Unveiled. Part 12

At the mention of bargirl, Christopher's brow furrowed and he glanced hastily at the bed beside him. Thankfully it was empty. A peac.o.c.k plume dangled sinfully on the opposite pillow, but the pillow itself remained undented and there was no cloying scent of perfume or alcohol on the linens.

Seeing Christopher's bewildered expression, Charles hastened to rea.s.sure him. "Nothing happened with the girl. I'm afraid the gentleman you were playing with was a bit of a riverboat gambler. You acc.u.mulated a sorry debt, then pa.s.sed out from drinking, with plenty of help and encouragement. Lola and I put you into bed."

"Thank G.o.d." Christopher grimaced, then sank back into bed, obviously in pain. "If that's the case, then why are you here? I don't have any pressing appointments."

"Ella Pemberton wants to see you right away. Eunice says if I didn't bring you back, she'd come for you herself. I figured out of the two of us, you'd sooner tolerate my company."

"Thanks." Christopher groaned again. "Ella? What does she want?"

"I don't know, but I suggest you make yourself ready. That is one lady I wouldn't care to cross. There's much more to her than everyone thinks."

"You're right about that." Christopher forced himself away from his bed and yanked on his clothes. Pressing a cold cloth to his face, he glanced into the mirror, groaning yet again when he saw his appearance. "G.o.d, I could haunt houses today. Oh, I have to see Mr. Oldacre before I go."

"I took care of it," Charles said slowly, seeing Christopher's expression turn cautious.

"The debts? All of it?"

Charles nodded. "Mr. Oldacre grew concerned when you began drinking too much. He was afraid you wouldn't be able to honor your debt. Apparently he began asking questions. For the sake of your reputation, I thought it better if I paid."

Christopher stiffened, then turned to his friend slowly. "Then you know."

Charles nodded. "I'm sorry. I know how embarra.s.sing this must be for you. But I surmised as much from Eunice and Ella's conversation."

"It's a d.a.m.ned shame when a man's misfortune becomes public news," Christopher said bitterly. "When will they learn to keep their mouths shut?"

"They didn't mean anything," Charles said gently. "They are both concerned. Chris, if a few dollars will help you get through-"

"Thanks." He laughed shortly. "But it will take more than a few dollars to dig me out of this mess. Christ, nothing is ever the way it seems to be. First the investments. Then this marriage. And Fan."

The pain on his face was obvious. Charles nodded and spoke cautiously. "You know, she's gone. I understand she left for Philadelphia. Ella is distraught, and Eunice is furious."

"Philadelphia?" Christopher digested this for a moment and stared at Charles in disbelief. "What does she think she'll do there? Did she say anything about her plans?"

"Not a word, but I suppose you can guess. Whatever she did before, I imagine. Frankly I'm worried about her. I don't know what her past is, or what kind of life she had, but she must have been desperate to resort to posing as another woman."

"She'll survive," Christopher said bluntly, but his face betrayed concern.

"Sure, I suppose she will. Maybe. It isn't easy for a woman out there with no resources, which I a.s.sume she hasn't. Other than the name Mrs. Scott, she hasn't taken anything else with her."

Christopher winced. It was true; Katie was still his wife, like it or not. And Mrs. Scott was out there somewhere, on a train to a city that didn't love immigrants, despite its name. Would she really go back to scrubbing floors or worse? Could he bear the thought?

"Katie will do what's best for her, just as I will. I appreciate your concern, Charles, but at the moment it's misplaced."

"Right," Charles said coldly. Christopher picked up his good wool coat and indicated the door.

Katie was a problem he'd have to deal with. And it all boiled down to trust.

FOURTEEN.

The odor of boiled ham and cabbage stung her nostrils as she walked through the door of the two-story row house, and Katie breathed deeply of the welcome scent. She stood there for a moment, taking in the well-worn sofa, the lace shawl draped over the back of it to hide the wear, the candlelight struggling to illuminate dark corners, and the gin bottle waiting welcomingly by the table. A rosary dangled from a lamp, and a score of books, dog-eared from being read and reread, waited invitingly by the couch. She was home.

They were all there, gathered around the table, laughing, arguing, and joking, their food quietly disappearing at the same time. Katie's eyes filled as she saw her grandfather and her aunt, but her gaze went swiftly to the little boy at the end of the table.

Clad in pants that were an inch too short and preoccupied with shoveling food into his mouth, he grinned at something her grandfather said, then gulped his milk with abandon.

Sean. Katie thought her heart would burst as she stood in the doorway, watching her son. Although he had grown since she'd last seen him, every freckle on his face, every strand of the glistening blond hair, every sc.r.a.pe on his muscular little body was etched into her soul. She had to take a deep breath, overcome with emotion and longing.

It was as if he sensed her. Sean put down his spoon and turned quickly, then his little face lit up and he ran toward her, heedless of the chair that overturned or the milk that spilled. "What the h.e.l.l-" her grandfather began, but his words were drowned with the plaintive cry of "Mama!"

Katie sobbed, her arms wrapped around his little body, her heart pounding. He felt so good, smelled so good, all dirt and sand and little boy. She could barely hear the others, the surprised questions and inquiries, and she didn't care. She was holding her baby again, the way she'd dreamed so often, and none of it mattered.

"Sean. Sean." Katie didn't even try to stop the tears until she was sobbing so hard that her son looked up, alarmed.

"Mama? Aren't you glad to see me?"

There was such serious concern in his tone that Katie had to laugh, then she buried her face against him. "Yes, I'm glad to see you. Very glad."

"Then why are you crying?"

Katie smiled, wiping at her eyes. "Because I'm glad. Sometimes grown-ups cry when they're happy."

"I don't want you to cry. Are you staying for good?"

The table grew quiet as the others waited for her answer. Katie ignored them and nodded, still holding her son. "Yes, I'm staying with you. For good."

He beamed back at her, and once again she thought her heart would break. How could she have left him? Even though she knew it had been necessary, right now the thought seemed impossible. He was part of her, as necessary as breathing, and it had taken a major sacrifice on her behalf to try to give him a better life.

She smiled then, holding him back a few inches so she could really look at him. "These are your new pants...you've grown so much this summer!"

"Aunt Moira says I'm growing like a weed. Don't you, Auntie?"

Katie smiled, then tore her eyes away and looked up at her family. They were waiting expectantly, allowing her time to become reacquainted with her son. It was her grandfather who spoke first, and his voice was thick with emotion.

"Come, la.s.s, have some supper and we can talk then. Let your mother have something to eat, Sean."

Katie went to the scarred and familiar table, seeing the questions in her aunt's and grandfather's eyes. She forced a smile, then accepted the plate that Moira handed her. Finally, when Katie was finished with her meal, she kissed Sean on top of his head and turned to the others.

"All right, ask."

They both started at once, until her grandfather interrupted and cleared his throat. "Are you really home for good, Katie?"

She nodded. "Did you get the money I sent?"

"All of it." Patrick smiled for the first time. "It bought new shoes for your son. Books for school. Pencils and paper. And even a few things for the house. *Tis well you managed to save so much. I know how dear things are down at the seaside."

"It was all like a dream. Clothes like I never imagined. Food aplenty. Nice people. And they treated me well. Unlike..."

"Unlike folks here." Moira slammed a dish then wiped her hands on a flannel. "d.a.m.ned fools! Well, I'm glad you had a good summer, though the boy's missed you something dreadful."

"You had clothes? Nice gowns?" Sean sat closer, obviously entranced. "Did you keep them?"

"No, I left them. I only kept what was mine. I didn't want any of them to say anything wrong later."

"And the house?" Moira questioned softly. "You said it was grand. Tell us."

Katie smiled and described the chandeliers, the enticing gardens, the well-equipped kitchens, and the lovely bedroom. The room was still as she spoke, and the O'Connors stared in wonder at the one who'd glimpsed Eden. Finally Patrick shrugged, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

"It sounds like a grand place, for sure. Why then, Katie, did you leave?"

"Things didn't work out." Katie couldn't bear to tell them the full extent of her deception. Her grandfather would have been appalled, and Moira further disillusioned. No, she would keep that much a secret. "I grew to really like Ella Pemberton, but there was a disagreement within the family about me. I thought it best if I left."

"Ah." Moira nodded wisely. "*Tis a rare shame, that's for sure. But it couldn't go on forever. Nothing in this world does."

Katie swallowed hard as she thought of Christopher. Strange, but her aunt had always been overly perceptive. At times she even seemed to have "the sight." Still, she was right, and it was something she should have remembered. For Katie, at least, nothing good ever went on forever.

Patrick sat back and reached for his pipe. He lit it, then puffed thoughtfully. "Your brother is doing all right, though not as well as he'd have us believe."

"Ryan?" Katie asked in surprise. Ryan was such a determined, strapping lad that she had been sure he would be incredibly successful on his own.

"It seems he couldn't make his fortune out west, the way he'd planned," her grandfather continued as Moira poured all of them a healthy drop of homemade gin. "He's working in the mining camps in Colorado. Still waiting for the big strike."

The luck of the Irish, Katie mused. She sipped from her cup, watching her son leave the table, scampering after a kitten. Patrick lit a fire and they retreated to the parlor. The flames threw ghosts on the walls and floor, the gin warmed her, the supper had filled her. Her grandfather spoke of his day at the gardens, where kindly Mr. Foster kept him employed long after his eyesight had failed. But he was as st.u.r.dy as an old oak and as vigorous. Katie couldn't remember a day when he'd been ill.

Sean, tiring of the kitten, curled up beside her on the sofa and fell quickly asleep. Moira disappeared upstairs, then returned in a worn yet elegant gown. She took her familiar place by the fire, and as the liquor disappeared, would become convinced she was indeed Lilly Langtry. Patrick's voice grew richer as he spoke of the old days, when he was part of the sa.s.senach army, and of the places he saw.

It was as if she'd never left. Katie had a feeling that no matter where she went, or for how long, this six-room house would still be waiting, these strange and wonderful people still here, the gin jar beside the sofa. After weeks of being a Pemberton, Katie saw it all differently, and yet was rea.s.sured. They would never be a part of Christopher's society. They would never fit in with those elegant and cultured folk, who would look at their old clothes, their rich brogues, their odd appearance and would whisper with disdain. Yet these people loved her, accepted her, no matter what.

They were a family.

Christopher felt as if he was on trial as soon as he entered the room. Placing a kiss on his aunt Eunice's head, he nodded politely to Ella and took a seat in the sitting room beside the window, where the light would cause him the least damage. He had barely lowered himself into the chair, his head pounding fearfully, when Ella fixed him with a stare that would have impaled a more timid man.

"So I understand Fan has left you."

Christopher nodded, groaning as his head seemed about to burst. "Ella, I am sorry, but there are problems. Do we really have to talk about this now?"

"I should say so." Ella glared, putting her dainty teacup aside. There was nothing sweet or soft about her this morning, Christopher observed with alarm. Even his own aunt was facing him with a cold look.

"Do you realize what has happened here? Your wife, the new Mrs. Scott, Fan Pemberton, is gone and no one has done a thing about it. Even her husband spent the night gaming and wenching, instead of looking for her."

"I was not wenching!" Christopher shouted, then was rewarded with a splintering pain that made him grab his head. When he could speak, he continued more softly, "I did drink. And gamble. But that is hardly a crime. I didn't know Fan had gone until this morning."

"I see." Ella and Eunice exchanged a look, then Ella continued in a voice dripping with sweetness. "And now that you know, what do you plan to do about it?"

That was the question of the year. Christopher swallowed hard, then leaned back in his chair and responded truthfully. "I don't know. I'm sorry, Ella, I know that's not what you want to hear. There are problems between Fan and me that I am not at liberty to fully discuss. Even if I were to track her down and haul her back here, I'm not sure it would do any good."

Ella took a sip from her cup and then placed it thoughtfully aside. She stared at Christopher with the same penetrating look, then spoke quietly. "I know they all say I'm senile, that I don't know what I'm talking about, but they're wrong. I'm going to ask you something once, and I want you to give careful consideration to your answer. I'll know if you're lying, Christopher, so don't waste my time. What do you feel about Fan?"

Christopher looked up in surprise. He had been expecting a discussion of his finances, but Ella was deadly serious. He took a deep breath and answered easily.

"I was infatuated with Fan from the first day I saw her. I never met anyone like her. She is so different from the other girls, so fresh and full of life. I wanted her badly. If you don't believe me, ask my aunt."

Eunice nodded in agreement. "That is the truth, Ella. In fact, I tried to dissuade him from pursuing your niece, in that Fan would be a more difficult conquest. Christopher wouldn't hear of it."

"In that case, why are you willing to allow your wife to leave you like this?"

Christopher groaned, then looked at his aunt for guidance. Eunice would not meet his eyes, so he looked directly at Ella. There was nothing left but to tell the truth, what he could without doing more damage.

"I'm sure you've learned of my financial difficulty." When Ella nodded, he continued softly: "Fan found out that the Scotts have no money. She had also kept a few things from me. Both of us were severely disillusioned. As a gentleman, I cannot tell you her secrets, but you have mine. Do you understand now why it's senseless to go after her?"

"Not at all," Ella said firmly. She stood up and faced him, looking as if she wanted to box his ears. "Christopher, you are going to learn that these frustrations are a part of life. Nothing more, nothing less. I understand that you thought to receive a dowry with Fan. Given the circ.u.mstances, coupled with your behavior, I don't feel comfortable giving Fan the full allotment now. However, I can provide an income for one year, one thousand dollars, enough money to allow an enterprising young man such as yourself the opportunity to get on his feet. Should you do that, and should Fan desire to remain married, the rest of the dowry will be disbursed."

Christopher gaped in astonishment. Ella was being more than generous; even he could see that. And while it wasn't everything, it would provide a way to keep food on the table until he could think of something else. And Ella still thought of Katie as Fan. Everyone else knew the real Fan had returned to California. Was it fair to let Ella go on being deceived, when so many others knew the truth?

He glanced at his aunt and Eunice nodded as if reading his mind. She gestured him to silence, and he immediately understood. Ella loved Fan, and she loved Katie as Fan. The old woman didn't have that much longer to live. What good would it do her to know the truth?

And Katie. Christopher winced as he thought of her, back in Philadelphia, working as a menial for the people he a.s.sociated with. He couldn't bear the idea, and if he had to be truthful, he somehow felt responsible for her. Like it or not, she was his wife, and although he was furious with her, he owed her something. Whether Katie would agree to come back was something else.

Ella saw his expression and smiled. "I don't know if you will be able to convince her to return. Frances can be most stubborn. However, I want her back and I want this resolved. If she doesn't agree to those terms, then she can come home and we will see about an annulment. However, I have the feeling that the two of you would make quite a team if given the chance. I'm willing to provide that opportunity. The question is, have you the courage to make it happen?"

Christopher glanced at his aunt. Eunice looked so hopeful that it made him feel guilty. "I think it's an extremely generous offer," she said quickly. "And you'd be a fool not to take it."

Christopher nodded. "All right, I'll find her. But I can't promise anything else. Frances Scott will do what she wants. That's one lesson I've already learned."

The murky water of the Delaware River splashed against the docks, lending a quiet rhythm to the sound of drinking inside the tavern. Workmen, their knees and elbows thick with grime, sat at the cratelike tables and drank deeply of the bitter ale. Few of them had the money for whiskey. A meager fire burned on the grate, roasting a piece of beef, and a black and white dog scoured the ashes for a bit of meat before being booted away by a dockworker.

John Sweeney sipped from his mug, watching the river below without interest or awareness. Handsome still, despite the years of wenching and drinking, he nevertheless ignored the glances he received from the serving girl and quietly lit a cigarette, drawing deeply on the cheap tobacco.

It just wasn't fair. All John Sweeney had ever wanted was to make it big. He knew he was cut out for more than this. He had more looks, more charm, and more brains than half the men he knew. Instead he carried bricks for the row houses that were popping up by the score in the city-dozens of bricks. He could mortar them, applying the thick gray cement in just the right amount on the previous row, then slap a wall together with a precision that had made him the envy of many a new apprentice. But it still wasn't enough. It never would be. John could wall himself away from the view of the house on Rittenhouse Square, but it was never far away in his mind.

And someday he'd have it. Rubbing his scarred hands on his trousers, he took another sip and swore to himself. If it was the last thing he did, he'd live in one of those houses and watch other poor struggling wretches like himself build homes for a living. He'd wear a good wool coat and have a new derby, like the gentlemen on Walnut Street, and he'd talk of something other than the weather and lack of food.

"Like the same for your supper tonight, Johnny?" The serving girl grinned, displaying a lack of teeth, and John Sweeney returned her smile.

"Sure, Elsie, la.s.s. Ah, you're a pretty one." He watched her giggle as she walked away, knowing she was sure to bring back an extra helping of potatoes, which she knew he liked, and an extra beer when no one else was looking. Women were so easy. One compliment, a few admiring words, and they ate out of his hand.

The girl returned a moment later and placed a newspaper on his table. John unwrapped it stealthily, then slipped the bread he found inside beneath the crate. He unfolded the paper and pretended to read it, all the while stuffing his mouth with the bread.

He had the society page. John almost snorted at the detailed descriptions of the rich folk's comings and goings. The charity ball. The a.s.sociation for the Preservation of whatnot. The hunt club and the polo match...

It was then that he saw her picture. At first the bread nearly fell out of his mouth, but he closed it quickly and studied the image before him. It was impossible, but there could be no mistake. It was the same eyes, the same nose tilted with an Irish ancestry, the same mouth, barely suppressing the laughter that was always just beneath the surface....