The Lady of Bolton Hill (15 page)

Mrs. Lorna Lancaster, born Lorna Tremain, had the exact shade of gray eyes as her brother, but that was where the resemblance ended. Lorna’s hair was a rich auburn she had twisted atop her head, and she wore a smartly embroidered peacock blue jacket and skirt. With a skirt so narrowly cut that she walked in delicate little steps, it was hard to envision Lorna growing up in the same squalid tenement alongside Daniel. Today, Lorna looked the picture of well-bred elegance as she sipped coffee at the Belgravia Coffee Shop in the historic section of Baltimore. The café had brick walls and ancient plank floors that leant itself to intimate conversations.

Clara was grateful Lorna had agreed to meet with her. After the publication of her article in last week’s edition of
The Christian Crusade
, she feared she might be
persona non grata
among the entire Tremain clan. She had not seen Daniel since he stormed out of her garden that awful morning, and he’d ignored the series of conciliatory messages she had sent him in the following days.

Lorna was nonchalant about the article. “Business as usual,” she said lightly. “Daniel has always carried on that relentless grudge against Alfred Forsythe. I lost interest years ago.”

As the oldest of Daniel’s sisters, Lorna was the person most likely to have insight into his character. For a man to be so brilliant, so talented, and yet suffer from such a profound lack of moral compass in his business operations was intolerable. It appeared everyone in Daniel’s company and family simply accepted his vendetta against Alfred Forsythe as naturally as the sun setting in the west. Clara could not simply overlook the effect Daniel’s anger had on his soul, and Lorna was her best shot at trying to unravel the complicated threads of Daniel’s life during the long years she had spent in England.

“Daniel was always outrageously protective,” Lorna said. “I knew we didn’t have much money when we were growing up, but he shielded us from that fact. We were never hungry and he always had something for us on Christmas morning. A hair ribbon or a bar of scented soap. The only time I realized how close to the edge we lived was one morning when I noticed the Ansonia clock was missing from the wall in the kitchen. I thought we had been robbed and told Daniel about it when he returned from work that night. The look that came over his face . . .” Lorna’s voice trailed off and her brow furrowed at the memory, but at last her voice continued. “He looked so ashamed. He had pawned the clock and hoped to earn it back before any of us noticed it missing. It was a valuable clock, and he never got it back, but a week later a new one was hanging in its place. It had a cheap oak frame and the hands were made of iron, but that clock means more to me than if it were made of solid gold. I still have it in my new home.”

The cloud that had crossed Lorna’s face cleared. “But enough of those dreary memories. Daniel always provided quite well for us. He made sure we went to school and studied hard. He sent us to church every Sunday. Our clothes were always clean—”

Clara’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Daniel took you to church?”

“Well, Daniel didn’t, but he made sure Mrs. Hershberger, who lived down the hall from us, came and took us with her to services each Sunday.”

Clara leaned forward, hope surging in her heart. This was the first she had heard that Daniel had any regard for religion whatsoever. “Why didn’t Daniel take you?”

“He was never particularly religious.”

“But he thought it was important for
you
to go.”

“Oh yes. He was adamant that we attend each week.” Lorna poured another cup of coffee, and offered some to Clara, who accepted in order to prolong their meeting. “I remember there was an Easter morning and I asked him to go with us,” Lorna said. “The choir always sang such lovely songs on Easter, and I thought that he would enjoy that. When he said no, I pressed him. I didn’t want him sitting alone in our apartment when I knew how much he loved music.” Lorna poured a bit of cream into her cup. “Anyway, he got very angry and told me never to pester him about it again. There were very few things that Daniel forbade us to discuss, but the way he shouted at me that morning made me afraid to ever bring it up again.”

“What else did he forbid you to speak of?” She ought to feel embarrassed asking a virtual stranger such intimate questions, but her journalistic instincts told her she was on the verge of something very important.

The sigh that came from Lorna was heavy with years of sorrow. She twirled a spoon in her coffee and her eyes grew distant. “Do you know how my mother died?” she finally asked.

Clara remembered that it had been Lorna who found her mother’s body hanging in their tiny kitchen. “Yes, I know,” she said softly.

“Daniel was horrified by what happened,” Lorna said. “It was even worse because he knew all of us had seen Mother dangling there before he could come home and get her down. As soon as my mother’s body was carried from the apartment, Daniel tried to close the door on what happened . . . pretend that we never saw her hanging there. It was as if he thought that by refusing to discuss it, we would forget.” Lorna idly stirred her coffee as she stared into the cup. “I suppose that was probably true for Katie. She was only three when it happened, and she didn’t really understand. But I remember.”

The wistful expression on Lorna’s face tugged at Clara’s heart. She knew what it was to lose a mother at a young age, but she could not pretend to know anything of the sorrow that must have surrounded Mrs. Tremain’s demise. She reached out and covered Lorna’s slim hand with her own, wishing there was something she could offer beyond mere sympathy.

“In any event, Daniel started making good money after he filed his first patent. Two years after Mother died he rented a house for us, one that had a bathroom with running water in it and a front yard. We felt like it was a castle. He bought houses for both Rachel and me when we got married, and I expect he plans to do the same for Katie, although I gather ready cash is a bit tight for him these days.”

The unspoken thought hung in the air. If Daniel allowed his company to become public, he would become one of the wealthiest men in the country. As it was, he was scrambling to ensure his sisters maintained the lifestyle which he had been able to provide for them.

The bell above the entrance rang as a man, out of breath and sweating, burst inside. “Trouble brewing down on McNeill Street,” he said.

The proprietor standing behind the service bar tossed his towel down. “Not again,” he growled.

Clara gritted her teeth, but sent a reassuring squeeze through Lorna’s hand. “None of the recent demonstrations have been violent,” she said. Lorna had heard all the details of the day three weeks ago when her sister had been trapped by the riot downtown. In the past week there had been daily demonstrations that marked a souring of relations between the railroad workers and corporate owners. And much of that hostility had been directed straight at Daniel. “Nevertheless, we should probably move on,” Lorna said.

The carriage Clara took home dropped her off two blocks from her rented townhouse, where she was dismayed to see an overturned fruit cart and the awning over a fish market that had been pulled down. Had her article played any role in igniting this riot? Words were powerful weapons, and her article had launched a potent broadside at the two industrialists who employed so many of Baltimore’s workers. She nearly staggered under the thought that she might have played a part in this. Her articles were intended to spark
dialogue
, not vandalism!

Clara saw a woman scrambling to retrieve fruit that had rolled into the street while her small son trailed behind her, holding a basket. The anxiety on the little boy’s face made Clara’s mouth thin in anger. She was just about to join the boy in gathering fruit when she saw her father walking toward her.

“My heavens, what happened to your forehead?” she gasped.

Lloyd held a handkerchief spotted with blood to his temple. “Caught a bit of flying apple with my face,” he said with remarkable good humor. “If you had been here ten minutes ago, you would have seen far more excitement. I had forgotten how hard young boys can hurl projectiles.”

Clara was flabbergasted. “They threw apples at an
old man
?”

Lloyd winced. “Nothing hurt quite as much as that statement, Clara. Now show me to this townhouse you and Clyde are renting.”

Clara grasped her father’s arm and walked with him the two blocks to her townhouse. He seemed steady on his feet, thank goodness, but there was something particularly terrible about seeing an elderly man with blood on his face. Once inside, she sat him down at the kitchen table, fetched some water, and dabbed at the cut on his forehead as gently as she could. It was a tiny scratch, but she remembered Clyde saying that head wounds always bled more profusely.

“I wish Clyde were here; he would know what to do,” she said as she pressed the cloth to his head and applied pressure.

“You are doing perfectly well. Besides, it was not Clyde I came to see.”

She suspected as much and sank into a chair opposite him. Her father had not been seriously hurt—it was only the slightest cut—yet the thin sheen of perspiration on his skin and the shakiness in his frame alerted her to the fact that the incident had been stressful on the old man. Seeing her father in such a condition rattled her, and she imagined how terrible she would feel if he had been seriously hurt and she was allowing this ridiculous rift to languish between them.

“What did you come to see me about?” she asked.

Lloyd pressed the towel to his forehead and the glint of humor came back to his eyes. “I heard there was rioting in this part of town, and I was rushing to your rescue, my dear.”

Clara’s heart turned over. “Oh, Father, truly there was no need . . .”

“I can see that now, but one of the quirks about parenthood is that the impulse to protect a child can’t be suppressed, even after the child is completely grown. And daughters are especially likely to fuel this quirk.” The smile he sent her held a world of sadness behind it, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. No matter how wrongheaded she believed him to be, there was no question in her mind that her father believed he had been acting in her best interest by separating her from Daniel all those years ago.

She leaned back in her chair and fixed him with a quizzical stare. “Isn’t it odd that I have been nagging Daniel about his inability to forgive those who have sinned against him, while at the same time I took myself off to the other side of Baltimore rather than confronting my own issues with forgiveness?”

“I am not foolish enough to risk commenting on Daniel Tremain’s qualities or shortcomings at this particular juncture. As to the second part of your question, I would more than welcome your returning home to bat about issues of forgiveness with you at greater length.”

It was likely to be the only apology she would ever get from her father. But what had she expected? Lloyd Endicott was not a man who would reverse his convictions and come racing across town just because she had left his house in a snit. And what if he had been killed today? What if instead of an apple, it had been a rock that had struck him and sent him crashing to the ground? She would never forgive herself if her father had died while she had made no effort to mend the rift between them. Daniel would never get an apology from Alfred Forsythe, and she would never get one from her father. They both had to accept that.

She covered his hand with hers. “I’ll be happy to come back home,” she said.

B
ane lounged against the wall as the Professor rifled through the assorted ties, cravats, and opera scarves hanging in his oversized dressing room. Finally, the Professor found a white silk cravat that pleased him.

“Now pay attention, boy. A man who can’t tie a cravat is a pitiful sight.” The Professor tossed another cravat at Bane, then walked to a mirror above his dressing bureau. He settled the strip of fabric around the back of his neck and waited for Bane to do the same. “Now take the long side and cross it over the short side. Be sure you cross it over the top, just like this.”

Bane mimicked the actions, wearing the brand-new cutaway jacket, silk waistcoat, and slacks the Professor had had tailored for him. Not for any special occasion—the Professor had simply said it was time for Bane to have a formal suit. The Professor’s words still rang in Bane’s ears.
“You are the closest thing I will ever have to a son, Bane. You must look the part.
”

Bane soon had a perfectly tied cravat. He raised his chin a notch, liking his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a man of consequence, not like a powerless idiot who would let himself get snatched off the street.

“Why white silk instead of black?” he asked. “I thought black was the most formal color.”

“Not for evening wear,” the Professor said. “White is the most formal color in the evenings, but you must never wear it before six o’clock. Remember, your appearance and the manner in which you present yourself is of the utmost importance. There will be times when you will need to mingle among high society, and your manners must be second nature. Effortless.”

“Sprezzatura,”
Bane said, hoping he was pronouncing the Italian word correctly. From the dazzling smile on the Professor’s face, he knew he had.

“I see you have been reading Castiglione,” the Professor said with admiration in his voice. “Excellent. The quality of
sprezzatura
will help any man who wishes to accomplish great things while appearing utterly nonchalant. You have already shown impressive skill in this area.”

Bane adjusted the crisp silk as it rested against his chin, careful to keep the excitement from his voice. “Speaking of business within respectable society . . .”

The professor raised a brow. “Yes?”

“I have completed my research on Daniel Tremain and am ready to go into action.”

The Professor’s eyes gleamed. “Tell me your plan, son.” As Bane outlined his technique, the Professor’s eyes warmed in approval. Although smuggling opium was a lucrative trade, it required a massive network of shipping contacts and took months before the payoff. The Professor’s criminal empire was highly diversified, and when the opportunity to earn a quick, untraceable ten thousand dollars had presented itself last month, the Professor had asked Bane to manage the task.

Not that Bane had any hostility toward Daniel Tremain. If anything, he admired a self-made man, but this was the test the Professor had set for him, and he would succeed in stunning fashion. It was important to demonstrate not only his cunning and agility but his ability to do so in an utterly calm, ruthless fashion. He knew what the Professor admired, and he would deliver it without a qualm. After all, Canada awaited him.

“What men have you arranged to take with you?” the Professor asked.

“Bill Richards, Scot McGahee, and the Castellano brothers.”

“Are you sure about McGahee?” the Professor asked. “That baby face of his is not very intimidating.” It was true, but Bane appreciated the value of being underestimated due to appearance. After all, for most of his life he had used his veneer of prettiness to lure a victim in until he was ready to reveal his true colors.

Bane said nothing, he just calmly turned to face the Professor, locking him in a motionless stare before morphing it into a hard glare.

For a moment the Professor seemed taken aback, and then a huge grin spread across his face. “Excellent!” The Professor clapped Bane on the back. “Bane, that is quite the most chilling look I’ve ever seen. Always remember, it is far better to be feared than loved. Keep your subordinates terrified of you. Someday a traitor might try to get the better of you, but stark terror will cause others to curry your favor by ratting him out.” The Professor turned to look in the mirror as he began trimming his beard with a pair of tiny silver shears.

Bane returned to lounging against the wall and stared at the man who had once so frightened him. It had taken years to conquer that numbing sense of terror, but he had managed to accomplish it. He was still too young to contemplate taking on the Professor—there was far too much he needed to learn before he dared such a thing—but he could conquer Daniel Tremain. Everything he knew about Tremain indicated he was ruled by emotion, which was a hot, unwieldy instinct difficult to control. Cold logic was more lethal than a hot temper. Logic versus passion. Bane smiled, knowing in this upcoming battle with Tremain exactly which quality held the upper hand.

“You will do well, boy,” the Professor said. “When you return, we must prepare you to undertake your new position in Canada.”

Bane could hardly wait.