The Lady of Bolton Hill (16 page)

T
he day after Clara returned to her father’s home she spent the afternoon helping him pack his bags for a trip to New York. That evening he would depart for a conference of the American ministers who were working toward educational reform. It seemed such a shame that she had only just returned to her father’s house before he had to dash off on business, but after all, he was the Reverend Lloyd Endicott, and a man of his position had important responsibilities.

Clara also found refuge at the piano, hoping the lyrical melodies of Franz Schubert could soothe the tension that had gripped her ever since she’d seen her father wandering down the street with a bloodied forehead.

On some level, she felt responsible for the ongoing unrest, since her article calling attention to Daniel’s peculiar business practices had helped to reignite simmering labor tensions. Riots had been occurring once or twice a week when she arrived in Baltimore, but now they were a daily event. For most of his career, Daniel had been able to avoid troubles with labor since his employees were limited to a handful of engineers and innovators who worked alongside him in his wonderfully eccentric laboratory. That had changed five years ago when they diversified their business by purchasing railroad lines. Now Carr & Tremain had hundreds of employees working on the lines, replacing railroad ties and soldering new rails. Thanks to Clara’s article, these workers were only just learning of the profit Daniel was rejecting by refusing to license technology to Forsythe Industries. Some of that money could surely have been used to supplement their wages. The smoldering embers of discontent were stoked as the workers realized they were the pawns of wealthy men in a private feud.

And this morning’s newspaper brought another salvo in the war between Daniel and Forsythe. On page two of
The
Baltimore Sun
was a full-page advertisement bearing the logo of Forsythe Industries and block text calling for Daniel Tremain to relent in his retaliatory business practices. A table beneath the text contained current wages paid to Forsythe workers, and another table outlined what he could pay should his company have access to Daniel’s technology. Alfred Forsythe’s advertisement would only further inflame the public’s animosity toward Daniel. She lowered her head. Was she any better than Alfred Forsythe? It made her cringe to realize that her article, well-intentioned though it had been, was little different from Forsythe’s in laying the blame at Daniel’s feet.

When Clara’s father saw the advertisement, he agreed with her. “I’m sorry Forsythe placed this advertisement, as I don’t think it is helpful in easing the current tensions,” Lloyd said. “Unless Daniel relents soon, this is the sort of thing that will only fuel the flames of discontent.”

“But do you really think Forsythe would pass that profit on to his workers?” Clara asked. “He is not as wealthy as Vanderbilt, and that fact keeps him awake at night. He has the reputation of bleeding his workers white in order to increase his earnings.”

Lloyd took the newspaper from Clara and adjusted the spectacles on his nose as he studied the columns in the advertisement more closely. Finally he shook his head. “Now that Forsythe has gone public with what he is prepared to pay should this feud come to an end, it will be hard for him to back out of it,” Lloyd said. “He wants to run for governor, and if he rescinds this promise, his political career would take a thrashing from which he could never recover. It is Daniel’s move now.”

Clara let her gaze drift to the fading light outside the window, and a horse and rider pulling up before the house caught her attention. He was a nattily dressed gentleman, but Clara was certain she had never seen him before. “Do you know this man, Father?”

Her father knew half of Baltimore, but he failed to recognize the man, either. When they answered the three brisk knocks on the door, the man did not even bother to introduce himself.

“I am here to see the editor of
The
Christian Crusade
,” the man said abruptly.

“That would be me,” Lloyd said.

Before her father had even completed his sentence, the stranger thrust a roll of papers into Lloyd’s hands. “You are hereby notified of a pending lawsuit in the Circuit Court of Baltimore. I wish you a good day, sir.”

The moment the door closed behind the officious stranger, Clara and Lloyd unrolled the thick stack of documents. Clara gasped in shock.

“We are being sued by
Daniel
?” she gasped. Clara felt the beginnings of tunnel vision, but forced her gaze to keep scanning the pages. A multitude of legal terms smacked her in the face: slander, libel, interference with a private corporation, invasion of privacy. Each word sliced at her like an ice pick. They were the same charges she had faced in London, only this time it was her father’s newspaper she was sinking. A long list of attorneys’ names, lined up like soldiers ready to do battle, was affixed to the document.

“Well, he certainly is thorough,” her father said. His normally brisk voice sounded thin and tired.

Clara’s legs felt too weak to support her. “I’m so sorry, Father,” she whispered through pale lips. She had hoped her article would help bring this feud to an end, but Daniel was just getting started. He was barricading himself behind a team of lawyers and banishing her from his life. She should have known when she saw the cold steel in his eyes the morning he confronted her in the garden. Daniel was finished with her. He had flung her out of his life in the same abrupt manner in which he walked away from Forsythe Industries.

She knew the way Daniel’s mind operated. If she didn’t do something to stop him, the wall he was building to shut her out of his life would calcify into a structure nothing could tear down.

The setting sun was casting long shadows across the downtown streets, and Clara hurried to reach Daniel’s office before he left for the day. It made no sense to confront him at his home, where he could easily toss her off his property. It would be much harder to make a scene at his office with dozens of employees as witness. Not that she didn’t think he would hesitate to do it, but she might have a few seconds to break through to him before he surrounded himself behind his squadron of attorneys.

She was surprised at how easy it was to get into his office. Perhaps he had not expected her to seek him out because no one tried to stop her as she strode across the oversized laboratory and knocked on the door of his private office.

“Come in,” she heard him say from behind the heavy door. Clara leaned her forehead against the door and prayed for strength. She took a deep breath and pushed her way inside.

Daniel’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly masked any sign of emotion as he turned his attention back to the papers on his desk. The white-hot fury of last weekend was gone, replaced by icy formality.

“We have no business to discuss,” he said without looking up from his papers. “The names of my attorneys are on the papers you received this morning. They are the appropriate people to discuss your concerns with from this point forward.”

She tried not to flinch as the coldness of his words sliced through her. “Stop it, Daniel. I won’t let you talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you despise me,” she said. “I hurt you and I understand why you are angry with me, but I know you don’t despise me. Had I known you wanted that information kept private, I would have respected your wishes. Is there any way you can stop seeing me like a reporter you resent and return to treating me like a friend who cares about you?”

“You gave that up when you published that article.” The way he twirled a pencil between his long fingers might fool a casual observer into thinking he was bored, but Clara saw the anger in his clenched jaw.

“I’m not leaving until you at least
look at me
, Daniel.”

He dropped the pencil and finally looked up at her, but still maintained the coldly impersonal tone. “I see from yesterday’s newspaper that your father has called a meeting for all your wealthy parishioners to pray that Forsythe and I seek wisdom and understanding. Do you realize how insulting that is?” he said in a silky voice.

Clara stood a little straighter. “I know that my father has the best of intentions, but you are still looking for bombs to throw at Forsythe. This behavior does not flatter you.”

“The best intentions,” Daniel said with perfect equanimity. “This is the man who stole our letters and then dares to preach to me about godliness. The two of you are responsible for stoking the fire of this mess, so let’s not hide behind schoolmarm reprimands, shall we?”

It was so hard to keep looking at him. He had the same face, the same slightly tousled black hair . . . but everything she knew and loved about Daniel seemed to have disappeared.

“Why don’t you come to the prayer meeting?” she asked impulsively. “It would at least show people that you are open to listening to their concerns.”

“One thing you need to understand,” Daniel said. “This isn’t England, where disputes can be politely handled in a court of law. Nor is it a prayer meeting where we all hold hands and hope Jesus will help our enemies see the light. This is a tough, gritty world where arguments are settled with fists, and riots are broken up with bayonets.”

Daniel stood and strode around the desk, clamping the palm of his hand around her elbow. “Come along,” he said. “There is someone I want you to meet.”

Clara was so startled she let him pull her along as he strode out of the office, across the length of the laboratory, and down a long corridor filled with private offices. He gave three quick raps on a closed office door, then opened it and pushed her inside. A startled man looked up from behind his spectacles to stare at them both.

“Clara, meet Lou Hammond, my attorney. Any further conversation you wish to have with me will be funneled through Mr. Hammond’s office. Good-bye, Clara.”

When the door slammed behind her, Clara knew she had failed. Daniel had gone back to building his wall between them.

Something caused her to rouse from her heavy slumber.

Clara rolled over in bed, her mind groggy with sleep. Her bedroom was dark and still, nothing to cause alarm. But then she heard it, a clanging sound coming from far away. The urgent, rapid-paced ringing of bells was echoing through the night air.

She rose from her bed and rushed to the window, unfastening the latches and pulling the casement up. Now it was easier to hear the bells, coming from the north side of town. Riots? She waited to hear the distinctive one-five-one sound of bells that signaled a riot. But the clanging of the bells was a steady, ongoing staccato, indicating a fire, not a riot.

She went to the window on the far side of her room and could see the eerie red glow lighting the horizon. The fire was up on the high end of Guilford Street, where lots of well-to-do homes had been built in the last few years. It was where Daniel lived.

A sense of foreboding enveloped her. There were many houses in that part of town; any one of them could be on fire. But Daniel was one of the few company owners who lived that far north, and the one most likely to be a target should this be related to the recent troubles.