by Renee Ryan
Sighing, her grandfather closed his eyes. “Yet she never stopped trying to contact me.” There was such pain in his voice.
“No. She never gave up hope. I instinctively knew she was sick. Not in her body, but . . . in her mind.”
Her grandfather shuddered.
She closed her eyes and continued. “I was too young to understand. All I knew was that if I wanted to survive, then I would have to fend for myself, and her.”
“I’m sorry, Caroline, I—”
She cut him off. “No apologies, remember?”
“Right.” He gave one firm nod, his expression blank, but she could feel the sorrow wafting off of him.
Her hand reached to him, but he shook his head at her. “Continue with your story.”
“It’s probably nothing you haven’t read in a Dickens novel.” She cringed at the irony. “I found a gang of kids much in the same situation. Some were completely alone, others had siblings, while a few were like me, with a mother incapable of . . . mothering.”
“Ah, Caroline. I’m sorr—” He cut himself off. “Go on.”
“We worked together at first, learning from each other, adding members, losing some.” She lifted her shoulder. “The short version is that I quickly became proficient at making a living with what could be seen as questionable means.”
“Such as?”
“Some members of our gang were gifted at lifting wallets, and I could certainly pull my own weight there, but I used my skill with figures to win money at games of chance. Not only could I remember every card played, I could calculate which ones were left in the deck.”
“Fortuitous.”
Though she sensed her actions had been wrong, she’d done what was necessary to survive. There was no room for dignity and honor on an empty belly.
She turned to face her grandfather directly. Planting her fists on her hips, she silently dared him to condemn her.
He held her stare. “So you initially picked pockets as a means to feed yourself and your mother. When did you start playing cards?”
“A few months after I turned sixteen. I was tired of barely scraping by, yes, but the truth of the matter was I abhorred begging. And detested the idea of stealing even more.”
“You had a moral compass even then.”
Had she? “I don’t know about that.” She lowered her hands. “My mother must have sensed I wasn’t earning my way honestly, because every evening, she would marshal enough energy to read to me from the Bible. Her favorite chapter was Proverbs 31.”
Even now, after all this time, Caroline could still recite the verses. Strength and honor are her clothing, and she openeth her mouth with wisdom.
In retrospect, Caroline realized her mother had taught her to be a woman of honor who worked hard and avoided idleness.
“I’ve heard enough.” Her grandfather rose and met her halfway across the room. Before she could object, he pulled her into his arms and held on.
She remained stiff and unyielding for all of three seconds. Relaxing against him, she wrapped her arms around him and held on just as tightly. She resisted the urge to cling, feeling herself doing so anyway.
“Caroline St. James.” He set her gently away from him. “I’m proud to call you my granddaughter.”
The words washed over her like a cool rain on a scorching summer’s day. “I . . . Oh, Grandfather.”
“Now for my proposition.”
Her heart dipped in her chest, anticipation making her tremble.
“I want you to come work for me.”
He wanted her to . . . to . . . what? She looked around the room.
“I want to teach you how to run the family business.”
“After what I just told you? Weren’t you listening? I’m a beggar, liar, and thief.” The old man was senile. Nothing else explained his absurd offer. “You shouldn’t trust me.”
“Probably not. But I do.”
No. This was too much to ask of her. She would let him down. She knew nothing of respectable business ventures. And yet, what would it be like to hone her skills under this man’s guidance? If she allowed him to teach her how to earn money respectably, she could provide for not only herself but also Mary and others like her. Caroline could actually be in a position to help women like her mother, like Mary, like so many others she’d encountered in her life.
The possibilities were endless.
One idea shot to the forefront in her mind, the same one she’d toyed with after leaving Orchard Street.
Caroline could run a factory, much like the one where Mary worked. She could employ women who had nowhere else to earn a decent living, women like her mother. And Mary—dear, dear Mary. Caroline would ensure the days were not long and hot.
“I see your mind working.” He pointed at her. “You already have ideas.”
Her cheeks grew hot, hope rising within her. “Perhaps.”
“Then you agree?” He pushed for an answer. “You will commit to learning the business from the ground up?”
“I can think of several problems with this idea, one in particular. What will my uncle, your son, think of this unconventional arrangement of ours?”
“I’ll handle Marcus.”
“And Mont—I mean, Mr. Montgomery?” She pictured the man finding out about this arrangement and found herself smiling. Oh, he was going to hate this.
Something lit in the old man’s eyes, something that looked both shrewd and mischievous. “Jackson will come around.”
She very much doubted that.
“Do we have a deal?” Her grandfather stuck out his hand.
She took it without question. “We do, indeed.”
“Now, young lady, about your living arrangements.” Disapproval tightened the corners of his mouth. “No granddaughter of mine will live in a hotel. You will move out at once.”
Caroline blinked at the unbending tone. “If I refuse?”
“You won’t.”
This was the man who ran his business empire with an iron fist. For now, she appeased him with a sweet tone in her voice and a perfectly insincere smile on her lips, fully aware she would not be moving out of the Waldorf-Astoria anytime soon. “Whatever you say, Grandfather.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jackson scratched out his signature on the final document, then handed the entire pile back to his assistant. “That’ll be all for now, John.”
The man nodded but didn’t budge from his spot on the other side of the desk. Jackson felt a nudge of apprehension. “Was there something else we needed to discuss?”
“I spoke with Mr. Tierney this morning, per your request.”
Ah, yes, of course. Wanting to increase his assistant’s responsibilities, Jackson had given John Reilly the task of meeting with the landlord of his tenement houses on a regular basis. There was another reason, of course. His assistant’s vast knowledge of the area gave him insight Jackson couldn’t hope to achieve on his own. “Are the improvements progressing on schedule?”
The man’s mouth tightened. “So it would seem.”
Jackson waited for his assistant to expand on this, but he remained uncharacteristically silent. “Is there a problem, John?”
His assistant didn’t respond immediately. “No,” he said at last, drawing out the syllable. “Not precisely.”
“Then what, precisely?”
“I believe it to be in your best interest to keep a close eye on the man.”
“Is Mr. Tierney not proving trustworthy?”
“He might be overly”—he made a face—“lazy.”
Jackson let out a laugh. “Everyone is lazy compared to you, John.”
“True. Nevertheless . . .” He fixed a brooding stare at a random spot above Jackson’s head. Clearly, the task of overseeing the tenement houses was making him uncomfortable.
“Go on, John, feel free to speak your mind.”
“All right.” A pause. “I would recommend that you or I conduct several unexpected visits, aside from our regular m
eetings, in order to keep the man in check. We don’t want to find ourselves in the same situation with Mr. Tierney that we did with Mr. Smythe.”
Not a bad idea. “Are you volunteering for the job?”
“Yes.” John blinked slowly. “I suppose I am.”
Jackson didn’t take his assistant’s agreement lightly. The last time they’d made the trek to Orchard Street together, Jackson’s serious-minded assistant had unleashed a litany of complaints about the horrendous smells, the crushing crowds, and so much more. It was clear the man wanted no reminders of where he came from.
Jackson gave him one last chance to change his mind. “You would be willing to travel to Orchard Street, at odd intervals of the day, solely to ensure that Mr. Tierney isn’t cheating me or mistreating my tenants?”
Expression grim, John gave one curt nod of his head.
“Then I will leave the timing up to your discretion.”
“Very good.” Despite his carefree tone, Reilly’s shoulders remained bunched, and again Jackson sensed his assistant’s agreement had not come easy.
“If that is all, Mr. Montgomery, I will deliver these contracts to Mr. St. James’s secretary at once.”
“Thank you, John.”
The man turned on his heel.
“Please be so good as to shut the door behind you.”
“As you wish.” A soft click soon followed.
Proud of his assistant’s attempt to rise above his past, Jackson stared at the shut door. He preferred to delegate authority when the situation warranted. Time would tell whether he’d been right to put John Reilly in charge of the tenement houses.
For now, Jackson had other pressing business at hand. He opened the satchel of letters Richard had given him and pulled out the entire stack. He read each letter slowly, carefully, in chronological order. When he finished, he rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.
Profoundly moved, his throat grew tight, and the corners of his eyes burned. The tone of Libby St. James’s words had grown more desperate as the years had passed. He thought briefly of praying, but for what? For whom?
Libby? Caroline? Richard?
All three. He must pray for all three, perhaps Caroline most of all.
Now that he’d read her mother’s pleas, pleas for forgiveness, for mercy, for the barest slice of help that had never come, Jackson understood Caroline’s desire for revenge. How could he blame her? How could he remain unmoved by the agony of her childhood?
An empty feeling swirled in the pit of his stomach. By reading her mother’s letters, Jackson had intruded on Caroline’s privacy. Richard might have given him permission to do so, but Caroline had not. And now, Jackson would never be able to look at her the same way again.
He took a slow, calming breath. For all intents and purposes, Caroline had been abandoned by her own mother, left to provide for herself with no help from her wealthy family.
Jackson leaned back and fixed his eyes on a crack in the plaster ceiling. Caroline had forgiven her grandfather without hesitation. She’d displayed the true nature of grace.
Her strength of character humbled him. Would he be so quick to offer mercy if his father returned to New York and begged for his forgiveness?
Jackson wasn’t sure. Edward Montgomery was guilty of his sins. A request for forgiveness would not erase that fact. Only now, in the privacy of his mind, did Jackson admit that he’d yet to forgive his father. He still harbored a desire for retribution. The man had abandoned his family. He’d left his son to bear the burden and provide for the wife he hadn’t wanted. Jackson had spent most of his adult life paying for someone else’s choices. Just like Caroline had.
But where Jackson held on to his resentment, Caroline offered grace.
The door to his office swung open, saving him from further reflection. He lowered his gaze in time to see Richard saunter into the room. “Caroline sends her regrets. She will not be meeting with you today as planned.”
Jackson wasn’t entirely sorry for this turn of events. “How was your meeting with her?”
The older man sank in a chair facing Jackson’s desk. From beneath white eyebrows, Richard’s intense green eyes studied him. “It went better than expected.”
“I’m glad.” And he was. After reading Libby’s letters, Jackson understood the pain Richard must be experiencing, the sense of helplessness, too.
Richard released a slow smile. “Caroline is an intelligent, remarkable young woman, with a sharp wit and—”
“Sharper tongue,” Jackson couldn’t help adding.
“True enough.” Richard chuckled. “Always did like a woman who had the courage to speak her mind.”
“But do you trust her?” Jackson had to ask the question. Richard was relying on his impartiality, a state of mind that was fast disappearing now that he’d read Libby’s letters.
“I probably shouldn’t,” Richard said. “By her own admission she came here to ruin me. But yes, Jackson, I do. I trust my granddaughter completely.”
Jackson did, too. And that posed too many problems to sort through at the moment. “I still plan to keep an eye on her.”
“That should be easy. She has agreed to work here.”
Jackson opened his mouth, closed it again. Richard was staring at him with something new in his eyes. “What do you mean? She’s agreed to work here, in what capacity?”
“I plan to teach her the business.”
The man wasn’t kidding. “Why?”
Richard lifted an eyebrow. “Is this your way of reserving judgment? By questioning my decisions?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.” Jackson placed both palms on top of his desk, stood, then rephrased his question. “Why are you bringing your granddaughter into the family business?”
“She’s my heir,” he said simply.
“Marcus is your heir.”
“With no sons.”
“He has Elizabeth, who is—”
“A dear, sweet girl with no head for business.”
Jackson didn’t fully disagree, but he felt the need to defend Elizabeth all the same. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“Of course I do.” Richard waved away the objection. “If I want my family holdings to extend past the next generation, I must take matters into my own hands.”
“By grooming your granddaughter to take over?”
“If she’s half as smart as I think she is, then yes.” Richard made an indistinguishable sound in his throat. “Caroline is, quite possibly, the greatest hope for the future.”
What Richard suggested was unprecedented. But the more Jackson rolled the idea around in his mind, the more he could see Caroline rising to the challenge. Marcus would have something to say about all this, but that was between Richard and his son.
Or was it? “Why are you telling me this instead of Marcus?”
“Because, my boy.” Richard’s eyes took on a crafty gleam. “I’m putting you in charge of her training.”
Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose. On one level, Richard’s idea made sense. Jackson knew more about the St. James business dealings than Marcus did. Plus, half the family’s holdings were tied up with his. The wisest thing Jackson’s father had done was align himself with Richard St. James at a time when Edward Montgomery had more money than sense. After law school, Jackson had spent years rebuilding what his father had started and had increased the St. James coffers in the process. Their fortunes were interminably linked now. That alone required Jackson’s involvement in this particular matter.
“When does she start?”
“In a few days.”
Anticipation, dread, wariness—all three emotions warred with one another in his brain. Caroline working beside him, day after day, would certainly make it easier to keep an eye on her. Her close proximity would also provide them with a certain level of privacy as they went about uncovering the identity of the person who had intercepted her mother’s letters.
Not a bad arrangement.
&nbs
p; However, one last problem still had to be addressed. “How do you plan to present Caroline to society?”
“I don’t.”
The knots in Jackson’s stomach tightened. “Is that wise?”
“The less fanfare surrounding her arrival, the better.”
“You can’t be thinking to hide her true identity.” Lies had a way of coming out, usually at the worst possible moment.
“We will not hide her connection to me, nor will we unveil it in any special way. The truth need not be altered. Caroline has journeyed to America to connect with family.”
Jackson shook his head. “Many already know her as Caroline Harding, Patricia Harding’s cousin.”
“She is also Elizabeth’s cousin, and my granddaughter. That is the portion of her tale we will highlight from this point forward.”
Seeing the flaws, Jackson shook his head again. “People will still talk.”
“Let them.”
Richard made it sound so simple. But considering the man’s standing in society and the fact that most of the good people of New York owed the majority of their livelihoods to him, the simple approach might actually work.
“She should move out of her hotel,” Jackson said.
Richard flashed him a grin. “She left to pack.”
“You invited her to move into your home?”
“I did.”
“And she accepted?” That didn’t sound like Caroline.
“She declined my kind offer.”
Now Jackson was confused. “Then why is she packing up her belongings?”
“I only won a portion of our argument.” Richard let out a laugh. “She agreed to move out of the hotel but has refused to tell me where she will be residing instead.”
Now that sounded like Caroline.
“Are you finished with those?” Richard nodded toward the stack of letters.
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like them back.” Something unbelievably sad came and went in the older man’s eyes. “I wish to keep my daughter’s words close to me.”
Jackson placed the letters back into the canvas satchel, careful to avoid crushing them, then handed them across the desk.
