Words Spoken True: A Novel

by Ann H. Gabhart

  “Perhaps instead of Garrett, I should just shoot myself.”

  “Stop your foolish talk, Father,” Adriane said. “It’s not the first time we’ve printed an inaccuracy.”

  “It’s the first time we’ve looked like complete, absolute fools,” her father said. “We’ll be ruined.”

  “It’ll take more than this to bring down the Tribune.” Adriane grabbed up another copy of the paper and stared at it a moment before she said, “What we have to do is turn this prank to our favor, and make sure that if everyone is laughing, then so are we. And laughing first.”

  “What do you mean, Addie?” Beck asked.

  “We’ll print a retraction. Take full blame for the whole fiasco. Throw ourselves on the mercy of our readers. And laugh as loudly as possible at ourselves for being so easily duped.”

  Her father looked up at her, his eyes narrowing as he considered what she said. “It could work.”

  “But we have to make sure we beat the Herald. While we can certainly give Mr. Garrett credit for his part in the whole affair, we need to avoid blaming anyone but ourselves.”

  “We could put out a special issue this afternoon with the real news,” Adriane’s father said thoughtfully.

  “What news?” Beck asked.

  “There’s the gala last night,” Adriane said.

  “There’s more news than that,” Duff spoke up. “The police pulled poor Dorrie Gilroy out of the river this morning. The river slasher again.”

  Wade stood up, in charge once more. “Beck, go find out everything you can about the murder, and Duff, locate the newsboys and tell them to come around here about noon, but don’t say why. We want this to stay a secret till the extra issue hits the streets. Adriane, get your Sally Sees column about the Jimsons’ party ready.” He looked at Adriane and smiled as if he himself had thought up the whole fake story to get some attention. “I knew we’d figure a way out of this.”

  “Don’t we always?” Adriane tried to return his smile, but her lips couldn’t seem to make the right moves.

  Her father didn’t notice, but Beck stopped beside her on his way out the door. “When this is over, we’ll figure a way to fix the rest of it, Addie. You’ll see.”

  She blinked her eyes to fight back the threat of tears and shook her head before she turned to her work desk. She pushed all thoughts of Blake Garrett out of her mind as she picked up her pen. First she had to worry about the reputation of the Tribune. Later would be time enough to worry about her own reputation.

  Her father must have thought the same, because he waited until after the surprised newsboys had taken the extra issue out the door at noon before he followed Adriane to the kitchen.

  “The extra issue may do the trick,” he said as he watched her slice cheese and bread. “Keep us from looking like total idiots.”

  “I think it will work,” Adriane agreed. She looked up from the block of cheese. “As long as you remember to control your temper and laugh every time anybody mentions the story.”

  “That’s a lot to ask.” He glowered at her for a moment, then sighed. “But of course you’re right, and people will be ragging me about it for weeks. Perhaps I should have just shot him and been done with it.”

  Adriane tried to keep her face impassive as she handed him a plate. “That would have solved very little.”

  He was studying her closely. “What is there between you and Blake Garrett?” he asked suddenly.

  “Nothing.” She didn’t try to avoid her father’s eyes. “I hardly know him.”

  “Then why did you have his cloak?” Her father’s eyes sharpened on her.

  “I forgot to fetch my own before I rushed out to try to catch Lucilla’s carriage to leave last night. When she was already gone, I decided to walk home.”

  “You what?” Her father’s voice went up an octave.

  Adriane kept her voice calm. “Unfortunately the storm was coming up, and when Mr. Garrett saw me on the street, he insisted on seeing me home in his carriage. Since as I said, I’d left my own wrap at the party, he was kind enough to loan me his.”

  Her father was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. “My stars, Adriane. How could you? What will the Jimsons think?”

  “Quite frankly, Father, I don’t care.” Adriane carefully sliced another piece off the block of cheese.

  “You can’t mean that. You’re going to marry Stanley.”

  Adriane stared at the cheese a long moment before she laid it on her plate. “What if I decide I can’t marry him, Father?”

  “We’ve already been through all this. Marrying Stanley Jimson is the best thing that could ever happen to you. I won’t let you throw away such an opportunity.”

  Adriane chose her words with the same care she might if she were expecting to see them in print. “Stanley is not the man I thought he was when I first agreed to marry him.”

  “This is Garrett’s doing too.” Her father stood up and began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. “Stanley told me the man has been following you around, trying to alienate your affections from him.”

  “Stanley has managed to do a sufficient job of that all by himself.”

  Her father waved off her words impatiently as he stopped pacing to stare at her. “Before you allow Garrett to ruin your life, you should know he has tried this before.”

  “Tried what?”

  “To gain control of a paper by wooing the daughter of the owner. I sent out a few inquiries. It appears he was once engaged to a Vandemere girl whose father owns one of the New York papers until the father, sensibly enough, put a stop to the whole affair. My sources—very reliable ones you can be sure—tell me Garrett is ready and willing to do anything to get what he wants, and he wants to have the premiere paper in Louisville.”

  “The way his readership is growing, he hardly needs to court me to achieve that end,” Adriane said drily as she sliced another piece of bread.

  “Or send us fake stories,” her father said.

  “He really didn’t intend for us to publish that.” She brushed the bread crumbs off the cabinet and dropped them in the bucket of scraps she kept for the old dog.

  “So he would have you believe. But you must keep in mind Blake Garrett is a man of many talents, and subterfuge is only one of them.”

  “What do you mean?” Adriane laid the knife down and looked up directly at her father. She didn’t see how things could keep getting worse, but at the same time she dreaded hearing whatever her father was going to say. She wanted to just go out the back door and sit on the stoop with the old dog’s head in her lap. Maybe if she could sit there in the quiet, the Lord would take hold of her hand and show her a way out of this mess.

  But her father kept talking and with each word, Adriane’s heart sank more. “Garrett is intent on seeing the Tribune fall, and if spoiling your chances to marry Stanley Jimson will accomplish that goal, then of course he will do that. You heard what the man said about Coleman controlling the Tribune.” Her father sat back down and looked intently at Adriane.

  “Does he? Does Coleman Jimson control what we print?” Adriane hardly dared breathe as she waited for her father’s answer.

  “Of course not,” her father said a bit too quickly. “But I do know Garrett has been trying to find out everything he can about Coleman. He could have learned about the money Coleman has put into the Tribune.”

  Adriane studied her father as she carefully formed her next words. “Has Coleman Jimson bought the Tribune?” When her father dropped his eyes to the tabletop and didn’t answer right away, she went on. “Has Coleman Jimson bought me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Adriane,” her father said as he got up to begin pacing again. “I only want you to marry Stanley because it’s in your own best interest.” He stopped beside her and touched her hair lightly before dropping his hand back to his side. “I don’t want to see Garrett destroy all that for you because he thinks it will bring down the Tribune.”

  Adriane
looked down at her hands a long moment before she raised her eyes back up to her father’s face. “I know you say love is not important for a good marriage, Father, but I’m not sure I can marry a man I not only don’t love but am beginning not to even like. I’ll go north and work with Grace first.”

  “So that’s who has put these ideas into your head. I should have known.” A flash of anger colored her father’s face again. “You’d starve with Grace Compton.”

  “I’m beginning to think there might be worse things than starving.”

  “Not when you’re starving.” The anger left his face, and he awkwardly stroked her hair again. “Just promise me you’ll wait awhile and think about it, Adriane. I can see that you and Stanley must have had some sort of disagreement, but don’t throw the man and all your chances over without giving him the opportunity to make it right.”

  Without waiting for her to answer or eating the first bite of the bread and cheese, he turned and headed back to his office. There was still the regular issue of the Tribune to get out.

  Her own appetite gone as well, Adriane put away the untouched food. Perhaps her father was right. Blake could be playing loose with her affections. The thought stabbed her, but it was true that Blake wanted the Tribune to falter. It had been his aim ever since he took over at the Herald.

  Adriane looked toward the door to the pressroom but instead went upstairs to her room. She touched the cover of her Bible and felt a prayer rise inside her. Our Father in heaven, help me. How many times had she whispered those very words into the darkness while locked inside a closet as a child? And eventually help had always come. Her father would open the door and let the light flood in around her. It was her father she could always trust.

  She had to trust him now. Blake had sent the fake story. Blake did want her father’s paper to fail. Her paper. Her father was right. She knew nothing about the man. Nothing except that she loved him. But what did she really know about love?

  She opened her journal to stare at the words she’d written about love the night before. Tears popped up in her eyes and made the letters of the words run together. She blinked her tears away as she very carefully tore out the page before ripping it into tiny pieces. After gathering every piece up in her fist, she went to the window and opened her hand outside to let the pieces of paper scatter to the wind. She would not let her heart fool her the way the New Orleans story had fooled her father. Then she stepped back to her desk to close the journal firmly as if to keep out any more foolish words about love before she went back downstairs to help get out the next day’s issue of the Tribune.

  15

  Blake Garrett stared at the noon issue of the Tribune. It would be expensive with the extra paper and printing time, but it might work. The readers would still laugh about the morning’s blunder, but the Tribune would survive the laughter.

  He almost had not. There had been a few minutes that morning when Blake had wondered if he was going to die the same way as his father. Not because of something he’d written to try to make his town better the way his father had, but all because of a stupid prank he’d pulled to get Adriane to talk to him. A ruse it turned out he hadn’t even needed to try.

  She’d already talked to him the night before. She’d done more than talk. Blake shut his eyes remembering yet again how softly her lips had yielded to his. How could she kiss him like that and still think of marrying Jimson?

  Blake opened his eyes and stared down at Adriane’s Sally Sees column. He skimmed through the flowery praise about the beautiful decorations, the exotic fruits, the lively dances. She waxed poetic about the dresses of several notable young belles, but made no mention at all of the couple of note, Stanley Jimson and his intended, the stunning Adriane Darcy.

  Adriane had been the belle of the ball. He hadn’t had to read his own correspondent’s account of the event to know that. He’d seen her in that spun moonlight dress, racing up the street as if she’d just stepped out of one of his dreams.

  She and Jimson must have had a fight. Blake had passed Stanley’s carriage just minutes before he’d spotted Adriane on the street.

  Blake frowned. It didn’t matter what had happened between Adriane and Stanley. What mattered was finding a way to convince her to talk to him again. To give him another chance to explain. To give him another chance to kiss her.

  Blake sighed and rubbed his eyes. That was about as likely right now as him catching the river slasher. Again he stared down at the Tribune. It was the first headline Darcy had beaten him to for weeks, but the Tribune’s facts were sketchy. Blake’s readers would be ready to grab his paper first thing in the morning to find out more.

  He just wished he knew more to tell. Oh, he knew more facts about Dorrie Gilroy. She was eighteen. Irish like the rest. A pretty little slip of a girl who never had a bad word for anyone, not even her father when he was in his cups and knocked her about a little. The father had been frantic with grief that morning at dawn when the police had brought him down to the river to identify his daughter’s body.

  “She never hurt nobody,” he kept saying over and over. “Not little Dorrie. Why would anybody want to do that to her?”

  Nobody had any answers for him. Blake wasn’t sure there were any answers to have. Whoever was doing this didn’t have a reason. No sane reason a person could speak. The monster was killing because he took pleasure in the act of killing. And a person like that would strike again as soon as the memory of this murder faded and he felt safe enough to do it again. Unless somebody stopped him.

  Blake turned and stared at the presses. He’d make sure the police didn’t ignore little Dorrie’s murder. He’d push and prod them with editorials until they found this killer.

  Not only that, but he was ready to take on Coleman Jimson. Even now Joe was setting an editorial questioning some of Jimson’s business tactics. Blake made no actual accusations, but still the wording was strong enough that Joe had looked it over and then given him a worried frown.

  “You sure you want to print this, boss?” he’d asked. “You go against Jimson and the Know Nothings, you could find yourself out of a paper and fast.”

  Blake knew Joe was right. Feelings were running high all through the city, but whatever the consequences, Blake was going to use his paper for what he thought was right, be it catching murderers or keeping the wrong men out of political office. So far John Chesnut had given him free rein to print whatever he wanted as long as they were selling papers. He just had to make sure people kept buying those papers.

  He put down the Tribune and slapped his hat on before he headed back down to the riverfront. His steps slowed as he passed the street that led to the Tribune offices, but Adriane wouldn’t listen to him today. Not after the morning. He’d write her a note later begging to see her again so he could explain.

  He’d never written a letter begging for anything before, not even when he’d supposed himself in love with Eloise. Instead Eloise had been the one to write the letters begging for help. Her last letter was still in his pocket when he received the news of her death. But he was ready to beg now. He would get down on his knees if he had to. Anything to make Adriane understand.

  As the days of June passed, Blake sent note after note to Adriane in between writing ever stronger editorials against Coleman Jimson and haunting the taverns to hear what people had to say about the murders. He heard all sorts of theories about who the murderer might be. A riverboat gambler. A traveling merchant. A slave trader. A Southern plantation owner in town for the big Jimson gala the night Dorrie was killed.

  But no matter how much talk he heard, that’s all it was. Talk. No one had seen Dorrie Gilroy with anybody. No one had seen any of the girls with anybody on the nights they’d been murdered. They’d left the taverns as usual and been swallowed up by the darkness. Sometimes when Blake was reading through his notes or listening to yet another rumor, he felt as though he was lost in a maze. He kept turning corners and discovering new paths, but none of them ever led anywhere
.

  He wasn’t getting anywhere with Adriane either. He wrote her a new note every day until the end of June. It got to be something of a joke to the newsboys he paid to deliver them to Adriane. They fought for the job, because on the other end Adriane paid them to carry the notes back unopened.

  Blake stopped sending the notes the first week of July. He hadn’t given up. He would never give up no matter what happened. It was just time to come up with a new approach.

  He began practically haunting the social scene, attending any and every event he could, but though he saw Stanley Jimson a few times, the man was always alone. That fact didn’t go unnoticed by the other guests, and soon there were as many rumors about Stanley and Adriane being whispered around at the parties as there were about the murders floating around the taverns.

  Finally the second week of July, Mrs. Wigginham invited Blake to her last Library Society Aide meeting before she left town to spend the hottest summer weeks at one of the resorts. The invitation came in late, only a couple of hours before the event. Blake stared at the neatly printed words and wondered if Mrs. Wigginham was perhaps playing games with him again, as she had at that first library aide meeting when she’d arranged for Blake and Adriane to meet. He could only hope so.

  Blake was nearly ready to return to the Tribune offices and break down the door if necessary. Just the week before, he’d tracked down Duff Egan, the young Irish kid who worked for Darcy, to try to buy some information about Adriane.

  At the sight of the money in Blake’s hand, the boy had glared at him and balled his hands into fists. “Ye can’t be buying me, Garrett, any more than you’re gonna be able to bring down the Tribune no matter what you might be pulling out of your bag of tricks. Miss Adriane won’t be letting you.”

  So although he could go batter down the door at the Tribune offices—and he hadn’t ruled that out—he would be less likely to get in the way of a bullet if he managed a chance meeting with Adriane at Mrs. Wigginham’s instead.