house apparently drained him of his usual spark. And she was to blame for his difficulties.

Lord, help me to keep my faith and trust in You. I know You won’t abandon me. Please don’t punish my family because of my secret. Give me courage to confess to them when the time is right—if You feel it’s absolutely necessary, which I hope You don’t. And Lord, is there something I can do to help Jack with his business other than promote myself? He’s worked so hard. Please, don’t let him fail and especially not because of me
.

Nothing came to mind, but she hoped the Lord would answer her soon.

THOUGH MAMA WAS still upset about Lilly ending her engagement, she insisted they visit Ocean Vista, the van Patten’s chateau on Ochre Point. As usual, Lilly preferred to remain at home, but Mama objected.

Mama gawked at the mansion’s gilt and marble decor as they passed beneath soaring ceilings and down wide hallways on their way to the oceanside.

“I’ve never seen such beauty outside of Europe.” Mama’s eyes sparkled.

Lilly followed a step behind, amused by her mother’s childlike amazement. Except for the Santerres’ Fifth Avenue mansion, Mama hadn’t seen many of the millionaires’ homes, although she could have if she made even half an effort to secure an invitation. No one, especially the
nouveau riche
, turned down the interest of a Knickerbocker, a group of “old money” New Yorkers with
cache
, if not cash.

The butler led the Westbrooks to the small circle of overdressed ladies gathered on the stone loggia facing the sea. Mrs. Winnie van Patten, seated at its center, was fiftyish and frumpy and the wife of Philadelphia’s most aggressive real estate speculator. With a broad smile she came forward, arms outstretched. “I’m so delighted you could join us this afternoon.” Like Mama she wore lace over silk, hers in pale pink, Mama’s in periwinkle blue.

After introductions and greetings, Mrs. van Patten poured tea and passed tarts and cake on hand-painted china plates. The visitors settled into conversation with several matrons familiar to Lilly, mainly old acquaintances of her mother’s from New York. Lilly sat primly, balancing her delicate cup and plate.

She hoped the call would pass quickly so she could return to her manuscript. Far behind on her writing, she needed to concentrate and turn out more stories at an assembly-line pace. So far she ’d made little progress. She couldn’t remember when she ’d last had a carefree day or a peaceful night’s sleep.

“Miss Westbrook, you’re looking so lovely this afternoon,” drawled Rhonda Wooten, wife of the West Virginia coal king. New to society, she spoke in halting phrases, apparently well aware she was still on social probation. The influential Winnie van Patten had taken her up, but negative opinions from the other ladies could permanently send her back to Appalachia. Or, if she were spunky, she and her husband might try another resort less exclusive, like Bar Harbor or Saratoga Springs.

Mrs. Carstairs jutted her pointed chin as if a compliment made to anyone other than one of her daughters was in bad taste. “You do look remarkably well, Lillian, considering the unfortunate end to your engagement. But I’m sure you’ll recover quickly. My daughter Eloise and I are taking excellent care of the Santerres, so you need not worry about Harlan.” She pinched a smile and quickly changed the subject. “The only other interesting news I’ve heard lately is from my maid. It seems that Miss Fannie Cole is
one of us
.”