“You manage to remind me every single Sunday,” Esme said to Lilly and picked up her hat.
Outside, the wind lifted the collar of her jacket, cinched at the waist. Abel waited by the runabout, holding the door open for the both of them. She never noticed his scars anymore—there was no need to keep them covered with gloves.
She heard the singing even before they entered Trinity Methodist, the robust sounds of miners and their families, most of them German, some Cornish, blended as she arrived. Down the street, St. Patrick’s Catholic Church tolled its bells. Archie had attended Redeemer Lutheran, so she’d accompanied him the two times he managed to attend—once for Daughtry’s funeral. The second, just weeks later, for his own. But always she’d returned to Trinity. She needed the comfort of Ruby and Dustin, even of Agnes O’Shaunessy, who reminded her that God could reap blessing from darkness.
Thirteen years later, seeing her daughter settle into the pew beside her, she believed it. Lilly picked up the hymnal, paged to the number on the board in the front of the church, and lifted her voice as if she might be angelic.
Ruby glanced down the aisle at Esme, who rolled her eyes. Ruby shook her head, patting her oldest on his head. Beside her, Dustin held the baby over his shoulder as he sang.
“Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!”
Esme couldn’t help but think, every time they sang this song, of that day too soon after her honeymoon, waiting until darkness filled every cranny of the hillside, scattered only by the electric lights on the Neck’s entrance, her breath crammed into her chest.
“Up from the grave He arose…”
She’d never forget how, suddenly, the earth trembled beneath her, a shudder almost, as if in witness to her worst fears. How Ruby took her hand as they fell to their knees. How a plume of black smoke spat from the gaping mouth of the mine.
“…with a mighty triumph o’er His foes,”
As soon as the ash cleared, they sent down a second crew, worked through the night. By dawn, the first lift of survivors appeared.
“He arose a victor from the dark domain…”
Dustin, his arm broken, and Abel, his hands seared by the smoke, his legs, mangled.
“…and He lives forever, with His saints to reign.”
Daughtry, however, had never fully emerged, his body so broken they only recovered a portion. He’d been deep in the mine, drilling holes in the debris, hoping to loosen it to retrieve the men caught behind. Abel suggested, long after, that perhaps he’d been priming a stick of powder with a cap when it exploded.
However, the explosion had loosened the cave-in and freed the trapped miners.
“He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!”
She closed her eyes, imagined him beside her. He might be proud of what she’d done with the mine. She’d sold off half his shares to the miners, giving them a stake in their earnings. No worries with unions—they held their own futures in their hands, learned what it meant to manage a mine as it grew to feed a town that doubled in size.
The Copper Valley Times expanded to a daily. Then took over the press in three other small towns.
She might even consider herself a newspaper baroness if she let herself measure her profits. She slipped her arm through her daughter’s.
“Vainly they watch His bed, Jesus my Savior, vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord!”
Yes, Lilly could have benefited from a father, someone to dote on her, buy her dresses, treat her like a lady.
Esme glanced at her daughter then to her daughter’s feet. From beneath the white skirt peeked her dirty boots from the porch.
She’d turned into a truly wild thing under Abel’s encouragement. Lilly knew how to rope and ride and shoot and herd and…
Esme had raised a boy.
Her daughter had no idea how to behave in cultured society. Didn’t know the legacy of her name.
She’d become her father’s child. Perhaps it was time she became her mother’s daughter. Oh, how she longed to have Daughtry’s wisdom, his character. His ability to live in two worlds.
How she longed to truly believe his words, the ones she so long ago pocketed inside, “O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.”
“Up from the grave He arose; with a mighty triumph o’er His foes!”
She did trust in God. Had seen His goodness to her over the past thirteen years.
Had Lilly to prove that He could make blessing out of suffering, at least out here in the West.
“He arose a victor from the dark domain, and He lives forever, with His saints to reign.”
She slipped her arm around Lilly. Imagined her father’s face if she returned to New York. She’d like to show her daughter Central Park, take her to dinner at Delmonico’s, perhaps to the opera. Dress her in pearls.
“He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!”
Perhaps it was time to go home.
* * * * *
“What are you doing here?” After seventeen years, and spending too much time imagining this moment, Jinx had hoped for better, more emotionally accurate words to issue from her mouth. And, possibly more ceremony than to grab Bennett by the arm and yank him inside her chamber.
Surely, she’d lost her mind. And Bennett stared at her as if she had too, when she shut her door behind him. She didn’t turn then, simply ran her hand over the door, her heart so far in her throat, she had no words.
Bennett Worth.
She turned and just drew him, head to toe, into her mind, afraid he might vanish. He wore a white shirtwaist and a black cutaway and tie, as if he’d been out for dinner. Time had only broadened his shoulders, darkened his bronze hair, made him more devastatingly handsome. Her memories hadn’t done him justice.
“Are you okay?” Bennett spoke just above a whisper, as if wrenching the words from deep inside some sequestered place.
She stared up at him, trying to scrape up an answer.
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
She pressed a hand to her cheek, found it hot, wet. “I—I had a fight with Foster.”
He drew in a breath. Nodded. “He’s downstairs, drunk and angry.”
“Was that you fighting with him?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I was—I was worried for you. I know how he gets when he’s angry and drunk.”
He smelled the same—that exotic, spicy scent that she’d never forgotten. Sometimes, if she picked up a whiff of it in Harrods or Macy’s, she would stop, find herself again in his arms. Lose herself for a moment in the if-onlys.
“What are you doing here?”
“He asked me to stop by, when I saw him today.”
“Where did you see him?”
He drew in a breath. “At the Knickerbockers.” He cleared his throat. “But he asked me to stop by days ago too, when I returned to America. I should have come sooner.” The reason for his absence rose in his eyes. His mouth tightened. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—”
But he reached out, touched her arm, and she cried out.
He yanked his hand back. Stared at her. She caught his gaze and couldn’t bear it.
“I knew it—he’s hurt you.”
She started to shake her head but he took her hand and before she could protest, drew her sleeve up all the way to the now purpling bruise on her arm. He stared at it, a terrible expression on his face. Cursed. “I’m going to kill him.”
“He’s my husband—”
“It doesn’t mean he can hurt you.” His words were clipped, but she felt the fury in them.
“He’s spent his life hurting me,” she said before she could stop herself.
The look he gave her made her eyes fill, made her turn away. “I should have never left. I should have made you come with me.”
She looked up at him.
He shook his head. “You were there that day, weren’t you?”
She closed her e
yes. Nodded. “I saw Lewis and…I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
Losing her place in society. Losing her world. But she’d lost it the day he’d left.
“What did the note say that Lewis gave you?”
“It was from Foster. He told me that if I didn’t come back to New York with him that he’d cut me out of the family business. I didn’t know if he knew what was between us, but I knew that I would die a little every day seeing you with him. I had to leave.”
“I missed you,” she said softly.
“But you still can’t come with me, can you?”
She closed her eyes, and listened to him breathe, in and out, so much between them she didn’t know how to breach it. Just stood there, her back to him, unmoving. She whirled around just as he reached the door, and lunged for him. But he moved out of her reach, opened the door.
Then he turned, his eyes hard. “I would have given you a different life. A happier life.”
His words took her breath as he shut the door behind him.
It took a moment, but the words hiccupped out of her. “No. Bennett, don’t go…”
She didn’t care what society thought, what Foster might do. She flung open the door, but Bennett had already vanished. She gathered up her gown, fled from the room, down the hall, bathed only by the moonlight.
She had nearly reached the stairs when she heard the shot. It popped, resounded through the house, shaking her to her bones. She stopped, caught her breath. Then— “Bennett!” She raced down the stairs, the light from Foster’s office still spilling through the open doorway. “Bennett!” She heard footsteps down the hall but didn’t look, fear making her lunge into the room.
But it wasn’t Bennett who lay face down in front of the hearth, his blood oozing onto the Turkish carpet from the wound in his skull. Behind him lay a dueling pistol. Beside the fireplace, the garden door lay ajar.
“Foster!” She ran to him, rolled him over. His eyes already glassy, he stared at her unseeing, his mouth open. Blood puddled the floor, her robe. She pulled back her hands, stared at them, dripping. “Oh—oh…”
Behind her, she heard a scream. She turned. Amelia stood in the doorway.
A scuffling noise sounded in the garden. A shadow appeared, someone—
“Jinx!” The voice turned her again and Bennett stood in the foyer of the house, his coat on, his hat in hand. “Jinx, what happened?”
Words stuttered out of her, but she couldn’t make them clear.
Bennett’s mouth opened as he entered the room, horror on his face. “Jinx, what have you done?”
Chapter 17
Come home.
The words on the telegram pulsed inside her as Esme stepped onto the platform at Grand Central Terminal, caught at once by the pace of the city. Women pushed baby carriages, men carried cases, and soldiers in uniform, too many with the lines of war etched into their faces, bustled through the marble expanse. At the far end, the brass clock showed the early hour.
She couldn’t wait to surprise her father.
“This station is enormous,” Lilly said beside her. She’d managed to coax her daughter into a dress, her long braids hanging down under a straw hat. “And it smells funny.”
“That’s the smell of the city. Of people. Of life.” Esme took her daughter’s hand, despite Lilly’s efforts to dodge her, and pulled her through the terminal. The porters would ferry her trunks to her parents’ home.
They emerged onto Park Avenue and a porter called them a taxi. A yellow Model A pulled up and she climbed with Lilly into the back. “The Chronicle Building, please.” She’d debated since Chicago where to head first, and the words simply emerged. The Chronicle, to her father’s office.
The driver turned down 42nd Street and she settled back in the seat, pressed her hand on her stomach. She’d purchased a new suit in Chicago, a V-necked blouse, a skirt, a low-belted jacket. She’d long ago shortened her skirts to compensate for the mud in Silver City; now it seemed she fit right in to fashion.
“You used to live here?” Lilly pressed herself against the window as they turned left on Broadway. They passed trolley cars pulled by horses, walking alongside streetcars and open-cab Dodge and Buick tourers and four-door roadsters, shiny Rolls Royce runabouts, and delivery cars painted in fresh blue and red. Theaters—the Casino, the Winter Gardens, and the Knickerbocker loomed above her, their bright lights chronicling the shows— Oh! Boy, and King Lear, the Ziegfeld Follies at the New Amsterdam Theater. As they passed The Metropolitan Opera House, rich memories washed over her—Wagner’s Huldigungsmarsch, and Liszt’s Polonaise, standing in the cold, the January wind finding her skin despite her mink coat as they waited for their carriage, her hand tucked into her father’s arm.
“Yes, I used to live here,” she said quietly.
She drew her breath in as the Chronicle Building came into view. It hadn’t changed in nearly twenty years. Minerva and the bell ringers still graced the apex of the building. The arched doorways beckoned welcome. The pigeons took roost on the lamppost out front where the newsies once lounged.
The driver pulled over across the street and helped them out.
“Do you wish that I wait?” he asked in an accent she placed as Irish. Across the street, the elevated train rumbled by.
Lilly had a tight grip on her hand.
“No, thank you,” she said, paying him. She stopped for a moment and simply smelled the city, the smoke and oil from the train, the trolleys, the animal scents still cluttering the street, the odor of gasoline, the smell of chestnuts roasting, the hubbub of pedestrians passing by.
“Extra, extra, read all about it! Local heiress accused of murder!”
Esme caught the ring of a local newsie, his voice rising from his perch on the corner. She glanced at him, tempted, for a moment, to press a dime into his hand, to buy herself a crisp paper, to smell the newsprint.
Read the headline.
But her father beckoned.
She waited then scooted Lilly across the street, between trolley cars.
She stopped for a moment, under the statue of her father.
“Is that my grandfather?” Lilly asked.
“Yes,” Esme said, and turned to see if he might be looking down on her from his round window. The window remained dark.
As they entered, her gaze went to the cloakroom, where Oliver had hidden her from her father, where he’d declared his love for her.
Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. So long ago, but the grief came at her, fresh, blunt. She drew in a quick breath.
“It smells like the Times,” Lilly said, standing in the middle of the circular room.
“It’s the newsprint,” Esme said, finding herself again. “The pressroom is right through those doors.” She pointed to her left.
She wasn’t a desperate young woman any longer, afraid of her father’s wrath. She had a business, a fortune of her own.
She’d been married, lost a husband, had a daughter.
She was long over Oliver and the effect of his memory running rampant through her heart.
“Let’s go meet your grandfather,” she said and led Lilly up the stairs to the Chronicle offices.
Although the Copper Valley Times had expanded into the mercantile next door, and although Esme had acquired three more linotype machines and a rotary press, the breadth of the New York Chronicle’s city department, the row of editorial offices on both sides of the building, the massive library, could cause her baroness heart to leap. The Chronicle had such power, such influence.
She could admit that she still someday hoped to helm it.
She entered the reception area, half expecting someone she might know. A broad woman in a suit sat at the desk, her dark hair piled behind her head. She looked up, offering a smile that didn’t quite meet her gray eyes. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see the publisher,” Esme said, tucking her arm around Lilly.
“He’s not in yet.”
Esme
glanced at the clock. Nearly nine a.m. “That’s not like him.”
“No,” she said. “He had a family emergency of some sort. You may wait, if you’d like.” She gestured to a bench along the wall.
Esme glanced at the closed door. “I’d rather wait in his office, surprise him.”
The woman gave her a look. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
Esme smiled. “No, you don’t understand. I’m his daughter. And this is his granddaughter, Lilly.”
The woman’s smile fell, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure what kind of trick you’re playing, but he doesn’t have a daughter. Or a wife, for that matter. Perhaps you should leave.”
Esme’s heartbeat quickened at her words, a hiccup of her breath. “Perhaps we’re not talking about the same person. I’m looking for August Price. I’m his daughter, Esme.”
The woman wore the pallor of a Montana winter. She swallowed, and it was the way her hands shook before she clasped them in her lap that unnerved Esme the most. She managed another smile, this one kinder than the last. “I’m sorry, Miss Price, but your father hasn’t been the publisher here for two years. He’s…”
Esme pressed her hand to her stomach.
“He’s resting comfortably at home, waiting for his time.”
The clocked chipped away at her heartbeat as she tried to find a response, anything but to stand there numbly, staring at the poor woman. Finally, Lilly took her hand. “Mama?”
Esme glanced at Lilly, saw her standing there, stricken.
At home. “He’s not dead, then?” It sounded stupid to say, but the words issued from her before she could pull them back, the desperation in her tone making even the secretary wince.
“A stroke, ma’am. He has some facilities, but only on a good day.”
A stroke. How could they not have told her, not have sent a telegram? Heat started in her stomach, spread out through her body, took over her muscles.
“Come, Lilly,” she said, turning. Then, “I’d like a copy of today’s paper, please.”
The secretary handed it over and Esme folded it, tucking it under her arm.
They entered the street, the heat now turning to waves in her brain. She squeezed Lilly’s hand and hailed a cab, not caring about decorum. She’d lived too long in the West to care that people might think she’d turned bohemian. Wild.
Heiress Page 28
