I felt him watching me. “Yes, of course …” He looked around. “This has been a difficult day for me, I don’t mind telling you, Louisa.” Sighing wearily, he squeezed my hands before letting them go. I glanced up to find him staring at the balcony that went around the second level of the powerhouse. “There’s a place upstairs….”
He led me to the circular staircase in the corner. The handrail was twisted into elongated vines resembling the eels that played upon the rocks in the Cave of the Winds. I touched the wall for support rather than hold that image. On the balcony, there was a small alcove with a carved oak table and several hard-backed chairs: Roycroft furniture, handmade craftsmanship set amid this mecca of industry. When we sat down, Tom leaned forward and waited for me to begin.
I felt reluctant to speak. The day was warm; my undergarments clung to me. I was still breathless from the stairs. My heart beat fast. “Well,” I offered, looking around, reaching for anything to avoid the subject that had brought me, “everything has changed since my last visit.” Indeed, although crowded with workmen, the powerhouse was pristine, every detail not only in place but shining; there was no memory of Rolf, nothing to mar the building’s perfection. “Will you be finished in time for the president next week?”
Puzzled, Tom stared at me. “Mostly there’s finishing work needed underground, in the tunnel.”
“You’ll make the deadline?”
“I don’t intend to miss it.” His bewilderment increased. “I suppose if I had time to see you more often, you wouldn’t need to come out here to talk to me—as delightful as it is to have you. Now then, what is it that’s brought you?”
I felt ill-bred, bringing out the drawings. I didn’t even want to touch them.
“I need to show you some pictures.” I tried to be as businesslike as he. “Drawings Grace showed to her teacher. As part of an assignment. The teacher took them—without Grace’s knowledge—and brought them to me.”
I smoothed the pile on the table between us, cringing at the knowledge of what they showed. He reached for them, then leafed through the pile, one at a time. “Who did you say gave you these?” he asked, without looking up.
“Grace’s art tutor. Susannah Riley.”
“Ah.” He continued to study them. “They’re very well done,” he said finally. His nonchalance shocked me. “You realize Susannah Riley will stop at nothing to discredit me?” He pushed the drawings back haphazardly across the table. “Now she’s circulating salacious nonsense and claiming my daughter is the author of it. Today, of all days. Well, yes, obviously. Today. She’s planned it very well.”
“What do you mean? Grace showed the drawings to Susannah without any prompting.”
“We have only Miss Riley’s word on that.” His implication rested between us, confusing me. After a moment he asked, “You haven’t shown them to Grace, have you?”
“I haven’t taken them back to her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Grace had nothing to do with these pictures.”
“You think Susannah made them up? I doubt it,” I said firmly. “Susannah’s description of Grace sounded very real—sounded like Grace.” I stopped myself, realizing that Tom’s first reaction would be an unwillingness to face the truth. Whereas I was responsible for Grace at school, he was responsible for her from day to day; denying the evidence was the only natural reaction. Steadily, trying to console him, I continued. “Tom, as difficult as this is, we must accept the fact that Grace did the drawings and that she is the girl pictured. Now we must try to discover who the man is. A servant, perhaps. Or a visitor brought in by the servants. Possibly your housekeeper and her husband aren’t to be trusted. Or perhaps it’s the older brother of one of Grace’s—”
“Don’t be naive. The man is supposed to be me.”
“No!”
But even as he said it, of course it was obvious. Who else could it be, but him? I’d been blinded by my affection for him; by my memory of Margaret. Certainty filled me like a blood surge: it was him—his body spread around me in pencil, each intimate delineation set down before me. All at once I remembered: Grace had shown me similar drawings, before we went to the fireworks at the exposition. Well, not precisely similar, but intimate drawings nonetheless: Tom with his vest unbuttoned; Tom in his paisley dressing gown. How easily I could imagine the move from one scene to the next.
“I think it fair to conclude that Susannah Riley did these drawings herself and brought them to you today so that you would bring them to me today,” Tom was saying. “To distract me.”
I forced my eyes away from the pictures. Rage filled me. I held myself in check by focusing on the wood grain of the table, forcing myself to remain calm. “And why would she do that?”
“You don’t know everything, Louisa, as much as you like to think you do.” The rebuke made me more convinced that he was the one at fault. “Susannah Riley may be a skilled artist, but she is also a fanatic. I know this, Louisa. She is not to be trusted.”
What else would he say, what else could he say, to defend himself?
He reached across the table and touched my shoulder lightly. I flinched away from him. “You don’t really believe this, do you?” He motioned toward the drawings. “Of me? You think I would do such a thing?”
I heard the shock in his voice. The anger and hurt. But I wouldn’t let them deflect me. “I’ll talk to Grace about it,” I said. “I’ll be careful how I approach her, of course, so she doesn’t feel threatened, but—”
“Oh, Louisa,” he said sadly. “Please don’t.”
“There’s no alternative. I’ll show her one or two of the … less explicit drawings and see if she denies them.”
“I would prefer that my daughter not see such drawings,” he said, his voice hard. He was closing himself off from me, and still, in spite of everything, I didn’t want to lose him. And yet … perhaps he was manipulating me as easily as Susannah Riley might have done. I didn’t know where to turn for the truth.
“I’ll believe Grace, if she denies them.” Tenuously my allegiance began to shift from Susannah to Tom: If he were guilty, would he have admitted so readily that the pictures were supposed to be of him? On the other hand, most likely his sense of honor would not permit him to allow his staff or associates to be falsely accused of hurting Grace. Nonetheless he would have no qualms about accusing Susannah Riley, falsely or otherwise. I felt unhinged; everything turned topsy-turvy: Was he worthy of trust, or not? How could I determine it? I who knew only too well what men were capable of. I had only one certainty: My sole loyalty was to Grace.
“Louisa.” There was still a gruff affection in his voice. “Something will happen here tonight which will prove Susannah Riley’s fanaticism. I would ask you to stay and see for yourself, before you rush to judgment.”
Only Grace could tell me the truth. Standing and gathering the drawings before my resolve could weaken, I said, “Certainly not. I’m returning to town, and I’ll go directly to Grace. I’ll be gentle with her, but I will learn the truth.”
“I can’t let you go alone—and that’s what Susannah Riley’s counting on. Don’t you see? She’s expecting I’ll return to town with you to set all this straight, and then she and her friends will have a free rein here tonight. Can’t you just trust me for a few hours?”
Anger and sincerity mixed equally on his face. Who was this man? Our backgrounds were completely different; our frames of reference, completely different. He had progressed so far, so quickly: I had no idea how he’d achieved all he’d done, or what he was capable of. Even now I could not shake the memory of his final meeting with Karl Speyer. Apart from the public litany of his achievements, what did I truly know about Thomas Sinclair? Only that Margaret, my closest friend, had loved him.
“What is it that’s supposed to happen?” I asked.
“Well, it’s difficult to explain.”
“Perhaps you should try.” That sounded crueler than I intended.
He took a deep breath.
“If you must know, the self-proclaimed preservationists have managed to get themselves some dynamite and they intend to use it to blow up the powerhouse—or, rather, part of the powerhouse. The part I’ve chosen for them to blow up.”
“What?” I asked, shocked.
“I know it’s a bit unorthodox—”
“But dynamite? And how—”
“They’re walking into a trap. The damage will be only moderate. One generator temporarily out of commission, tiles torn up, a lot of dust. I’ve worked out the risks, and the rewards.”
“Is it safe to stay?” I asked doubtfully.
“There’s a small risk,” he admitted, “but I think the results will be worth it.”
“All right, I will stay,” I said slowly, keeping my focus on my own priorities. “But if I’m not satisfied, I’ll go to Grace afterward.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Thank you.”
About two hours later we knelt beside the balustrade on the balcony of Powerhouse 3. The building was apparently deserted, and the lights were off. Bands of moonlight lit the room. The generators gleamed in a black line below us, the Westinghouse-Speyer slightly larger than the others. The silence was absolute.
“Don’t you have guards on duty?” I whispered.
“I sent them out.” How calm he was. “They’ll come running soon enough when they hear the explosion. I had to work out a balance between making the place accessible but still normal. I don’t want to put anyone in danger. I have to make certain everything goes according to plan, and I can’t leave that responsibility to anyone else. There’s always the chance—”
Suddenly there was a sound. A muffled creaking. Then a brief flickering of light from a lantern, which left the cavernous building seeming darker than before. Whoever had come in should have trusted the moonlight. Tom covered my knee with his hand and began to whisper, his mouth to my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. “When I tell you, we must go down the stairs. We’ll have more than enough time. Just go at a steady pace and don’t stop. The stairs lead all the way into the tunnel—you remember, where Peter Fronczyk took you and your girls that day. You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll go first and hold your hand. But even if we get separated you’ll be able to find your way out. The tunnel slopes; just follow the slope.” Beneath his reassuring tone, there was a sharp urgency.
Below us, on the main floor, there were furtive, fervent murmurings. We peered through the posts of the balustrade. Several shadowy figures were feeling their way toward the generators. Once more came the light, and I was able to make out a man: Was it … yes, it was Daniel Henry Bates. Although he carried a cane and moved slowly, he held his back and shoulders straight and strong; he wasn’t the bent, aging prophet he publicly pretended to be. In his hand was a slender package. Dynamite, my mind said. I sensed rather than saw the others pushing close around him. Three at least, maybe four. A voice gave instructions. The lantern shone again—and there was Susannah Riley, her pale face flashing brilliant. As if sensing my gaze, she looked toward the balcony, blind triumph deep as a trance in her eyes. I stood, as if also in a trance, staring at her as she stared at me, although I couldn’t tell for certain whether she actually saw me. Maybe she only felt me, like a vision in a dream, before Tom gently pulled me back to kneeling.
“You see?” Tom asked, grasping at my hand, clutching it tightly. “You understand?”
My quick inhalation alone told him yes. So … I had been duped by Susannah. Even the way she’d withheld Grace’s name from me in my office until the very end, knowing Grace was my goddaughter, had been part of her snare. Tom put his arm around me in protection and possession.
There was work to be done below us. The small group positioned itself beside the Westinghouse-Speyer; they looked infinitesimal beside the mass of the generator.
“Why did they choose that generator, the one Speyer designed?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “I chose it. It’s the strongest. The newest design. It’ll get the most attention in the press.”
“But Karl Speyer is dead.” Suddenly I felt that Tom was committing a sacrilege. “And not only that, when they were putting the casing on, Rolf—”
Tom put his fingertips on my lips. “It’s a piece of machinery, Louisa. That’s all. It’s not a person. It’s a machine. It can be rebuilt.”
No—to me it was more than a machine. It represented human hopes, efforts, and dreams, all sacred. “Why are you letting this go on?” I pleaded. “Why don’t you stop them? Surely there’s enough evidence already to prove—”
“I want to discredit them for good. Be rid of them once and for all. They’ll become nothing but dangerous radicals to the public. People are beginning to appreciate the importance of electricity, and they won’t have any sympathy for so-called nature preservationists bombing the power station.”
“But you could lose all you worked for here, all you’ve created.”
“That won’t happen.” He shifted to see better.
Someone was lifted up on crossed hands; I heard the sharp exhalations of strain. The lifted man ran his hands over the metal casing of the generator, feeling his way, searching for the proper place. He whispered to Bates, who gave him the slender package. The man unwrapped it and began taping it to the generator; I heard the rips from the spool of tape. He asked for light—and I gasped to see the handsome face of Peter Fronczyk. He wore workman’s overalls. Loyalty and betrayal crisscrossed through the moonlit darkness while Peter checked the dynamite, positioned the wires that led from the bomb, funneled the wires through his hands. How could Peter betray Tom? Was it because of the death of his father here at the power station? Or some unintended insult the evening we sat on Tom’s veranda together? Or did Peter know something about the power station, and about Tom, that I didn’t know and couldn’t begin to guess?
I glanced at Tom. He simply stared at the scene below us with intermittent nods that told me everything was going according to plan.
At a mumbled signal, Peter was eased down again to the floor of the generator room. Someone began unraveling the line across the floor toward the door. The others followed, Peter instructing, correcting, cautioning in whispers. They reached the exit. I heard a match being struck and the hiss of burning as the fuse line was lit. Peter placed it on the tiled floor, and the group slipped out.
Ever so gently, Tom took my hand. We rose and went to the circular staircase and began walking down, Tom in the lead. Down and down, around and around, the curves tight, Tom walking first slowly and then faster as if sensing the danger growing—down and down, making me dizzy. What had O’Flarity said all those months ago—ten floors down, was that it? With every step I feared I would tread on the hem of my skirt and fall—fall onto Tom, both of us swept round and round into the center of the earth. The stones of the wall where I pressed my fist for balance changed from dry and warm to wet and cold as we progressed deeper underground.
Then we were in the tunnel. The water at my feet felt like melted snow as it seeped into my boots. The air was cold but fetid, the stink of it catching in my throat. Feeling his way confidently, holding my hand, Tom guided us. When we reached the interlink, he stopped. He pressed me against the wall with the side of his body while he fumbled for something. A match.
“Look, Louisa,” he said, holding up the match. The cavernous interlink curved above our heads. He led me forward to the horseshoe-shaped main tunnel. “If anything happens, keep your hand on the wall and run in the direction of the fresh air. Downward, like I said before. At the end you’ll be safe. You won’t get lost.”
Just as the flame touched his fingers, he blew out the match. He took my right hand while I kept the fingertips of my left on the wall as we ran. Suddenly there was a deep rumbling behind us and above. The explosion. We paused, listening. Then Tom tugged on my hand to urge me along.
All at once, a bit of the air turned sweet. Gradually we slowed to a walk. More and more the air greeted us with waves of fragrance—not perfume;
simply the pure smell of a summer’s night. We reached the end of the tunnel and walked out onto the ledge which the workers used as a staging area during the day. It was piled with detritus: cast-off planks, broken tiles, shards of stone, wires and pieces of twisted metal. The Niagara Gorge rose before us. The roar of the Falls was all around us. I turned to gaze upriver. The Horseshoe Falls gleamed white in the moonlight and seemed terribly close—huge and exultant, soaring over me.
I turned to Tom. He placed his hands upon my shoulders. At that moment Grace seemed far away, the drawings nonexistent. The power station and its battles too: far away and meaningless. We had passed through danger together and now we might have been the last two people alive on earth.
Tom put his hands on either side of my face and drew me close to kiss me. He smelled like wildflowers, was all I could think of, but that might have been simply the air around us. His body was strong enough to hold me even as I yielded my weight against him. That feeling, as he kissed me—that touch, the warmth, simple and consoling … I’d never thought I’d know it; I’d never expected or imagined it, and I leaned into him to meet it.
CHAPTER XXIX
Tom and I climbed the construction ladder riveted to the side of the gorge and picked our way among carts and cast-off timber until we reached the road and saw the Sinclair carriage, driver and horses waiting patiently. We got in and the carriage drove away at a steady pace as if nothing were amiss; the master was simply returning home from a late night at the office. By carriage the journey to Buffalo took some time. Tom said he would take me “home”—to his home, he meant, and I didn’t object. I would be safer from prying eyes if I emerged from the carriage in the confines of his estate rather than on Bidwell Parkway in front of the school.
Trusting him to be a gentleman, I leaned against his chest. He held me close, his arms wrapped around my shoulders in the coolness of the evening.
“I’m sorry about Peter Fronczyk,” I said.
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