“Thaddeus, I urge you not to take chances.”
“It is what I do,” he replied.
Cassandra responded with only a smile and a shake of her head.
He reached out his hand to her and she took it. “I keep thinking of kissing you,” he finally said, softly. “I cannot get the taste of your lips, or the feel of your body off my mind.”
She looked at him, wondering if she should say that she felt exactly the same way.
“My love,” he said. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
She put her glass down on the hearth and slipped from her chair onto his lap. She took his wine away and placed a kiss fully on his lips.
“You have to accept that we will never see each other again after I leave,” she said, her mouth close to his. “But until then, why should we not enjoy being together? Everyone else seems to be doing the same.”
“Except poor Samuel,” Thaddeus said.
“And Cecil and Deborah. But then, she is so ill,” Cassandra said mockingly.
“Yes, it is called being allergic to dark skin.”
Cassandra laughed. “It is too bad.”
He kissed her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him. His kisses moved once more to her lips, then again to her neck, and then to the bare skin above the low neckline of her garment. It was tied with a ribbon which he loosened with one pull. The neck of the gown fell down around her shoulders, and his hands roamed over them, continuing on to her breasts through the thin fabric. Cassandra sighed with pleasure. He then gathered her up into his arms, kissed her deeply on the mouth, and pulled the nightgown down to her waist.
“Oh, Cassandra,” he whispered, stopping to regard her in the firelight. “You are so beautiful.”
She responded by pressing her body against his and kissing him again, grasping his thick hair in her hands. She could feel his firmness beneath her. She began to unbutton his shirt, pulling it open to expose his chest. His body was just as she expected it to be, strong and slimly muscular. She continued to remove the shirt, running her hands over his athletic arms.
They were chest to chest, embracing, their bodies pressed together. She moved aside to let him unfasten his trousers. In a few quick movements she positioned herself over him, and he pulled the gown off over her head. They made love in the light of the fire, she astride him, watching his face, kissing him tenderly, moving with him in perfect union until they both reached ecstasy, their cries of pleasure muffled by their mouths pressed tightly together.
Chapter Sixteen
Nick materialized in the alleyway off Broadway. It was late evening. He didn’t bother trying to hail a hack coach; instead, he made straight for the Dylan Hotel on foot, carrying a satchel with a few days’ change of clothes and plenty of money. The gun was well hidden amidst the clothing in the bag. It was Saturday, the eleventh of June, and the night was pleasantly warm, but Nick’s brief acknowledgement of it was that the clothes he was wearing were appropriate for the weather.
People loitered around on Broadway, out on the summer night. He took it in with a scientist’s objectivity, interested in what he saw, but not in the frame of mind to appreciate it, as he would have been if his thoughts were not full of Cassandra. Within ten minutes he was at the Dylan Hotel. He passed through the front doors and approached the desk clerk.
The man looked up at him from over his spectacles and smiled with practiced politeness.
“Yes, may I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. There are two things I require.” Nick had undergone the briefest of coaching on speech and accent, but his time in England’s past had fairly well transformed his speech patterns and expressions into a permanent old-fashioned manner.
“Yes, sir?”
“First, I will need a room, probably for a couple of nights.”
“Very good, that should not be a problem. Another month and we will be booked solid with the opening of the Crystal Palace—”
“Yes.” Nick cut him off. “One other thing. I believe a lady might be staying here—two actually, a Cassandra Reilly and an Evelyn Bay. Do you know of them?”
The clerk thought a minute. “The name Reilly sounds familiar; I believe they were here a few weeks ago, let me look in the reservation book.” He thumbed a few pages back while Nick craned to see. “Ah, here it is. Yes, Mrs. Cassandra Reilly. She and her companion stayed in our best two-bedroom suite.”
Nick’s heart pounded. “But they are not here now?”
“No, they checked out on…Sunday, May fifteenth.”
“Damn.” Nick breathed. “Did they say where they were going?”
“No,” the clerk said with an edge of suspicion in his voice. “I recall that a private carriage came to pick them up. That is all I know.”
Nick felt the urge to throttle the man, but choked back his frustration. He slid a five-dollar bill across the desk. “Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell me?”
The clerk picked up the money. “Well, let me think. I remember that one evening we hailed a cab to take them to Delmonico’s…one day they came in carrying packages from A.T. Stewart’s and Tiffany, Young and Ellis. They were obviously wealthy and quite beautiful as I recall—”
“Yes, I know. Nothing else? No one came to call on them? They did not come or go with anyone?”
“Sir, I do not know what you are implying, but we do not let that kind of activity go on in this establishment.”
“No, no, of course not. Just give me a room. I shall pay for two nights.”
“Very well, that will be twenty dollars. Your name?”
“Nicholas Stockard.” He removed the money from a clip in his pocket and handed it over. The clerk gave him a key with a room number on it.
“Second floor. Will you be requiring anything else?”
“No. Thanks.” Nick grabbed his bag and stomped up the stairs.
The next morning he was in front of All Angels Church bright and early. He didn’t know what time the service started, but didn’t want to take the chance to miss to it, and to question the people there. A sign on the gate said it started at nine; half an hour to go.
The doors were open so he walked inside. It was cool and quiet. A few people were already seated, thumbing through hymnals and Bibles. He walked up to an elderly lady sitting near the front.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I wonder if you could help me.”
The woman looked him up and down and clutched her handbag tightly.
“I am looking for someone,” he went on. “Mrs. Cassandra Reilly. She is an attractive red-haired woman in her thirties, and her companion is a dark-haired younger woman, Miss Evelyn Bay.”
“Yes,” she replied, relaxing her guard a bit. “I do remember seeing some ladies like that at our services, but do not know anything about them. I am sorry, sir.” She dismissed him with a turn of her head.
He looked at the other people seated. One was a shabbily dressed man staring blankly ahead. The other was another old woman swathed in black. They didn’t look promising.
The door to the back opened and a lady with a gray bun entered, carrying a vase of flowers. She went to put them in front of the lectern. Nick imagined she must be someone in charge. He approached her, hat in hand.
“Excuse me,” he began.
“Yes?” she answered in a kindly way, straightening up to face him.
“My name is Nicholas Stockard and I am looking for a friend of mine who was in New York recently and I believe might have stopped by here. Her name is Cassandra.”
The woman abruptly put her hand to her heart and went pale.
“Cassandra?”
“Yes, yes,” he went on. “Cassandra Reilly, and her companion—”
“Miss Bay!” said the woman.
“Yes!” Nick’s heart leapt into his throat. “Do you know them?”
“Of course! Oh my goodness.” She put her hand on Nick’s arm as if she were going to faint. “Please, come in the back with me. I need you to meet Father.
Come.” She grasped his arm and escorted him quickly through the back door into a large hall. A tall, wiry man with a full, gray beard was pacing back and forth muttering something to himself while he checked some notes on a page.
“Father!” the woman cried out to him. “This gentleman knows Mrs. Reilly and Miss Bay!”
“What?” said the man. “Come, come sit down.” He motioned to a table and chairs. “I am Reverend Jeremiah Williams.” He extended his hand for Nick to shake and they sat. “What do you know of Mrs. Reilly and Miss Bay? They left here with my granddaughter and some…friends…a week ago. We expected them to return long before now. Have you heard from them?”
Nick had not been prepared for this outcome. “No, I have not,” he answered. “I am Mrs. Reilly’s fiancé.”
“Her fiancé!” exclaimed the woman. “She never mentioned a fiancé.”
Nick tried not to be irritated by the woman’s reaction. “Well, we had not exactly made it public yet. Anyway, I expected her back in Boston a week ago, and when she did not return, I came to find her. I am most worried about her. Please, you must tell me what you know!”
“I am afraid,” the reverend interjected, “that the business she is involved in is of a very sensitive nature. We must be very careful to whom we divulge information. At the same time, we are very worried about my granddaughter who was with Mrs. Reilly when they… left Manhattan. Perhaps we can piece this puzzle together if we speak at length and come to know more about who you are, sir.” He looked at his pocket-watch. “I have a service to conduct and a sermon to deliver in about fifteen minutes. Will you please stay for the service, and then come to the rectory afterwards for lunch? Then we can perhaps share the information we have and get to the bottom of this.”
“Yes, of course,” said Nick.
“Please,” said the woman, “will you not have a seat in the sanctuary? The time of contemplation and prayer will do us all good. By the way, I am Sarah Johnston. My daughter, who is missing, is also named Cassandra.”
Nick now understood that the woman was Ben Johnston’s wife, and the Cassandra she spoke of his daughter.
“Very nice to meet you,” he said to her. “Thank you for your kindness. Thank you, sir,” he said to Reverend Williams. “I will look forward to our talk after the service.” He bowed to them and walked back into the sanctuary, which was now filling up.
He took a seat and looked at his pocket-watch, wondering how he would survive the next hour or so. The service, though not uninteresting, seemed to drag on forever. It was ten-thirty by the time the reverend had finished greeting people and could extract himself from his congregation.
Finally, Sarah approached Nick and asked him to go with her to the rectory next door. They crossed the courtyard in back of the church, and she led him inside her home and into a small parlor. She brought him a cup of coffee, and soon after, her father walked in. They gathered at the dining table, and a maid served them an early luncheon. Nick found it was difficult to remember to use the correct manners and remain polite while most anxiously trying to procure information from his hosts. But they would not reveal anything until he told them about himself. And so he invented a tale of his love for Cassandra Reilly, how he’d lost his own dear wife to tuberculosis some ten years earlier, and how, when poor Mrs. Reilly had lost her sainted husband, their mutual loss had turned their acquaintance to friendship (they originally knew each other from their church, he added) and the friendship slowly evolved to attraction. He wanted to make her happy; he wanted to be a rock for her and her elderly parents. He had means, as did she, and together they would be able to provide a good inheritance for her son and whatever grandchildren they would hopefully have in the near future.
But, he added in a pained voice, Mrs. Reilly had gone away on this trip to New York with Miss Bay to ponder his proposal of marriage and decide if she could bear to supplant the memory of her dearly departed husband.
He noticed Sarah Johnston look at her father askance. She suggested that they now tell Nick what had transpired a week before. And so she and her father related the saga about the runaways and what they knew of Evie and Cassandra’s current whereabouts from Carter’s accounts.
“She is in Albany?” Nick asked incredulously.
“Well, that is where Mr. Evans’ brother lives, and where the runaways were planning to stay until they went on to Canada. Mrs. Reilly, Miss Bay, and our Cassandra were not supposed to go with them. Even so, I’d think they would have gotten back by now.”
This was one of the many times this Mr. Evans’ name had come up in the telling of the story and every time it did, the reverend and Sarah had cast each other a glance.
“Could you tell me more about Mr. Evans?”
“Mr. Thaddeus Evans,” said Sarah, “is a wonderfully charismatic speaker and a key activist in the abolition movement. I think he felt bad that he had gotten Miss Bay and Mrs. Reilly mixed up in it all. I mean, just that—” she stopped and appeared flustered. “It is just that he did not mean for them to get involved.” She looked at her father.
“Yes,” replied Nick. “I am rather dismayed myself. I certainly did not think Mrs. Reilly was going to come down here and become engaged in dangerous activities. This is not like her, you know.”
“Well, it was more Miss Bay.” Sarah lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think she was smitten with our Caleb, after all.”
“Now Sarah, do not gossip,” said her father with an edge to his voice. “Mr. Stockard,” he continued, “the information we are sharing with you is very confidential. Nobody knows about Mr. Evans’ brother’s home in Albany, or that they were to use it for a safe house. We cannot let that information be divulged because if the Vanderhoffs find out, they will not stop until they find the man. Our coachman, Carter, told us that Evans was forced to defend his friends from these maniac slave-catchers at gunpoint when they went to meet the ferry to Astoria. We do not know for sure who was wounded or killed, but the Adams’s tell us that our loved ones and friends escaped unscathed. That means some of the Vanderhoff gang was injured, at very least, and they will want revenge against Evans.”
“The Vanderhoff gang, you say.” said Nick, the back of his neck prickling.
“Yes. Notorious. An ugly, ruthless bunch.”
“My goodness.” Nick became lost in thought. Finally he roused himself. “I wonder if I should try to get a train to Albany today and search for the home of Mr. Evans’ brother.”
“I do not know,” worried Sarah. “I feel they may be on their way back, if not today, maybe tomorrow. We would send a message, but we do not know the address of the brother, or his first name; it was all kept secret. If you went there, you would be searching in vain for some time, I am afraid. It might be wiser to just wait a few more days. It is what we are resigned to do.”
“Yes, maybe one or two more days, but it is all I can wait,” said Nick. He rose to go. “You have been so kind and helpful. And thank you for the wonderful meal. I am afraid I do not have much of an appetite, so I will leave you to finish it without me. I hope you understand. I am in despair. I would feel better if I walked around and took some time to think.”
“Yes, of course,” Reverend Williams said. “Will you not come and join us for dinner tomorrow afternoon? Perhaps by then we will have heard something and if not, we can put our heads together again and form a plan.”
“Thank you. That sounds perfect. What time?”
“We eat at four,” Sarah answered.
“Very well. Until then. I am staying at the Dylan Hotel. If you hear anything before then, anything at all, please send a messenger right away.”
“We shall, Mr. Stockard, without fail.”
“Good day,” he said to them, bowing.
The maid came to see him out.
After the door closed on him, Nick went back to his hotel and retrieved the gun, stashing it in his coat. He then headed downtown. He had a feeling about where he might find information concerning the Vanderhoff gang.<
br />
About twenty minutes at a brisk walk took him into the Five Points. He kept his hat low and didn’t make eye contact as he shuffled through the crowded, filthy streets, looking for a pub. It wasn’t long before the shouts of drunken men and the smell of sour ale led him to a run-down tavern on a side street. He shouldered his way through the throng of loiterers outside and into the smoky, dark room.
Drunken men lay about on stools and on the floor, others played cards on a make-shift table covered in grease and grime. A few toothless hags hung around, trying to attract the attention of anyone that cared to look. Nick felt he would gag at the stench of unwashed bodies, rotten food, stale alcohol, and urine. He clutched at the gun in his jacket and moved his way to the bar, receiving unwelcome stares as he did. He pulled five dollars out of his pocket and set in on the bar with one word.
“Vanderhoff.”
The bartender, a fat, sweaty man with a crusty eye patch, considered as he picked up the money. He uttered a name and turned away. Nick knew just where the place was. He fled the tavern, and on the street, turned north and hurried out and away from the Five Points.
He hailed a hack coach, which took him to the Valencia Hotel on St. Mark’s Place, a location he remembered from studying the streets in the virtual tours he had taken with Cassandra. He got out, paid the driver, and walked into the establishment, a place, if not as nice as the Dylan Hotel, at least mildly respectable. He went to the desk clerk and laid a twenty before the man.
“Vanderhoff’s room number.”
The clerk looked from Nick’s face to the money uneasily. It was a huge sum.
“We do not want any trouble in here, sir,” said the clerk.
“I promise you there will be no trouble.” Nick moved his jacket lapel aside and showed the man his gun. “Just tell me the room number.”
“Number three-o-six.”
“Thanks.” Nick climbed the wooden staircase to the third floor. The hotel was shabby, the hallway narrow, lit by gas lamps. Nick found the door number and knocked, his reflexes poised to grab his gun.
The Time Heiress Page 24
