Esther made quick work of rolling up a few of the most incriminating manifests and tucking them under her morning robe. Then, she crossed to the table in the front hall and dialed the operator. After several moments she was patched through—first to a butler and then to Mrs. Mayweather herself.
“Mrs. Mayweather. It’s time to use your trump card.”
Nic looked at the letter a maid named Jane from the Hunnisett household delivered. The envelope was well sealed. Inside, he found the same chess moves he had written her the night before but with verbal explanation beside.
Darling Nic,
My fiancé and father are deeply involved in a racketeering business that is seeing the illegal delivery of alcohol through their usual shipments under the Weatherton name. Thomas insists I marry him today, but if we play the moves that you laid out, we might be able to change the course with a careful strategy. I have aligned our players. You, me, Father Francisco, Widow Barclay and Mrs. Mayweather are the key pieces. We will also need to rely on a James Morland at the Boston Herald and a few trustworthy servants.
As for the carefully played plan?
Nxe4: with this move we take Thomas out of the game, but also my father. Father Francisco will agree to marry Thomas and myself and we will use this ruse to buy time for you to play F3-E5
F3-E5: this is your move. Enclosed is evidence that Weatherton Industries is profiting from illegal trade of No.7 5: a type of gin mass-produced in Canada. Take this to a James Morland at the Herald office. It is the evidence he needs to back the claims he released in a previous edition and expose Thomas.
Rh1 + 28. Kxhl Qh2# For this pin we will rely on information provided by Mrs. Mayweather’s husband. Nic, this solidifies the information I have given you. Mrs. Mayweather’s husband was accidentally given a shipment of gin when he should have been delivered car parts. This play not only holds weight for Thomas but also for my father whose chief role at Weatherton is as a liaison between the industry and its customers and to procure new investors and prospects. If either of them moves in personal defense, they are taken out by their unity in their dishonest business.
Finally, Rh7 + The last move will assure our checkmate. We will corner Thomas at our “wedding” and expose him. He may be able to bribe a few policemen but Morland’s piece in the Herald will spread and investors and businessmen will soon become wary.
The ultimate checkmate will be my father and Thomas realizing that I was not a princess to be locked in a tower. And, Nic, I have you to thank for that. From the moment we met you have treated me as a woman with a heart and a brain and not just a piece to be played or moved at the whim of a man.
I am, hopeful (of course)
And forever yours,
Esther
Nic read the letter several times. She was betraying her father. He knew she honoured her father enough to marry a man she did not love. But she had no other choice. He wanted nothing more than to love her so wholly the pain of her impossible decision would be lifted from her shoulders. He thumbed through the documents she sent. He knew little of business but a lot about math, so with no direction he was still able to interpret the vast sums and discrepancies between the legitimate shipping operations and the bottom line fattened by illegal liquor. Nic grabbed his hat and set out in the direction of the Herald offices.
Esther took her time with her toilette. She had Mrs. Mayweather’s stylist fix her hair in the style that suited her best: antiquated due to the length of her hair but flattered in the sweep of curls and ornamented jewels and flowers highlighting its style.
She selected a dress in buttercream that cinched in at the waist and flourished over her legs. Her arms, swathed in silk, offered a slight, tasteful highlight of skin while her bodice and skirt were satin finished. Esther selected a few pieces that frosted her wrists and her collarbone from her mother’s ornate collection. The only inheritance left to her.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Mayweather.” Esther said, surveying herself in the mirror before turning to her guest. “You have been so kind and I think I am willing to use your play after all.”
Mrs. Mayweather opened her purse and presented Esther with sheets of paper. “These are records of what my husband received and what he ordered.”
“And he was willing to give them to me?”
“They are copies. When I explained to him how you needed to get out of Thomas’s grasp fairly, he was more than willing to help. He is a smart man, Esther. Smart enough to listen to me.”
She took the stairway carefully on her ice-pick heels. For a half of a moment, she almost felt compassion toward Thomas. He was clearly nervous: a sheen of sweat under his hairline, fingering a button on his bespoke coat. But his eyes softened ever so slightly when he took her in view.
“Are you ready?” Esther asked tremulously.
“The car is waiting outside. It will take us to St. Stephen’s. Your father had business at the office and will meet us there.”
“We can get Father Francisco to stall!” Esther had whispered to Widow Barclay earlier. “Have him insist that he have a short interview with the couple before binding them in holy matrimony!”
So, the moment the automobile swerved to the corner of cobbled Hanover Street on which sat the early republic styled church that would see them wed, Esther knew she was meeting an ally.
The Widow had gone ahead in a taxi and stood by one of the broad, white doors. Esther took in the tall columns, spacious windows and neatly aligned pews, her gaze finally settling on a kind-faced gentleman in robes and clerical collar.
He looked directly at Esther as she took his hand and winked.
Esther could feel the relief flow through her. He would make it okay.
“Father.” Thomas pressed through. “We really don’t have a lot of time and as you can see my fiancé is dressed for the occasion. I can pay you handsomely if you can provide a service as quickly as possible. I suppose we just need as much legality as we can today? And see to the certificate later.”
“You will need witnesses. Two of them.” Father Francisco said.
“My father is coming, is he not?” Esther asked Thomas.
“He might be delayed. We don’t have time.”
“Not time to wait for my own father, Thomas?”
“Surely, you can spare a few moments, Mr. Weatherton. The Widow has said that she will bear witness but you do need one more. The young lady’s father is a perfect witness and until then I can give you a short session in marital advice. Pray for you in the vestry.”
Thomas shifted impatiently, and stabbed a look over his shoulder just as a looming figure shadowed the entryway. “Ah! There he is! Our second witness.”
Esther’s heart stopped. “What is he doing here?” Esther said. “We don’t need that man as a witness.”
Thomas turned to Fang and listened intently to the message the broad man whispered in his ear.
Whatever message Fang passed Thomas had a drastic effect.
“Your father is not coming, Esther, because he has been withheld by the police.” Thomas cursed. Father Francisco soured. Widow Barclay gasped. “Someone took evidence to the Herald and that muckraker Morland ratted us out.” Thomas turned back to Fang. “But my briefcase was in the car. No one had access to it but me.” He cursed, lowered his voice and exchanged several words that didn’t belong within the holy quarters of the sanctuary with his hired man.
Esther felt the room sway slightly. She had anticipated this. Nic must have made it to the Herald office and Morland must have taken the evidence to the cops. But as much as her conscience was at peace with her decision, her heart still thrummed.
“My dear.” Father Francisco steadied her elbow with a kind, firm grip. “You are not well. Perhaps you would like to sit a moment.”
“When we are married, Esther, I can see justice for your father and correct these accusations. But there is little I can do if I am thrown in for questioning with him!”
“So you’re truly goi
ng to let my father take the fall for an enterprise of which you had equal investment?”
Thomas reeled. “How did you…”
“You make a horrible criminal, Thomas.”
Thomas took one vehement stride to her and pierced her with anger-filled eyes. Father Francisco straightened his shoulders. The priest’s stance waylaid Thomas slightly, for he froze in place.
“You knew? Esther, did you betray your own family? Your father?”
Esther disengaged from Father Francisco and retrieved her purse. “I knew you would never just leave me, Thomas. That you would trap me in Rutherford.” She took out the documents Mrs. Mayweather had given her. “I had to act quickly and I had to have something to bargain with.” She held up the papers. “You may be able to evade the law. As you say everyone is dealing with liquor, but you hate a mar on your precious family’s reputation. All you have, Thomas, is your name. It was so important to you that you keep it that you aligned yourself with my father to bolster that reputation. You were willing to marry me to secure it. But there are businessmen in Boston who don’t take kindly to being played. Who don’t want anything to do with your scheme and are somehow involved anyway.” She unfolded the paper and showed him. “My father made a grievous error in his dealings. I thought he oversaw these things.”
Thomas snatched the paper from her, face whitening at the letter head and the colossal mistake involving one of the most trusted business names in the country. “No.” Thomas’s voice rumbled.
“Mr. Mayweather is going to be gracious enough to look past this mistake as he doesn’t want his company name involved in any way, shape or form. The evidence that the Herald now has is incriminating enough.”
“What did you do?” Thomas growled.
“I took a few sheets from an open briefcase.” Thomas lunged at her but Father Francisco intervened. Clearly not wanting to bowl over a priest, Thomas clenched his fists and seethed. “Why would you do this?”
“Because you are a bully and a criminal, Thomas and because I am willing to do a lot for my father, for my family and my mother’s legacy. But, not this. I have to be true to myself. And that is why I am giving you this ultimatum: you set me free. You break this engagement and you leave me alone.”
“Why would I do that? I need this now more than ever as a distraction to the media.”
“Because Mr. Mayweather is a good man and he and his wife are willing to take the colossal mistake my father made to every news source in the country.”
“You’re bribing me?”
“I’m giving you an option. You’re already in trouble, Thomas.”
Thomas was exasperated and turned his head over his shoulder in hopes that Fang would have something to offer. The man didn’t. Desperate, he settled on Widow Barclay a moment. Esther enjoyed the look of smug, self-satisfaction on the Widow’s face.
“You want to go back to him. That pianist.”
Esther’s face flushed. “Why do you care where I go, Thomas? I want nothing more to do with you or my father. You don’t love me.”
“You gave your word.” He lunged for Esther again and this time didn’t let Father Francisco intervene, strong handling the priest aside before he could get a hold.
“Widow Barclay, call the police!” At the priest’s request, Widow Barclay moved in the direction but was stalled by Fang. Esther panicked on the woman’s behalf before noting how swiftly she procured a knitting needle from the bag looped over her shoulder and stabbed it into Fang’s thigh. Thomas almost loosened his hold with surprise. Using Fang’s own surprise and momentary distraction to her advantage, the widow grabbed a hymn book from the neighbouring pulpit and knocked Fang out with it.
Further enraged, Thomas grabbed Esther’s hair and pulled, the pins digging in with his harsh motions. “You will not be beautiful for him, then.” He reached into his pocket and retracted a knife. Father Francisco gave Esther a pleading look before reading the slight movement of her eyes in the direction of the open door. He dashed down the aisle in pursuit of help outside while Widow Barclay, feeling helpless, stood over Fang with the hymn book lest he rouse.
“You’re not going to hurt me truly, Thomas.” Esther wavered.
Thomas ripped out several pins while keeping a tight grip on the back of Esther’s neck. She was queasy at the flash of pocketknife raised over her neck and looked helplessly at Widow Barclay who shuddered. But just as the blade came down, a silver swath in her peripheral vision, it did not touch her skin, rather her hair.
Thomas slashed at several chunks of her long hair as she sobbed hotly through its curtain around her face. He continued to whack at until Father Francisco breathlessly reappeared.
Thomas shoved Esther away from him. Her breath left her as she slumped to the floor. Esther watched the Priest’s face shift from horror to compassion as he searched her face and arms for injury.
“Someone is running for the police!” The Priest told Thomas who left Fang and sprinted in the direction of the door, throwing the knife behind him.
“I have enough money for the police.” He spat.
Widow Barclay moved to chase him but Father Francisco shook his head. “He won’t get far. It is not use the exertion.”
Esther blinked tears away and shivered with embarrassment.
“Oh my poor dear.” Father Francisco soothed, once Thomas was far from sight. He patted her shoulder and stirred a slump of cut hair with the motion. “My poor dear.” He clicked his tongue before looking entreatingly at the widow who in less than a second had taken his place. Esther buried her nose into the Widow’s shoulder and sobbed and sobbed.
“It…it was my mother’s hair.” Esther gulped. “It was all I had of her. Exactly the same. I-it is why I kept it long and …”
“Shhh. Shhh.” Widow Barclay caressed her cheek. “It looks like our procuring Mrs. Mayweather’s stylist for the day was a providential request.”
“This is the style all of the young ladies are wearing. Such cool weight on your neck.” The stylist appraised her work.
Esther nodded through her drying tears. She was comfortable and safe in the widow’s front room affront a rolled-in bureau with a mirror and a soothing cup of tea. Her cheeks were cool with the absence of hair even though still splotched with crying and Thomas’s treatment. She wondered if this is what Samson felt like, to be completely vulnerably and stripped of such a core part of one’s identity. Esther, she reprimanded herself, you’re being needlessly dramatic.
When the stylist was done and Esther rotated affront the mirror, she examined the sleek back and short fringe at the front and smiled.
“You are so beautiful. You will stop him in his tracks.” Mrs. Mayweather exclaimed, thanking the stylist profusely and ringing for more tea.
Nic was to be there at any moment. Esther wrung her hands until the tea came and gave her trembling fingers another occupation. What would Nic think? She knew she was being vain. Prideful. He had never given her any indication that he merely cared about her outward appearance. But she couldn’t help feel a sting, recalling the weight of his fingers in her curls.
When they heard the doorbell, Mrs. Mayweather allowed the butler to attend it while she disappeared mumbling something about seeing cook about the evening meal but that Mr. Ricci should stay for tea.
Nic crossed the parlour in his second-hand suit, rotating homburg in his hands. He looked dashing. His face white with concern.
“Esther?”
Esther rose, setting her teacup on the table. “It appears I have been forced into our modern era.” She gave a weak smile.
Nic stepped closer and touched her cheek before quickly retreating, most likely having heard she had been rough-handled by Thomas earlier that afternoon.
“It’s a good thing then,” he said softly, “That the modern era suits you so darned well.”
Nic watched his father appraise Esther from bobbed hair to buttoned shoes. Nic knew that where Esther’s father treated her like a bargaining chip his own
father would treat her like a princess.
“You must be Miss Hunnisett. I am Milo Ricci.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ricci.”
Esther took the extended hand and Nic’s dad closed his fingers around it warmly.
“Nic says you have had a trying day.”
Esther nodded, biting her bottom lip, unable to keep her eyes from glistening with unshed tears he knew she was trying to hide.
His father clucked his tongue. “Sit, my dear. My poor dear.” He cupped Esther’s elbow and led her to the sofa. “Nic, will you see to the tea?” Nic obeyed but not before watching his father gingerly hand Esther a handkerchief.
Smiling, Nic arranged the tea things and returned to find his father and Esther deep in conversation. About Nic’s mother. Nic stalled in the doorway an instant, watching Esther’s red-rimmed eyes spark at the stories his father embroidered in his rich accent. Then, just as his father began expounding on how Nic had inherited her finest traits: innate musicality, a desire to help others, a mind that worked a mile-a-minute, he announced his presence:
“Tea’s here.”
“Esther is delightful.” Nic’s father accepted a cup.
Esther ducked her head in embarrassment, taking the cup Nic handed her. He placed a plate arranged with fig and almond cookies he had picked up at Leoni’s on the table beside the chess board.
Esther followed his sightline over the half-finished game. “Who’s winning?”
“Dad is.” Nic smiled.
It was one of the happiest evenings in memory, welcoming Esther into his corner of the world. Delighted that despite her high background and tastes, she suited the sunken furniture and chipped photo frames. Heartened that the cookies alighted her now-dry eyes and that she laughed at his father’s jokes while never once looking down at his maimed hand. She took Father Francisco’s unexpected visit in stride. Nic found it providential that the other two people who meant most in the world were subject to her genuine kindness. He knew she had had a long, horrifying day. His heart scarred with the imagined memory of Weatherton assaulting her. Squeezing his eyes shut at the image of his taking out a knife and how Esther must have struggled under his strong grasp.
Entanglements Page 8
