Quiet Dell: A Novel (44 page)

“I see. How do you do, Mason?”

“Very well, sir.” He shook William’s hand firmly, as she’d taught him, then glanced at her and half turned toward his worktable. “Excuse me, sir, I was just doing these here.”

He was trying to remove himself, she thought, from what must seem confusing, but they were in his room and he had nowhere to go. He put his hands on an open newspaper as though to turn the pages.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” William said. “Miss Thornhill, my room is down the hall. At your convenience, I should appreciate an update on the trial and your coverage.”

“In ten minutes’ time, should we say?”

“Yes, certainly.” He paused. “I would like to see the courthouse and the opera house. I understand it’s a short walk?”

“Yes, both are near the Gore.”

“In that case, let us meet in the lobby. Dress for the weather—the snow has turned to sleet.” He moved his gaze over her, for Mason was back at his table and could not see them.

She offered him an expression of surprise. “Of course, Mr. Malone. I shall join you . . . very soon.”

•   •   •

He was waiting near the door, and they were immediately outside. He wore a calf-length wool coat that hung loose from his broad shoulders, and a thick black angora scarf. Sleet pelted the hotel awning and slicked the sidewalks; he opened a large umbrella over them. No one was in the streets. The sky was the color of pewter and the day was darkening.

“My darling, thank heavens you are here.” She took his arm, for the umbrella sheltered them from view. “You have not kissed me. Whatever is the matter? Was it an awful flight?”

“It was a bit turbulent, but nothing is the matter. I need some air, and some sleet, I suppose, after the plane, to . . . acclimate.”

“Are you queasy?”

He laughed, and put his gloved hand on hers. “No, love. I am
relieved, and thinking very clearly. It was more than turbulent. The plane slid off the runway and would have flipped over, but for a stand of accommodating fir trees, loaded with snow.”

“William!” She stopped and turned to him. “You didn’t tell me! You weren’t hurt? No one was hurt?”

“Oh no. It was . . . a spiritual exercise. Your friend Eric was seated beside me. I believe we have bonded forever.”

“One does bond in that fashion, with Eric. Now you must kiss me, so many times. Oh, I knew— Must we keep walking?”

“Yes, to some shelter, outdoors perhaps. Is there anywhere near?” The sound of the sleet abated, but he held the umbrella before them to break the wind.

“I’ll take you to the skating pond in the park. The Victorian gazebo will certainly be unoccupied. We turn here. It’s just there, two blocks down, gaslit at night, quite pretty. I brought Hart’s ice skates with me, don’t ask why, and they fit Mason. I rent a pair at the kiosk. We bring Duty and skate almost every afternoon.”

“Emily, who in the world is that boy?”

“He was a street urchin, picking pockets, and very well, so I hired him. He’s my archivist, and clips all the coverage—”

“I realize. Does it seem, a rather grim pastime for a child?”

She smiled. “Grim, did you say?”

“Yes, I met Grimm, on arriving at the Gore. In any event—”

“It is surely less grim than living on the streets, prey to any manner of person. His father is a drunk and petty thief who beat him; he is an only child, like us, William—who tried to care for his mother, and sat beside her as she died.”

They entered the park, sheltered by enormous pines that broke the wind. The gazebo before them, with its dark slate roof and chest-high, white clapboard walls, seemed a circular boat on a lake of snow. A small matching kiosk, the skate rental, closed and padlocked, bordered the pond.

Emily clasped William’s arm. “Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve longed to show you this place.”

“Emily,” he said.

“William, I know what you will say, but say it.”

“The boy’s father is a drunk and a thief; the boy is a thief. His background, sadly, is established; you cannot erase it. He is not an infant, whom you might influence early on. How can you trust such a child?”

“How might he trust me, is more to the point. It will take time. He’s intelligent, very, I think, though he went intermittently to a country school. His mother taught him at home, from the Bible and her own books; he knows half a volume of Robert Burns by heart, which he used to recite to her. He relishes organization, and learns quickly.”

“How old is he?”

“He turns twelve on Christmas Eve, though looks a bit younger.”

“He is Hart’s age.”

“Yes. Many children are Hart’s age.”

The skating pond lay before them, the ice glistening and dark. The gazebo was empty; the numerous benches were pushed aside. William put his arm around her and led her up the steps. “Here,” he said, “out of the wind, with a clear view of the wood.”

“Yes, and the mountains beyond. Magnificent, aren’t they? And harbor such difficult lives. The miners live out there, up impassable roads, in houses that are not heated or plumbed. They live as the first settlers lived, two hundred years ago.”

“Are you cold?” He pulled her close on the bench.

“No one can see us here,” she said, and sat on his lap, embracing him, her face in his warm throat. “Oh, I long for you too much. I must put you out of my mind until we are speaking or touching.”

He opened his coat to enclose her. “Put me out of your mind? We can’t have that. You are on my mind, in my mind, always.” He lifted her face, to kiss her, small kisses against her skin. “You are the air I breathe, the air itself.”

She pulled off her gloves and put her hands inside his shirt, on his skin. “You have a key for me, to your room?”

“Of course.” He buttoned his voluminous coat around her to enclose her completely, and pulled up the generous collar to shield them both. “Emily—”

The wind quieted. Snow fell haphazardly in big errant flakes. “Shall we go back to the hotel?”

“Soon.”

“You want to talk to me before you ravish me.”

“That is exactly right.” He smiled, laughing with her, his face in her hair.

“It’s a compliment, I suppose.”

“Emily, it’s important.” He drew back to look at her.

“All right.” She felt a tremor of fear but put her hands against his throat, to feel his voice, and met his eyes. She’d seen them well with tears, and startle in ecstasy, and yield to her across a room.

His eyes held hers. “If you want a child, we can have a child. There is no impediment.”

She did not speak at once. The wind, gusting across them to the wood, seemed to take her words. She drew closer against him. “William—if we’d met much sooner—I would love to have had a child with you . . . you should have children—”

“Emily, we could have a child. You are young enough. It is not too late, if that is what you want. There is no lack of funds. I told you about the apartment in Paris, that my grandfather purchased years ago. We could have the child there, and you could adopt it—”

“Adopt my own child? So we are talking fairy tales and secrets.”

“You speak French. You could work from Paris for a time. I’m talking with associates about a financial venture there. We could live in Paris every summer, completely freely, and continue in Chicago, as before, in a larger apartment, with help for you, so that you could go on working.”

They sat without speaking, watching snow come on from behind the mountains, stirring the faraway evergreens and concealing the distant hills. The storm approached like a curtain moving within itself.

“Here is the snow. I’m so glad you’re safe.” She kissed him slowly, deeply, and said, against his mouth, “So, you have thought about this, before today.”

“I have been thinking about it for weeks.”

“But you did not mention it until today.”

“Emily, it seems the time to mention it.”

“Because you feel I am entered into a folly.”

“I don’t know. Are you? Why did you not mention the boy to me, in any conversation?”

“At first I didn’t know that the arrangement would even last until you arrived, and then I thought it better that you get to know him yourself. William, I have simply hired an assistant of sorts, and given a boy a place to sleep and food to eat. But, this child of whom you speak—do you have a burning desire for a child?”

He held her face in his gloved hands. “My desires . . . are completely satisfied.”

“Then we are fortunate, because I don’t want to share you with an infant, even our infant. As it is, I must share you, and wait for you.” She looked at him. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“No. My disappointment does not live in any world you inhabit.”

Snow grew thick about them, blowing like cold dust into the gazebo, falling in heavy slants onto the woods and frozen pond. She saw his eyes change and moisten, and reached inside his clothes. “Only turn this way,” she whispered, for they were sitting at the end of the bench, and she must get her legs behind him. There was no impediment; she’d inserted her pessary and left her undergarments aside an hour ago, for she’d thought they would go directly to his room. She wore only her garter belt and wool stockings under her skirt. His hands found her bare thighs and hips and were inside her; she pulled up layers of fabric and bent her knees behind him, to brace him against her.

He moved farther to the edge and held her on his thighs, in his hands, just enough away to thrust inside her, and stay. Each time was more intense, and they held themselves from one another, to
look and see, as they had looked at one another that first day in his office, and not touched.

The snow was blinding beyond their shelter. They were wholly enclosed, for the gaslights and pond were barely visible. The street and buildings opposite had disappeared. “We are absolutely alone,” Emily said, and breathed, “it is our storm.” Then language deserted her.

•   •   •

Snow fell into the evening. She stood at the reception desk to ask for her messages. William was having dinner with Morris, the prosecutor in the case. She would hear it all later, and had dined with Mason at the Gore restaurant as he subtly counted the new guests; there were thirty. Only first arrivals, she’d assured him; trains were delayed in the storm. He’d informed her that the Gore telegraph operators had given him leave to hold Emily’s place in line, at every break in the trial, so that she could file quickly. He was a wonder. She wished she were teaching him literature or art history rather than newspaper coverage of a heinous crime, but fortune had introduced them here and now. She’d sent him upstairs, for they were just in from walking the dog. How might she help him feel comfortable with William, with Eric, and provide them demonstration of Mason’s qualities? She determined to have dinner for the four of them in her rooms.

“Miss Thornhill, you have messages.” Parrish put them in her hand.

“Mr. Parrish, I want to order room service dinner for four, tomorrow evening at seven. May I order from the restaurant menu?”

“Of course, ma’am. Simply write your order, and sign it.” He produced the menu and a sheet of Gore Hotel stationery.

“It will be my nephew and me, and the two gentlemen from Chicago, Mr. Malone and Mr. Lindstrom. I shall write notes to be delivered to them. Is that all right?”

“I shall see to it, ma’am.”

She opened her own messages: a note from Eric:
Survived flight.
Must repair psyche. Dinner tomorrow?
The second was from Grimm.
I have news. Tearoom, 8 p.m.
It was eight now. “Mr. Parrish,” she said across the desk, “I need to meet with an associate. Might I send up hot chocolate for Mason?”

“Of course, ma’am. Mr. Woods will take the order up, and let the boy know you are delayed.”

She nodded her thanks, aware that Grimm’s news likely concerned Mason. The boy had left home nearly two months ago, but she must know how to contact the father. Last week, in the calm before the trial, she’d taken Grimm into her confidence. He liked Mason and was certainly the one to advise her. She could not leave Mason here, and must seek his father’s permission to do otherwise.

•   •   •

Grimm sat at the table in the corner, tea service for two before him. Their meetings here were no longer confidential; numerous tables were occupied.

“You’ve been out in the weather.” He stood to take her coat, then sat, openly appreciative, watching her.

She shook the snow from her hat, a fox hat in the Russian style, and wondered with whom Grimm spent nights such as this. He had a woman, more than one, she was sure. She sipped her tea, and regarded him. “So, Sheriff Grimm? Did you find Mason’s house, in that place?”

“Near Coalton, up a hollow from the town. I’ll tell you straight out, the father is dead, was dead for some days when we found him. Snow was blown onto his bed. That a child should live in such a hovel, with a drunken father whose filth was piled around him even before he froze to death—”

“You’re certain? The man was Mason’s father?”

“The county sheriff was with me, and knew him. Neighbors identified him as well.”

“Is there anything, to be given Mason?”

“From that shack? I think not. They were tenants, and the
father had smashed what they had. There’s a marked grave behind the house. The mother, neighbors said, died last fall. We helped a neighbor bury the father beside her, and finished as the snow began.” Grimm folded his hands and looked at Emily. “Mason is an orphan. He will likely go to Pruntytown, if you don’t take him.”

“What is Pruntytown?”

“Industrial School for Boys. They’re taught a trade, but it’s no orphanage. Young thieves, beggars, grifters.”

Emily squared her shoulders and leaned forward. “Of course I will take him. Can you help me? I must be responsible for his care, his schooling.”

“If you’re certain, a legal guardianship is easiest to arrange. There will be documents to sign. The Randolph County clerk will search files for record of Mason’s birth, and I have copies of the parents’ death certificates. No siblings, and no known family.” He paused. “Will you tell him of his father’s death?”

“Yes, I must,” Emily said. “It’s terrible, though will be a relief to him, surely, but I must have an alternative to offer before giving him such news.”