Words Spoken True: A Novel

by Ann H. Gabhart

  When Blake left the room without a word, she wanted to call him back, but she bit her lip and was quiet. What could she say anyway? That she loved him and she didn’t care what he might have done in the past? That she trusted him without any kind of explanations? That would be the same as asking for more hurt, and didn’t she have enough pain pushing down on her already? She had to be satisfied that he was not storming out of the building in search of Stanley.

  Then a fearsome thought poked into her mind, and she sank down on the bed. Stanley might come after Blake. As panic began climbing back up inside her, she reminded herself that whatever Stanley had caused to happen the night before during the riots, he had not meant for her father to die. It had been meant as a warning, a way of forcing Adriane to do as he wanted.

  Adriane shut her eyes and carefully pulled back into her mind the exact expression on Stanley’s face when he had talked about Blake. Stan had looked calm, almost amused that Adriane would be foolish enough to marry a man like Blake Garrett when she could have married him. He wanted Adriane to pay for that mistake. That was why he’d tried to poison her mind against Blake and find a way to destroy them both.

  She’d told Blake the truth when she said Stanley came to the house that morning because of his wounded pride. She had not told the truth when she’d said he wouldn’t come back. The next time she’d have to be ready.

  With that thought, Adriane stood up and began methodically washing in the basin of cold water. She pulled the black dress over her head and fastened the buttons. She stood in front of the small mirror on the wall and caught her hair back in a tight bun. As she tucked a few loose strands in place with a couple of combs, she wished all the thoughts shooting around inside her head were as easy to tuck away.

  She dropped her hands and stood a moment staring into the mirror. The face staring back at her was pale and drawn, the eyes heavy with the pain of unshed tears. She tightened her mouth and blinked back the tears.

  So what if there were unanswered questions. She couldn’t worry about that right now. She had to worry about making it through the rest of this day and through tomorrow when they would put her father in the ground. After all that was done would be soon enough to worry about being married to Blake Garrett and who this Eloise Vandemere was.

  If she wanted to worry about something else right now, she told herself she should worry about Duff and his mother and sisters. Adriane wasn’t the only one to lose a loved one this day. Grief hung over the city like the lingering smoke of the burned buildings.

  For a moment she imagined she could even smell the smoke though her window was not open. Then she remembered the boxes of files Blake had placed on the floor beside the desk. She looked at them and wondered what clues they might hold to Blake’s past.

  She was still staring at the boxes when Mary tapped lightly on the door and said, “Miss Lucilla is downstairs, missy. And the undertaker’s here. Is you needing help with dressing?”

  “No, I’m ready.” Adriane turned away from the boxes to the door.

  26

  By early evening, people had run out of places to sit or stand in the pressroom, and they were spilling out into the hall and kitchen. Some men even clustered in groups in the street in front of the building. Inside, Lucilla’s parlor chairs that had looked so out of place in the bare, unadorned room had long since disappeared under the dark full skirts of the ladies who had come with their husbands to pay their respects to Wade Darcy.

  Lucilla had not been happy with the arrangement, but she’d given in gracefully when Adriane refused to listen to her pleas to consider a more sensible location. She’d not only sent the chairs but had supplied the food spread on the kitchen table and two more servants to open the door to visitors.

  Lucilla, in a high-necked black dress that tightly molded her tiny waist, sat in a padded wing chair pulled up close to the coffin so that she could spring up to greet each new arrival. She would stand with them and peer down at Adriane’s father and dab at her eyes with a black bordered handkerchief.

  Lucilla’s grieving widow act didn’t bother Adriane. In fact, Adriane thought her father would have been pleased by the woman’s show of tears. He would have been impressed by all the mourners as well.

  Adriane stood to the side of her father’s coffin and looked around the crowded room. She should have done as Lucilla wanted. It had been silly, childish even, to insist on having her father’s body laid out here in the pressroom just because that was where she’d always felt closest to him.

  The truth was, the room was entirely too small even after they’d moved everything out except the press, which Beck had draped with black crepe. Now it loomed there in the middle of the room like some kind of brooding ogre standing guard over her father’s body. The people closest to it kept glancing around uneasily as if afraid the thing might begin to inch their way.

  The two windows were also draped with black cloth, and though the gas lamps were turned up high, the room was murky with shadows. Lucilla and a few of the other ladies had brought in gladiolus and rose bouquets from their gardens, but the flowers brought no feeling of cheer. Instead their abundance emphasized that this was a room of death.

  All around Adriane small groups of men gathered in the midst of the flowers to talk about the riots. They kept their voices hushed in respect for the dead, but occasionally a man would forget and speak too loudly, allowing a scrap of sentence to escape.

  “Irish shot first.”

  “Protect themselves . . .”

  “. . . Fair election.”

  “Immigrants have to earn the right to vote.”

  Adriane almost expected her father to sit up in his coffin and add his voice to the discussions. In any group, he was always the most vocal, the best at defending whatever position he picked for the Tribune to espouse. It didn’t seem possible his voice had been silenced forever.

  Once more Adriane mashed down the sadness that threatened to push her tears out into the open. She couldn’t give in to her grief now. Too many of the women were watching her, even as they talked every bit as busily as the men. While they kept their mouths hidden behind their fans and handkerchiefs, their words were easy enough to guess as they cast furtive glances at Blake, who had stayed by Adriane’s side, close enough to touch, ever since they’d begun receiving visitors.

  Adriane liked him there in spite of the way people’s eyes widened when they saw them together. Or perhaps because of it. What was it Lucilla had said? That Adriane liked to shock people. Still that wasn’t the only reason Adriane liked Blake beside her, and she wanted him to stay there in spite of the questions he had refused to answer, that he might never answer.

  “He shouldn’t have come tonight,” Blake suddenly whispered more to himself than to her.

  “Who? Duff?” Adriane asked as she spotted the boy in the doorway, looking around with wide eyes at the people crowded into the room.

  “Everybody in here will know he’s Irish,” Blake said.

  “What if they do? He belongs here.” She felt a flash of anger, but kept her voice low as she looked at Blake, daring him to deny it.

  “I know that.” His eyes stayed on Duff. “I find it a little surprising considering your father’s politics, but that’s hardly the issue right now.”

  “What is?” She turned her eyes back to Duff.

  “The piece in tomorrow’s paper about someone seeing the same man with two of the victims on the nights they were killed.” Blake held his hand up as though to motion the boy back. Beck must have noticed, because he was beside Duff at once.

  “I haven’t read it yet,” Adriane said as they watched Beck put his arm around the boy and lead him off toward the kitchen.

  “I kept it vague, but it may have been a mistake to put it in at all.” Blake looked worried.

  “Why? You’ve been printing stories in the Herald about the murders for months. Everybody will just think this is something else you’ve dug up, maybe even made up, to keep the murders befo
re the public eye.”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.” Blake twisted his mouth to the side to hide a little smile. “Something I made up, I mean. But some readers never doubt the printed word, and the murderer, whoever he is, will surely have some concerns that there might be some truth to the report.”

  “Isn’t that what we wanted? To make the murderer so worried that he might tip his hand?”

  Blake looked down at her. “Yes, but I’d rather people didn’t give my witness a name, especially Duff’s name. But here he is. An Irish street kid, the likeliest witness there could be, even without adding in the fact that one of the victims was his sister. They’ll remember seeing him here when they read the story in the paper tomorrow and will put two and two together to figure out he’s our witness.”

  “Surely you don’t think anyone in here could be the murderer,” Adriane said with shock as she quickly looked around at the people in the room. “Or even might know the murderer.”

  “He’s in some room somewhere.”

  “But not here,” Adriane insisted. “These men are businessmen and gentlemen.”

  “Gentlemen are not always as they seem,” he reminded her. “You think one of them is the reason your father is dead.”

  “Stanley’s no gentleman,” Adriane said coldly.

  “We can agree on that.” Blake’s voice was almost a growl. “But just as his fancy clothes and parlor manners with the ladies hide his true nature, so others who dress in dark suits and knot their cravat properly may not be as they seem.”

  “But the river slasher is a monster,” Adriane said.

  “A monster who probably looks like any other man.”

  Adriane’s eyes swept around the room again. She knew most of these men. They were ordinary businessmen who would be ready to defend themselves and their honor at the drop of a hat, but murder? That was different.

  Then again some of these very men could have been part of the mob roaming the streets during the riot, and a goodly number of those men had fired their guns and taken lives without remorse.

  Adriane’s eyes went back to her father’s body. Who would have thought Stanley Jimson would cause this to happen? Not that she believed Stanley had actually shot her father himself or even meant for her father to die, but that didn’t change the fact her father was dead.

  But those actions, as bad as they were, couldn’t compare to the heinous crimes of the river slasher. None of these men could possibly be the murderer.

  Nevertheless Adriane looked toward the door that led out through the hall to the kitchen and wished Duff had not come. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if something happened to him because of what they’d printed. Whatever that was. Adriane suddenly wanted to go in search of a copy of the newspaper to read the piece herself and try to gauge the danger those printed words might pose for Duff.

  She might have done just that if at that very moment Coleman Jimson hadn’t come through the door, his voice booming out greetings in every direction. People stopped talking and looked up. Lucilla cast a near panicked look over her shoulder at Adriane before she patted her lips with her black-edged hankie, touched her hair to be sure no strand had escaped its pins, and hurried to greet the man.

  Blake’s muscles tightened as he stepped closer to Adriane. Beck appeared at the kitchen door, and Joe pushed away from the wall in the back of the room.

  “It’s all right, Blake,” Adriane whispered. “He won’t pitch us out on the street tonight.”

  “You forget he’s already found a way to pitch me out on the street,” Blake said.

  Adriane slipped her hand through Blake’s elbow and leaned closer to him. “You’re not on the street now, and tonight we have to call a truce in honor of my father’s memory. That’s why Coleman Jimson is here.”

  “That’s a laugh. He’s still campaigning.”

  “He has no need to campaign now. He won the election,” Adriane reminded him. “Promise me you won’t make trouble.”

  “Me?” Blake looked at her. “You should want to see the Jimsons in trouble as much as I do.”

  “Yes, but not tonight,” Adriane said quietly as she watched Coleman Jimson move up beside Lucilla to view her father’s body. “Tonight I must respect my father’s friendship with the man.”

  Every eye in the room was on Coleman Jimson as he looked down at Wade Darcy and sadly shook his head. “He was a fine man.” Though his voice was no longer booming, no one in the room had to strain to hear his words. He patted Lucilla’s shoulder. “You would have had a wonderful life together. Such a tragedy for you, dear lady.”

  Real tears appeared in Lucilla’s eyes, and all around them, ladies sniffled and rummaged in their reticules for fresh handkerchiefs. Even some of the men lifted a hand up to brush away a tear or two. Adriane watched dry-eyed. She would grieve, even perhaps give in to the flood of tears inside her in time, but not because of anything Coleman Jimson had to say.

  At that moment Coleman turned toward her, and Adriane met his look fully. She had been prepared to face his anger since she had put his family in an embarrassing situation by marrying Blake. She was not prepared for the genuine disappointment, even sorrow in his eyes.

  “Adriane, my girl,” he said as he came over to take her hands in his. “You can’t possibly know how sorry I am about all this. Your father was one of my closest advisors and friends, and I will sorely miss his presence by my side and his always sound advice on the issues.”

  “You’re very kind to say so,” Adriane murmured. She started to ease her hands away, but he held tighter.

  “And this other.” He paused a moment as he let his eyes go to Blake and then back to her before he said, “I do hope you will be happy with Mr. Garrett, but you must be aware how greatly it saddens me and all of our family. We had so looked forward to you becoming one of us.”

  Adriane kept her eyes on Coleman Jimson’s face as a flush warmed into her cheeks. “I fear I must beg your forgiveness for any inconvenience breaking my engagement to Stanley may have caused you and Mrs. Jimson, but we discovered we had differences that made marriage impossible.”

  The man raised his thick black eyebrows a bit as he said, “It appears you did not find marriage to someone else nearly as reprehensible.”

  Adriane could almost feel Blake tensing for an attack beside her. She pulled one of her hands free of Coleman Jimson’s grasp and laid it on Blake’s arm in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “Mr. Garrett and I have much in common.”

  Blake spoke at last. “I’m sure Mr. Jimson has little interest in what we might have in common, Adriane. Our new senator has much more important issues about which to concern himself.”

  Jimson smiled slightly at Blake. “How right you are for once, Mr. Garrett.” His eyes came back to Adriane. “And I certainly had no intention of taking you to task for your decision, Adriane, especially at a time like this. I only wanted to let you know how disappointed we are. Not that I can say I’m surprised. I never had much confidence in Stanley’s ability to get a woman like you to marry him.”

  Adriane wasn’t the only one shocked by his plain words if the sudden hush around the room was any indication. She tried to smooth over what he said. “I’m sure Stanley will find a lovely girl much more suitable for him than I could ever be.”

  “Perhaps so.” Coleman sighed and shook his head as though to deny the words he’d just spoken. A long moment passed as he continued to stare at her with his practiced smile, even as his eyes grew cold. At last he lowered his voice and went on. “But of course, you must realize the broken engagement does cause a few embarrassing problems for us all.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” Adriane also lowered her voice, but she knew the people around them were leaning closer to hear every word. “And it is most kind of you to wait to discuss those troublesome matters until after my father’s funeral. His death was such a terrible shock that I haven’t been able to think about the future.” She did her best to appeal to his sympathy. “You d
o understand, don’t you?”

  “Perfectly, my dear.” Again the man looked almost sad as he squeezed her hand, but then the sympathy disappeared from his eyes. “As I am sure you can understand that my own situation is a bit awkward, to say the least. I can hardly continue to back a paper that condemns me so roundly.”

  Blake spoke up again. “You surely have no fear of an open discussion of the issues, Senator Jimson, especially now that the votes have been counted. At least the votes of those who were allowed into the polls.”

  Coleman Jimson’s eyes went from Adriane to Blake. “No fear at all, my good man.” He paused as if waiting for Blake to say more. When he didn’t, Jimson raised his eyebrows and went on. “It’s too bad about your building, Garrett. One of your hired hands must have been careless with a lantern.”

  “Someone was careless, at any rate,” Blake said.

  The tension crackled the air between the two men, and Adriane was sure that at any moment, Blake would lose his stiff control and take a swing at the other man. She had the feeling Jimson hoped that would happen.

  She stepped forward a bit to put herself between them as she said, “It was very kind of you to come pay your respects to my father, Mr. Jimson, and as for this other, we will be glad to meet with you day after tomorrow at your convenience. Just send around a message as to the time.” Adriane pushed a small smile out on her face.

  “As you wish, my dear. I’m sure we can work out an amicable agreement.”

  “Does he own the press?” Blake asked softly after the man moved away.

  “I don’t know.” Adriane was suddenly so tired she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep from swaying as she stood there. “Probably.”

  Blake peered down at her. “Forget Jimson. He’s not important. What you need is something to eat.” He put his arm around her and turned her toward the kitchen.