by Naomi Finley
Michael made a stop at a building outside of Five Points, and he disappeared inside and returned with a black woman dressed in a yellow taffeta gown fit for a woman of luxury. Her hair had been styled with care, but how she regarded Michael like a caged animal validated what I feared: she had suffered at the man’s hands. My core heated with anger, and I struck the seat with my fist. I envisioned my hands around his throat, relishing the life draining from his eyes—an end too lenient for a man of his depravity.
My driver followed the other carriage to a shack in Five Points, where the carriage door opened and Burrell landed in the street in a motionless heap. Then the woman was shoved out to sprawl on the muddy ground before the carriage carried on down the road. I watched the weeping woman crawl to her man’s side.
Onlookers stood back, watching, but no one moved to aid the woman as she labored to haul her man from the street and oncoming traffic. Long after they disappeared inside, I sat numbly in my seat.
“Ma’am?” The driver slapped the window.
I leaned forward, cracked the door, and gave him the address a few blocks from the brothel. I couldn’t risk the driver discovering who I was, and I didn’t know how deep Oliver’s ties ran and who he kept in his employment. As the carriage pulled away from the curb, I took one last look at the shack the couple had entered and offered a prayer to Big John’s gods that Burrell would survive.
Since that day, I found every excuse not to visit Oliver, but regardless of how hard I tried, all could not be avoided. And on the occasions when we copulated, I lay on my side afterward, trembling, long after he slept. When sleep did come, my dreams were haunted by what had transpired inside the study, or that Oliver had discovered I knew of his plans, and he was blackmailing me with my murder of the congressman. Upon waking, my mind raced with ways to even the score. I was at a disadvantage, and it made me ill at ease. I had to find out who Oliver Evans was, to gain an equal footing.
So far, the private investigator I’d hired had failed to bring me any information, and my patience dwindled. Thoughts of spending another moment in the company of a monster roiled my stomach. But I could surpass any actress on Broadway with my performance skills. When Oliver and I lay together I turned off the emotions, as I had as a girl, and to my advantage, he didn’t require coupling as often as most men.
“Good day, Miss Laclaire.” Mr. Curtis pulled me from my thoughts as he rose from his chair. In my peripheral vision, I caught Oliver standing on the boardwalk, observing through the large windows. “What are you doing here? Our meeting isn’t until next week.”
At fifty or so, he was a respected lawyer and a family man. I sashayed forward, and his blue eyes widened as he relished the calculated sway of my body. So easily molded. Mentally, I smiled. He offered an outstretched hand in which I lightly placed mine. I lowered my gaze, peering at him through thick lashes. Ensuring I stood front and center in the window, I said with a flirtatious laugh, “Oh, foolish me. I must have gotten the dates wrong.”
His fingers lingered. “No need to worry. Please have a seat.” He gestured at a leather chair in front of the walnut desk.
I obliged, and he rounded the desk and sat. “I won’t have the papers for the property drawn up until Friday, but we can discuss anything that may concern you.”
His voice trailed off as I watched Oliver climb into a carriage, and as it pulled away from the curb, I leaped to my feet, almost kicking over the chair. He gaped.
“Miss Laclaire?”
“I’m sorry for the mix-up. I will return next week as scheduled.”
“Are you certain?” He followed me as I hurried from the room.
“Yes,” I said over my shoulder as I gripped the doorknob.
Glancing up and down the boardwalk before stepping outside, I wove back across the street to the coffeehouse. My stomach knotted. Please still be here.
The aroma of fresh coffee beans and sweet pastries tantalized my senses as I entered. The man who’d served Oliver and me came to greet me. “You’ve returned. Did you forget something?” His sparse brows lifted.
Dismissing him with a hand, I searched for the women, and to my relief, they remained, engaged in conversation. I approached the ladies, and as they glanced up, I cast a look at the door, half expecting Oliver to walk in and drag me off to the warehouse where Michael had kept the black woman, never to see the light of day again.
Fear whispered its warning but I suppressed it as Big John’s face flashed before my mind’s eye. I envisioned him in the aftermath of whatever Oliver and Michael schemed against Livingston. Life would never cross the slave’s and my paths again, but if I could help one of his people, my pathetic existence wouldn’t have been in vain. Willow Armstrong and her slaves would suffer terribly if I didn’t warn of the threat awaiting them. My courage ignited, and determination pushed me forward.
I regarded the ladies’ confused faces and looked at the auburn one wearing an outdated and somewhat tired outfit, though she exuded an admirable sense of fashion. The other lady seemed to have been strikingly attractive in her day. Although time had wrinkled her flesh and silvered her once-blond tresses, her eyes were wise and her beauty had only been transformed with age. I addressed the older woman. “Whitney Tucker?”
She nudged the younger woman, who straightened. “Who’s asking?” Her voice echoed like a train leaving the station. I cringed at the attention she attracted.
A callous glint shone in her eyes as they roved over me. I responded with my own examination, and on closer inspection, I sensed that, stripped of prettiness and the fashionable facade, this was a woman of fortitude and grit. However, I detected what I’d observed in many of the women who entered my brothel looking for work—an unpolished gem, damaged by life. In Tucker’s eyes, though, flashed an inner spirit that yet survived. A disposition that jived with mine.
“My name is Amelie Laclaire. I must ask you, do you know a Willow Armstrong?”
The woman tensed. “I do.”
I gulped, and warnings scurried. Are you sure you should do this? The wrath of Oliver would see me vanish. “I-I have reason to believe she may be in grave danger. If you wish to help your friend, meet me at the corner of Baxter and Park Street.”
Tucker’s fingers gripped the table, and she started to rise, but I lifted a hand to stop her. “Please don’t cause a scene.” Again I glanced at the door. “I feel what I have to say is most urgent. If you care for this Willow, you will meet me at the named spot at seven.” I whirled and bolted for the door.
Later that night, wrapped in a simple dark cape, I waited for the Tucker woman in night’s shadows, and with each carriage that approached my heart hammered faster. When a buggy stopped down the street, I squinted to inspect who stepped out. A man disembarked and turned to offer a hand to a woman, and in the dim street light, I recognized Tucker’s auburn mane.
What was she doing? Hadn’t I said to come alone? I thought back and couldn’t recollect if I had, but surely she had understood the risk of bringing a spectator. Perhaps it was her husband, I consoled myself before setting my jaw. Even so, she risked my involvement by including someone else.
As they drew closer, I stepped from the shadows. Tucker jumped and released a string of curses.
“Who is this?” I pointed at the man.
She placed a hand to her throat before her green eyes flashed with annoyance. “You about plucked the heart from my chest. Is it you?”
“Yes, it’s me. You should have come alone.”
“That may be so, but my auntie wouldn’t hear of it. So here we are.”
“Who is he?”
“Protection,” she said sharply. “Hired by my aunt. Now let’s not waste time. Why did you request that I come? Tell me what danger you speak of.”
I glanced at the man, who stood back, surveying the street and passersby. “Come.” I clutched her hand and ducked back into the shadows.
Once out of sight, I glanced around for prying eyes before lowering the hood of m
y cape and lifting the veil concealing my face. “Do you know someone by the name Oliver Evans?”
She shook her head. “Not to my recollection.”
“A Michael?”
“I’ve known a few in my time. What’s the man’s surname?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s splendid,” she scoffed, throwing her hands in the air. Sarcasm and Tucker appeared to be well acquainted.
I gritted my teeth. “They speak of a place called Livingston and a woman by the name Willow Armstrong.”
“And?” She rolled her hand in midair as if to pluck my words at a speed of her own.
“I’ve heard them plotting to harm them.”
“Harm them? How so? And why?”
“Some time back, I overheard the men discussing a plan to establish a spy at Livingston. They sought information concerning their suspicions that the Armstrongs were involved in the aiding of fugitives.”
At that, she stiffened, and her face blanched. “A spy?”
“Yes, and when the man returned after time away, Michael brought him to Oliver, and the man confirmed the men’s suspicions. Whatever it is your friend is involved in, they know, and they intend to use it against her.”
Hands anchored on her waist, she paced in a small circle. “How can you be certain?”
“I told you what I heard.”
“Scarcely anything to go on,” she said in a curt tone.
“I feared my word wouldn’t be enough. That is why I’ve brought you here.”
She glanced around. “Why?”
“To speak to the man himself.”
“The spy?” Her voice clanged like a church bell.
I yanked her arm and said through clenched teeth, “Where did you learn to whisper? In a gunfight?”
She pulled her arm free and glowered at me, but managed to whisper, “Where is he?”
I lowered the veil and concealed my hair under the hood before gesturing for her to follow. She turned and belted out a loud whistle. I halted in my tracks, the sound pinging my nerves and alerting those around us. I glowered at her. What was wrong with the woman? She appeared intelligent enough, but my God, had she been hung from her toes and shaken of all common sense?
“Perhaps more discretion would be best.” I strode by her.
The streetlights caught the flush in her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
I thought it best to keep conversation to a minimum. We walked back the way we’d come, and the hired man joined us. Taking a good look at him I realized I didn’t recognize him, and I was grateful for that. “Let’s go.”
I led the way down the boardwalk, keeping to the shadows of the buildings until we reached the shack the black couple had entered that day. I hoped the man yet lived and wouldn’t run squealing to Oliver and Michael about our visit. I turned to Tucker and the man. “He stays outside. If something goes awry, then he can aid. Understood?”
Tucker went to instruct the man, and he glanced at me with an emotionless but professional expression. When she returned to my side, I took a deep breath in hopes of stilling the pulse hammering in my head before knocking on the door.
Footsteps shuffled inside, and a few moments later the door squeaked open a crack. “Who goes there?” a woman called out.
“Ma’am, I need to speak to your husband,” I said.
Her eyes flashed with fear. “He isn’t taking visitors.”
As the door moved to close, Tucker kicked out her leg to stop it, and before I knew what was happening, she bolted forward, and the woman stumbled back. The pitiful door grumbled and moaned on its hinge as Tucker stepped over the threshold of the couple’s home.
“What are you doing?” I grabbed at the back of her cape.
She shook me off. “I have no time for niceties. We will get to the bottom of this, and quickly.”
I’d been a fool to bring the woman. What had I been thinking? Heat radiated on my face, but my attention fell to the woman’s hand, combing the corner for a stick that lay just out of reach.
“Ma’am, we mean no harm. We came here seeking answers,” Tucker said, seeming unaware of the woman’s intent.
Before I could warn her, the woman gripped the stick and charged, cracking Tucker in the temple. She stumbled back from the blow and let out a scream. Behind me, the hired man charged in, and the woman came at us again before he bounded forward and pinned her wrists at her sides before she could strike again. The frightened woman kicked and fought.
“Easy, now,” I said to the woman while glancing at Tucker, who stood stunned and rubbing the egg-sized welt forming on her temple. “It is as she said, we aren’t here to harm you. I know what you have suffered, and I’m here to help. We have reason to believe a lot of lives are in danger, and your husband could help us stop a massacre of innocent lives.” I crept forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please.”
She ceased her struggling, but her gaze flitted between each of us. “I can’t help you. I know not what you speak of.”
“Where is your husband?” I gestured at the man to let her go. “We’ll handle it from here. Wait outside.” He released her and departed, pulling the door shut behind him.
The woman rubbed tender wrists. “Who are you?” She directed her question at me.
My brain told me not to reveal my identity, but I knew if I intended to win the woman’s trust, I had to be transparent with her. I lowered the hood and lifted my veil. “I am Amelie Laclaire.”
“I’ve heard of the name somewhere,” she said.
“I was there the day your husband was brutally attacked.”
She cringed and stepped back to put distance between us. Her gaze flitted from Tucker to me, then the door.
I held out a hand, hoping to ease her panic. “I also saw the man take you from the building. I’m not sure I have all the details, but I believe the man that took you used you as blackmail to make your husband do his bidding. Am I right?”
Tears welled as she stood trembling like a foal on newfound legs, but she remained silent.
“I promise you will not see harm for what you reveal. I’ve made arrangements for safe passage for your husband and you out of New York this very night.”
A flicker of hope shone in the woman’s eyes.
“What name do you go by?” I asked.
“Rose,” she said.
“Rose, do you know why they chose him?” Tucker asked.
Leery, the woman regarded her. “Because he—”
There was the noise of a struggle outside, and the three of us exchanged looks of panic. Tucker strode to the door and peeked outside. Mumbling something inaudible, she stepped back as the hired man pushed into the house, dragging a black man by the collar.
Rose gasped and raced forward and threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as though he were a lifeline. The man stood with his head lowered and face hidden beneath a worn felt hat.
“Is this your husband?” Tucker asked.
Rose bobbed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Release him.” Tucker gestured at the hired man, and he obeyed and returned to his post.
“Sir, we come in peace. I can help you, but I need your help first,” I said.
The man lifted his head and looked me in the eye, and for the first time, I got a clear view of him and what lay hidden in the shadows of his hat. Gruesome slashes from a blade, raised and still healing, scarred his cheeks. He stood regarding us blankly.
“Come, sit. Let us hear what they have to say.” Rose led him to a chair at a small table that looked as if it would topple over if any weight were put on it. He allowed her to guide him and sat down. She took a position at his side with a hand resting on his shoulder. It was then I noticed that nothing protruded from the cuffs of his coat.
I waited for the man to speak, and when he didn’t, I said, “Sir?”
“He cannot speak.” Rose squared her shoulders.
But I had heard him speak in th
e study. I gawked from Burrell to Rose. “But—”
“They ensured he would never reveal what he knows.” The woman’s voice trembled. “They took his tongue so he couldn’t speak of their tyranny.” She leaned forward and lifted a cuff of his coat to expose the bandaged knobs beneath. “And his hands so he couldn’t write it.”
I stifled a cry as the man’s screams reverberated in my head. They had to pay. Somehow, someway, as God as my witness, I’d see to it.
Tucker gasped and lifted a hand to shield her mouth, her face white in the lantern light.
“Monsters!” The venom spewed from me when I saw the man’s suffering, and bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down and paced the floor. The depths that Oliver and Michael would descend to in order to see harm come to Willow Armstrong and Livingston was evident in the man’s torture.
I stopped and swerved back to face the couple; heat flared in my belly, as it had the night I took the congressman’s life. I looked the man square in the eye. “I am Amelie Laclaire. Oliver Evans, one of the men that did this to you, was my lover.”
Burrell tensed, and Rose’s mouth unhinged as she eyed me with a look of betrayal.
Tucker sent a glance my way. “Lovers? Perhaps not the best piece of information to provide.”
“If I am to win your trust, I must be forthcoming with you,” I said. “I have seen you visit his townhouse. Some years ago, I overheard their plans to insert you as a spy at a plantation in the South called Livingston. Am I correct?”
He nodded.
“I assume they took Rose as leverage to make sure you came through with the information they wanted.”
“My husband’s appetite for gambling left him indebted to the man who showed up here one day,” Rose said. “By taking me, they wished to force his hand, but it did not matter what my husband did. He could have sold his soul, because it didn’t stop the man’s lust for a Negress. He used me like a Southern masa would a quarter slave. Defiled me in ways”—her voice quavered, and her expression was bitter—“one can never erase from memory.”
