The Enchantment (4 page)

It was another test, he realized suddenly. A test she

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wanted him to fail. She wanted him not to take the

money.

He smiled at his own deductive powers. It made perfect sense; she was a miser who'd unaccountably been put in the position of spending her money. The only way she could back out of her commitment was if he declined her offer.

A river of relief rushed through him. Her threat was only that—a threat; a smoke screen to keep him from thinking clearly. She wouldn't do it—not really. Not once she'd seen the treasures, touched them, seen their incredible value to the world. No one could sell the past to the highest bidder, could they?

The more he thought about it, the more sure he became. Perhaps she even believed she could sell the treasures, but once she'd seen them, touched them, she'd realize her mistake. Cibola and its treasures belonged to the world. Not to any one person.

"Very well," he said slowly. The moment the words slipped out of his mouth, he felt as if an anvil had been lifted off his shoulders. "I'll take your money."

"Oh," she answered, and the look on her face told him he'd been right. She'd wanted him to refuse the money. "When will you be leaving?"

"I don't know. It's all so unexpected. ... A few months, maybe. It will take me a while to make all the arrangements."

"I'll expect to hear from you before you leave. Good

luck, Dr. Digby."

He watched her sail out of the room with the controlled, regal bearing of a lioness. Not once did she look back at him. Larence looked down at the check in his hands. The stark white paper danced in his shaking fingers.

^ Kristin Hannah

Ten thousand dollars.

There was nothing to stop him now. Nothing The adventure he'd waited a lifetime for had just be-Chapter Three

Emmaline walked briskly down the gray stone canyon of Broadway, her plain black satin umbrella set at a no-nonsense angle above her severe, backswept coiffure. Rain thumped her umbrella and splattered in huge, icy droplets on the flagstone sidewalk, splashing the toes of her Pebble goat walking shoes. Wind snapped at her thick woolen skirts. Chin up, eyes straight ahead, she strode toward her usual Monday morning destination.

The morning's dark, rain-heavy air filled her lungs. She inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent of New York City's financial district during an early spring shower. She loved this part of the city in the morning; it was so vibrant, so alive.

Most people felt hemmed in by the towering buildings crammed against one another on either side of the street. But not Emma. She loved the colorless blocks of stone that encased the city's financial heart. It didn't matter to her that their straining skyline blocked out all but the hardiest rays of the ineffectual sun.

When she wanted sun, she went to her summer house in Manchester-by-the-sea. When she wanted anything else, she went to Wall Street.

Eagerness to begin the day quickened her pace. At 29

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the corner of Broadway and Wall she looked up to check for traffic, and was surprised to find the street almost deserted.

Fools, she thought of her peers. She didn't let a little thing like foul weather stand in the way of getting to work. That's why she had succeeded where so many had failed.

Grasping her skirt and heavy gossamer overcoat in one gloved hand, she hurried across the street toward the Smitherton Guaranty and Trust Bank.

In front of the bank she stopped just long enough to adjust the tilt of her high-crowned Rainsford hat. Her fingers slid hesitantly toward her forehead, and she immediately frowned. A riot of blond curls had broken free of their moorings and were now wisping freely across her forehead.

Disgust thinned her lips. The curls always ruined her appearance. No matter how much water she slapped on her hair to straighten it, the tiny corkscrews broke free. It was important that she look her best for bank president Eugene Cummin. She and Eugene had been engaged in a discreet, businesslike affair for nearly a year. Not an ordinary affaire de coeur, of course; Emma didn't believe in love, and she was fairly certain that he didn't either. More of an ... economic and social liaison. A relationship that suited both of them to perfection—at least, it suited her well. She had never thought to ask Eugene whether it was equally satisfactory for him.

He would have found it odd if she had. They rarely talked about personal things. Even their bedtime talk was strictly business. Oh, occasionally they'd laugh, or tell a joke. But not often. Life on the streets of New York had given Emma an unconventional and practical

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opinion of sex. She'd learned long ago—too long—that everything she had was either an asset or a liability, and sex was no different.

Her relationship with Eugene gave their business dealings a spicier, more intriguing edge. And, most important these days, it pleased her. She actually rather enjoyed giving the priggish ladies of the Four Hundred something to gossip about.

He wasn't much to look at perhaps, but his financial skills more than compensated for any lack in his physical appearance. They were a solid money-making team. She had even considered the possibility of merging their fortunes when the time came for her to have children. Heaving a sigh that strained the starched white pleats of her shirtwaist, she smoothed the intricately coiled Roman knot at her nape and plucked up her skirt. Climbing the massive pile of steps that led to the bank's entrance, she stared at the huge wooden doors that would any moment be flung open in greeting.

They stayed shut. Her smile faded. Surely the idiotic doorman didn't expect her—her!—to open the door for herself. Disgusted, she drew herself up to her full height of five six, threw her shoulders back, and barreled up to the closed door. She waited one-tenth of a second for it to open, then snapped her umbrella shut and rapped sharply on the portal's small window.

From behind the door came the sound of rushing feet, and then the door was whisked open. The doorman's watery eyes took one look at her and bulged in surprise. Color crawled up his accordion-wrinkled neck. "I-I'm sorry, Miss Hatter. It's just that ..." His gaze plummeted to the brightly polished toes of his shoes. "I didn't expect you today." Emma swept into the bank. "For ten years I've been

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here every Monday morning at precisely eight-thirty a.m. And you," she added with a pointed look,

"have opened the door for me every single one of those days."

"But today . . . well ..."

She shoved her umbrella at him and began peeling off her damp five-button kid gloves. She didn't care a fig for the old geezer's excuses. It would serve him right if she reported his incompetence to Eugene.

She heard the door click shut behind her. The sound echoed in the unusually quiet lobby. Without another glance at the doorman, Emma jerked her chin to its proper tilt and started down the polished marble hallway.

"Good morning, Miss Hatter." The unexpected greeting brought Emma to a halt. Turning, she noticed Miss Baxter waving at her from behind the polished brass bars of her teller's cage. A gloating smile wreathed the woman's pretty face.

Emmaline's frown intensified. Miss Baxter and she hadn't spoken since Emma had reported the teller's incompetence to Eugene.

"I didn't expect to see you here this morning," Miss Baxter cooed with a deepening smile. "I must say, I do admire your courage."

Emma snapped her gaze away from the teller and moved on, her rapid footsteps echoing loudly through the hushed, austere lobby of the building. She turned the last corner and strode up to Eugene's private office. "Mr. Cummin, please," she said to the young man seated at the desk outside Eugene's office.

"And do you have an—" He looked up from his book and saw Emma. His smile wobbled and fell.

"Is there a problem?" she asked tightly. "I wish to see Eugene."

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"O-Oh, of course. It's just that I didn't—" ' 'Don't say you didn't expect me today. Just tell Eugene I'm here."

The young man's expression melted into one of concern. "Go on in," he said in a soft, almost sad voice.

"Mr. Cummin asked for your file not fifteen minutes

ago."

With a brisk nod, Emma brushed past the reception desk and knocked sharply on Eugene's handsomely carved mahogany door. At his muffled answer, she swept into his office. "Good morning, Eugene."

Eugene looked up from the report he was studying. Emma offered him her brightest Monday morning smile, and began unbuttoning her caped gossamer. "I must say, it's been the oddest morning. Why, the doorman—" She caught the strange look in Eugene's eyes and frowned. "Is something the matter?"

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them slowly. Tired brown eyes stared deeply into her own. "Emmaline ..." His normally strong voice was weak and washed-out. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down."

Emma felt the first stirring of fear. Something was wrong. Mechanically she moved toward the proffered chair and sat lightly on its tufted leather seat. "What's the matter, Eugene?"

"You haven't read the newspapers this morning."

"Of course not. You and I always read the Monday morning paper together."

Sighing heavily, Eugene plopped his bump of a chin into his laced fingers. Silent, suddenly nervous, Emma stared at him, her body angled imperceptibly forward. The slow, steady whirring of mingled breath was the only sound in the too quiet room.

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"Eugene, you're frightening me—" "The Pennsylvania and Reading Railroad declared bankruptcy today."

Emmaline gasped. Her fingers curled reflexively around the hard leather arms of the chair. "Oh, my God.

. ."

He gave another tired sigh. "And that's not all. National Cordage should close by the end of the week—

as will Drexana Mills. Stocks are crashing right and left. We expect a run on the banks by month's end."

Emma eased back in her chair, stunned. She'd invested everything she had, everything, in the railroad and textile mill stock. A crash would mean—

A full-blown, hammer-hard headache slammed into her temples. Pain throbbed at the base of her neck.

She closed her eyes against the bright light from Eugene's desk lamp.

Think. She had to think. "I'm sorry, Em," he said quietly. She opened her eyes slowly. The pity in Eugene's eyes hit her like a fist in the throat. Her self-control slipped a notch. Fire-hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand and shot to her feet.

Think! She lurched into action, pacing back and forth across Eugene's office while her mind tried to sort through the rubble. Her fingers coiled together, nervously twisting and retwisting with each step. "The railroads, the mills, the banks ..."

"Insurance companies, trusts, farms," Eugene added. "They're all going under. There's simply been too much rash speculation in the last year. European banks are cutting off credit. They want their money back."

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"I knew times were uncertain, but this ..." Her words trailed off as she turned to look at him. "I ... I always thought I'd start being conservative later . . . when I was old."

Eugene's pale lips worked, but no sound came out.

She mustered a small laugh. "So what exactly does it mean?"

He glanced down at the leather-bound folder on his desk, and as he did, the color seeped out of his cheeks. A knot of fear tightened Emmaline's stomach.

"It means you're broke."

The breath she'd been holding whooshed out of her lungs. She lurched into nervous pacing again, her fingers twisting painfully together with each step. "Broke is a relative term. . . . Do you mean I have to cut back my spending at Bloomingdale's, or that I can't afford the upkeep at my summer house anymore?"

"I mean," he said softly, "that after this month, you won't even own the summer house. You're severely overextended, and the bank has no choice but to call your loans."

She whirled on him. "Call my loans? Eugene—"

He cut her off with a wave of his colorless hand. ' 'Let me finish while I have the nerve. You used all your cash, the summer house and its furniture, and the furniture in the Dakota apartment to collateralize your loan for the railroad and textile stock. Now that stock, and your other stocks, are worthless. If you can't make your payments next month, we'll have to repossess it all. We've already seized your cash." His voice shook. "I'm sorry."

Emma's hands balled into white-knuckled fists as she pivoted away from the pity in Eugene's eyes. It was all

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she could do to keep from screaming—but if she started, she was afraid she'd never stop.

"You can keep your jewels," he offered quietly. Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She clamped her teeth together to keep the sound from slipping out. "Jewels?" she repeated in a thick voice. "I don't have jewels. I put my money in what I believed in—this country. The United States has to grow; you said it yourself. We need railroads, and banks, and farms, and factories. That's where my money is, Eugene, and you damn well know it. Not in diamonds and pearls."

"Every decision you made was a good one, Emma; you're just ahead of your time. The rest of the world doesn't think as clearly as you do." He pushed back in his chair, and the sound of wood scraping on wood seemed thunderous.

Emma winced, her lips pressed into a white line to keep from screaming or crying or otherwise making an idiot of herself in front of the one man who mattered to her.

He was beside her in a heartbeat. "Em ..." His reassuring voice coiled around her throat, making breathing difficult. She felt the whisper-soft flutter of his breath against her cheek. "Here," he said, "take the portfolio. Maybe you'll find some hidden asset. Something I missed."

She lurched sideways, afraid she'd succumb to the compassion in his voice and let herself cry. Tears never did anyone any good. She pinched her nose, hard, to keep the moisture at bay.