Frederick felt the resistance go out of her. “Hey,” he said softly, smoothing the hair back from her beautiful face. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She wouldn’t open her eyes. “Hey,” he crooned, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Slowly, without breathing, he pushed her skirts and pantalets aside and slid his hand up her thigh. Still she didn’t resist. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her for a long, slow time.
Part of Jennifer wanted to stop him, but part of her didn’t. The grief at Chane’s betrayal was too paralyzing. She couldn’t seem to move. Frederick nudged her thighs open, and still she couldn’t move. Part of her screamed at the violation, but part of her wanted to hurt Chane, to call him there so he could watch.
She let Frederick enter her, and it was like a small death, a suicide. But it felt appropriate. She wanted to die and kill Chane in the same breath. She wanted to punish herself for ever falling in love with him, and him for being the rat he was.
Jennifer felt caught in a dream—knowing it was a dream, but unable to stop it. Her face was stained with tears—every part of her cold and mean and grief-stricken. She felt no arousal at Frederick’s touch, but no guilt, either. It just seemed to be what she had to do to punish herself.
Chane paced the length of the parlor, stopped abruptly, and walked to the window. Outside his Pullman coach the ceaseless wind drove gusts of heavy snow against the windows.
At last he was on his way home. He’d found the proof he needed to clear himself of negligence charges in regard to the shaky bridge. Someone had removed a number of iron bolts in strategic places. It had taken two days to fix the bridge, mostly because they couldn’t find the right-sized bolts. But now it was done, and he was on his way home to Jennie.
Unexpectedly, the train slowed and stopped. The engineer struggled through three-foot drifts to his Pullman coach. Chane met him on the observation deck. “What happened?” he asked.
“A tree across the tracks. I’m afraid we’re stuck here until the railroad sends out a crew…”
“One tree?”
“Aye, but it’s a big one!”
It was big. Covered with snow, it looked like a circus tent.
“Do we have an ax on board?” Chane asked.
The engineer looked at him as if he were crazy. Chane laughed. He might be. But he couldn’t imagine sitting in the comfort of his private car while Jennie waited and worried at home.
Reluctantly, the engineer found the ax they kept on board for just such occasions. Chane picked the likeliest place to start chopping and raised the ax. At least he would not have to worry about having nothing to do tonight.
Jennie woke with a start. The lamp still burned on the table. Frederick’s head was still pressed to her breast.
At the remembrance of last night, bile boiled upward from her stomach. She clasped her hand over her mouth and scrambled to free herself from Frederick’s entangling limbs. She ran to the lavatory, where she doubled forward and vomited. She emptied her stomach, but the queasiness remained. She made tea and forced herself to drink some of it.
Outside, the blizzard continued to rage, and inside, Frederick continued to sleep. Jennifer felt sick at heart. Her marriage was over. And she had no idea how Peter was. Outside, the wind howled so loud it drowned out everything else. Her head hurt and even her skin seemed to ache. She realized she must have the influenza as well.
“I can’t rightly believe you cleared that tree off’n these tracks.”
Chane straightened and rubbed his back. He could barely credit himself with it, either, but he had chopped the tree in half at center track. With any luck at all, the train would be able to push its way through.
While Chane worked, the engineer and fireman had cleaned off the snow plow on the front of the locomotive.
“Let’s see if it works!” Chane yelled. He picked up the ax and climbed into the cab of the locomotive.
The engineer eased the throttle forward. The train strained hard against the two halves of the tree trunk, but they didn’t move.
“Back it up. Get some momentum.”
The engineer looked at Chane like he might be daft, but he reversed the Johnson bar. They chugged backward slowly for a quarter of a mile. “Okay. Let’s try it again,” Chane said.
“How fast?”
“We just want enough momentum to push the two halves of the trunk aside.”
The locomotive chugged forward at fifteen miles an hour. It hit the two stumps, shoved them aside, and kept going. One half rolled away and the other plunged into the culvert at the side of the roadbed. They were free.
The rest of the trip passed with agonizing slowness. The train had to push so much snow off the tracks, it barely covered ten miles an hour. It was going to be a long trip home.
Chane opened the apartment door with his key. He was three days late. He walked quietly, not wanting to wake Jennie, at least not with noise. At the thought of her lying only a few short steps away from him, his body forgot how tired it was. He had missed her every moment. His mind seemed distorted with missing her. He couldn’t believe he’d been gone only four days. It seemed a lifetime since he’d been with her.
The fire had burned low in the fireplace. He stopped and added two logs. Jennie might want to come out here. He didn’t want it to be too cold for her. She was too thin to stand the cold.
He crossed the parlor, strode down the darkened hall, and stopped at the door to his and Jennie’s bedroom. Carefully, he turned the knob and opened it. Aided by the dim light from the window, he crossed the floor and stopped. His gaze searched the shadows, but no form darkened the smooth, unruffled bedcovers. She wasn’t there.
Disappointment struck hard. He and his engineer had finally met one of the road clearance crews, and Chane had commandeered them to help him get through. They had risked life and limb to clear the track. He could have killed a good crew and himself as well. Fortunately, they’d made it, though there were men on track clearance who would likely never forget him. The ride across town from the train station had been even worse. It had taken four hours to make the twenty-minute trip from the station.
Jennie must have gone home. He couldn’t think why, unless, like him, she’d gone there for something and gotten trapped, as he had. He would just have to go find her.
He headed for the door and stopped. She might not appreciate his waking her at this hour of the morning. And being a new bride, she might not feel comfortable having him climbing into her bed in her brother’s house.
Women were funny about that. His own mother had been. He’d heard his father complain of her squeamishness a number of times. Sleeping in a strange bed always stirred the animal in his father and the prude in his mother. As a boy, he’d heard them arguing when they thought he was asleep.
In deference to Jennie, and to his driver who’d just about now be getting to his own bed, he’d better just get some sleep and go for her in the morning.
He undressed and climbed into bed, and despite his worry about Jennie, sleep came.
Chane woke with the sun streaming in the window. The room was cold, but his body felt impervious to it. He crossed the room and pushed back the heavy draperies. It was a clear, bright, beautiful day; the blizzard was finally over. Traffic was already building as carriages and buggies slogged through the heavy drifts. They’d soon beat it down to size. Nothing could withstand New York traffic for long. He’d slept too late. Mrs. Lillian must have let him sleep. He couldn’t imagine her not knowing he was home.
It must be eight o’clock. He never slept that late, but he’d been tired. He pulled on his pants and stalked into the library to use the telephone. At least he could speak to Jennie. He lifted the earpiece and waited for the operator’s voice to come on. Nothing happened. He realized the lines must still be down.
He dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to order a carriage. The hotel was usually bustling with people by this time. Today, the lobby was almost empty.
His carriage finally came. He gav
e the driver the address and climbed inside. It was slow going. They were stopped time after time by traffic jams caused by snowdrifts piled over fallen trees, overturned carriages, and in one instance, by the wall of a brick building that had collapsed from the weight of too much snow on the roof. At the fourth traffic jam, Chane worked with a crew that uncovered the body of an old man caught out in the blizzard. He was as brittle as an icicle. When Chane lifted the old man’s legs to put him in the work crew’s buckboard, ice crackled as if the ankles would break off in Chane’s hands.
What should have been a half-hour trip took five hours. Finally, clammy and sweaty from working on a half-dozen road clearance crews, Chane arrived in front of Jennifer’s house. He leaped out, bounded up the stairs, and banged the door knocker.
After a lengthy wait, Augustine opened the front door. “Is Jennie here?”
Augustine seemed to recoil visibly at the sight of him. “No.” Even her voice sounded withdrawn, surprised. She barely resembled the woman who had sniffed through their wedding ceremony only a few short days ago.
“Do you know where she is?”
“No. You’re not welcome here,” she said, trying to shove the door shut in his face.
“I’m married to Jennifer, and I’m not leaving until I see for myself that she isn’t here.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” Augustine said, grunting as she tried again to slam the door.
Chane pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Which room is hers?” he demanded.
“You aren’t welcome here,” Augustine said again, fear making her voice quiver.
His mind seemed to ignore her statement, even though part of him acknowledged hearing it. “I need to find her. She isn’t at the Bricewood.”
Augustine gasped in alarm. “We haven’t seen her in days.”
“How long ago?”
“Since before the storm.”
The woman might be lying to him. He stepped around her and took the stairs two at a time. Four doors opened onto the upper hallway. He opened the one closest to him. The room was darkened by pulled drapes, but he could see a man standing over the bed.
Startled, the man turned, dropping a pillow and pulling a knife. A bandanna hid the bottom half of his face. He flashed the knife at Chane and yelled, “Get back or I’ll cut yer gizzard out.”
Chane stepped away from the doorway, and the man edged past him and ran down the stairs. Chane heard Augustine scream and then footsteps pounding through the house, heading toward the back. Alarm for Jennie’s safety overrode all other concerns. He stepped over to the bed, afraid he’d see Jennie dead there.
To his relief, the still figure was that of her brother. Realizing he may have just seen the man who killed him, Chane grabbed Peter’s wrist and groped for a pulse.
Jennifer opened her eyes cautiously. For the first time in days her head was not pounding. The influenza that had held her in its grip seemed to be passing at last. Perhaps today she would have the energy to go home and see Peter.
Through the limp draperies straggling down on either side of Frederick’s parlor window, sun shone with painful brightness. She shoved the draperies aside. Traffic appeared to be moving for the first time in days. She hadn’t seen Peter since the night of his beating. The pressure to get back to him was a worrisome thing, though the flu had blunted most concerns except for her own survival.
Frederick had gone out, hopefully to buy groceries. She hadn’t eaten in days and felt weak and tired. She washed in the basin near the kitchen stove for warmth, then walked into the bedroom to get her clothes so she could dress in front of the fire.
A knock sounded on the front door. Jennifer opened it to find Simone there, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Simone…” The look in Simone’s eyes caused a cold place to form around Jennifer’s heart. “What is it?”
Simone shook her head. Tears flooded down her cheeks. “We just got word at the theater. I came at once. It’s Peter. He’s…dead.”
Chane rushed back to the Bricewood and turned it inside out looking for Jennie. He found one employee who thought he had seen her stepping into a cabriolet the afternoon the blizzard started, but no one had any idea where she was going or if she had gotten there.
Tom Wilcox turned up another employee, a bellman, who thought he saw her getting into a cab with one of the dancers—a young man. Tom Wilcox sent his men out to interview cabbies.
By four o’clock Chane had exhausted every lead. He and Steve sat in Chane’s office and tried to think where she could possibly be. Mrs. Lillian confirmed that Jennie had been missing since before the blizzard started, but she thought Jennie had returned home and been caught there by the storm. She had tried to call Jennie, but the lines had already been pulled down by the storm.
At four-thirty Chane’s secretary stepped into his office. “Excuse me, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a young man here to see you.”
Chane glanced quickly at Steve, then followed his secretary out into the hall. A thin young man in a cheap wool hat and coat stood beside George’s desk.
“Are you Mr. Kincaid?”
“I am.”
He handed Chane a large brown envelope. Chane fished a bill out of his pocket and held it out to the young man.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” the sallow-faced youth said, grabbing the bill. Then he backed away a few steps, turned, and broke into a run. Chane strode back to his office, picked up his letter opener, ripped the end of the envelope and pulled out a note and two photographs.
At first they were upside down and his eyes didn’t focus the patterns into recognizable shapes. Then, slowly, he turned them and recognized what he was looking at. It was a traditional pose; Frederick Van Buren was seated and Jennie was standing complacently behind him. It could have been any formal photograph, except that Jennie was naked, and so was Van Buren.
Chane’s mind became oddly analytical. He had seen a number of photographs of naked women—it was one of the first uses to which the camera had been put—capturing on film what should not be shared with anyone except the men who loved them.
But then his mind veered back into the personal again. He recalled an image of Jennie rocking in the rocking chair on the ship, holding her flat little belly and talking to their unborn child. Were these photos a hint of an ongoing affair with Van Buren? How could the woman who had been cherishing her unborn child go from that to another man’s bed? A wave of nausea swept upward from his stomach. He steeled himself to keep from vomiting, concentrated on the ticktock of the clock on the wall opposite his desk, forced himself to count the seconds until the urge to spew up his lunch passed.
He decided this must be a trick. Jennie couldn’t have betrayed him with her dance partner. These might be old photographs. She never claimed to be a virgin. And she was young and high-spirited. Perhaps these had been taken long ago.
Chane realized Steve was still standing behind him. He must have seen at least a glimpse of the photographs, since he was looking carefully at his shoes. Chane could not imagine sharing this information with anyone, not even Steve. But he’d need to tell someone, and he could trust Steve.
Who could possibly have sent these photographs, and what did they hope to gain? Was Jennie being held prisoner somewhere? He realized one sheet felt different from the others. It was a note. He slipped it on top of the pictures.
Jennifer Van Vleet is waiting for you at 358 First Avenue.
Kincaid, his mind corrected. Jennifer Kincaid.
He shoved the photographs back into the envelope. “I’m going out,” he said shakily.
Steve Hammond was appalled by the sudden change in Chane. His friend’s healthy color had receded, leaving him gray. “I’ll go with you.”
Steve looked determined, and Chane had no energy to argue. He might need Steve’s help. “All right.”
Simone insisted on staying awhile with Jennifer. But Jennifer was so grief-stricken, all she wanted w
as to be alone. Simone took her own grief with her back out into the frozen city.
Jennifer lay down in the front room where she’d slept these past few days. Tears flowed freely, but they brought no relief from the crushing grief that gripped her. Peter’s face filled her mind. The longer she cried, the more enraged she felt.
She lost track of time. A knocking sound startled her. It sounded like the front door again.
“Who is it?”
“Jennie, it’s Chane. Open the door.”
At the sound of his voice, her heart leaped into a wild, erratic rhythm.
“Jennie!” Even through the door, his voice commanded her. The sound became confused with the memory of their wedding. “Do you promise to love, honor, and cherish this woman until death do you part?” Her mind seemed to work oddly now, to spurt out thoughts in disjoined little bits and pieces.
“Jennie!”
Jennifer glanced at the clock on the dresser. Five-thirty. And already dark outside. A few days ago she would have thrown open the door and rushed into his arms. Now she walked to the chest of drawers where Frederick kept his revolver, took it out, fumbled with the cylinder until she was sure it was fully loaded, then put it into her skirt pocket.
Chane pounded on the door.
Every nerve in her body jerked. The pounding came again—bam, bam, bam.
Rage flushed through her with such heat she felt dizzy. Her fingers tightened on the cool, smooth metal of the revolver. She gripped it with one hand and turned the doorknob with the other. The door swung wide.
Chane loomed at her in the shadowy hallway. His suit was wet and rumpled. He looked as though he’d slogged through mud in it. His face was haggard and unshaven.
At the sight of her, Chane’s eyes glittered with unaccustomed hardness. Oddly impersonal, his gaze jarred her, and she realized that he probably had killed her brother.
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 20
