A Daring Venture

by Elizabeth Camden

  “Shh,” he said. “I feel the same way.”

  Rosalind’s close proximity to the judge surely meant nothing. There had been over a hundred witnesses called during the two-year trial, and for the most part, the judge ruled in favor of the city.

  “Forget I said anything,” she rushed to say. “This has been one of the best days I can remember. Perfect, really.”

  She was perfect. Funny and smart and so perfectly prim it made him want to squeeze her. He lowered his head a little, still gazing at the way the moonlight illuminated her flawless skin with a silvery sheen.

  “Thank you for walking me all the way home.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming to my speech.”

  “Of course,” she echoed, gazing up at him like she felt the same moonlit enchantment that had dumbfounded him from the moment he met her. He never wanted to look away, but he had five days of slogging around rural New York ahead of him.

  “I won’t be back in town until Saturday,” he said. “Can I come see you then?”

  She nodded. “What will we do?”

  He knew exactly what he wanted. “How about you, me, and Sadie go to Coney Island? We can ride the carousels, walk along the boardwalk, eat cotton candy.”

  “That sounds really good.” Then a tiny line wrinkled her brow. “Except, I’m afraid you must know . . . I cannot approve of cotton candy.”

  “Muesli, then?”

  “It would be healthier.”

  He grinned and foresaw years of healthy food, prissy maxims, and undiluted delight heading his way. And on the weekends, perhaps he could steal a little cotton candy for him and Sadie.

  “Rosalind!” a voice in the distance shouted.

  Rosalind pulled away as a man vaulted over a fence and strode toward them with purpose. Nick instinctively stepped in front of her, fists clenched.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Rosalind said in a rush. “It’s only my brother, Gus.”

  Gus had a slender build, sandy blond hair, and a neatly groomed mustache. He didn’t look like much of a threat, but Nick still didn’t like the look of disapproval on his face.

  “Where have you been?” Gus demanded. “Ingrid and I have been worrying ourselves sick.”

  Rosalind started to explain that she had stayed for a bite to eat, but Nick interrupted her, extending his hand. “I’m Nicholas Drake. Rosalind was good enough to stay after the speeches to support me as I met with some business associates. Her delay is entirely my fault.”

  Gus still didn’t look happy. “Loitering on a public street in full view of the neighbors is unbecoming. It’s the kind of thing that starts rumors, Rosalind.”

  Nick settled his hands on Rosalind’s shoulders. “I don’t mind hearing my name linked with hers. It’s an honor. And I’ll go after any man who implies otherwise.”

  Rosalind’s brother rolled his eyes. “It’s all very well for you, but it’s Rosalind’s reputation that will take a beating.”

  “It won’t,” Nick replied. “I’ll never let it get that far, because I care for her. My intentions toward your sister are honorable. I wish we were two people who had scads of time and no other responsibilities so we could do everything in a way that would make the fussy matrons of the city beam with approval. But we aren’t, so we snatch what fleeting moments we can.”

  “Then make them really fleeting,” Gus said. “Mrs. Henthorn across the street is watching.”

  Rosalind startled, and Nick fought the temptation to roll his eyes over what the neighborhood busybody thought of his actions. Instead, he took a step back. Rosalind was ridiculously straitlaced, and he would honor that if it would keep her from worrying about what Mrs. Henthorn thought.

  “I will see you soon, Dr. Werner,” he said with a respectable nod of his head before setting off toward the subway.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Rosalind watched the rain create rivulets on the laboratory window. It had been raining for two solid days, a gully wash that overwhelmed the sewers as water backed up into the street. Her boots and the bottom three inches of her gown were soaked from slogging through puddles to get to the lab this morning. The wet shoe leather was uncomfortable, but Rosalind welcomed the discomfort, for the rain gave them the test they’d been waiting for.

  This was it. These were the conditions under which traditional filtration systems could fail. As rain soaked the farmlands, it washed waste and contamination into the streams and eventually into the reservoir, making it hard for filtration systems to keep up. It was in rain-saturated conditions like these that waterborne disease was most likely to crop up in cities.

  Unless the chlorine worked. This was the two-pronged attack she and Dr. Leal had envisioned all along. Filtration could handle the worst of the debris, but chlorination could treat the surge in bacterial contamination. Within the week, they would know if their plan had worked.

  Dr. Leal paced before twelve newly hired lab assistants from the local college who would help with the increase in testing. They all specialized in chemistry and were eager to embark on their first venture into real science in action. The young men sat at the lab tables, hanging on Dr. Leal’s every word.

  “I will send you samples collected from each distribution point in the city,” Dr. Leal said, walking to an oversized map tacked to the wall. “I will be taking water samples at the city’s public buildings here, here, and here.” He made marks with his pencil at points throughout the city. “Dr. Werner will be gathering samples from the area surrounding the reservoir. The chlorination feed has been working for the past three weeks, but it hasn’t been put under pressure yet.”

  Excitement gathered in Dr. Leal’s voice. His enthusiasm was contagious. Rosalind had never been prouder to work alongside this daring and innovative man, and the students looked just as excited.

  “For decades I have worked, and planned, and prayed,” Dr. Leal continued. “Our analyses must be flawless, for this is the first experiment of its kind, and we cannot afford a mistake. If it works, this model will be emulated across the nation, and someday, all over the world. You are part of the team that is going to make it happen.”

  Most of the students looked spellbound, but the youngest man, so slender he couldn’t even fill the collar of his shirt, raised a timid hand. “Dr. Leal? If you’re so confident this will work, why didn’t you just wait for permission from the judge?”

  The other students blanched at the blunt question, but Dr. Leal was not offended. The barest hint of a smile twitched his mustache. “Why? Because if I waited the ninety days, the judge might rule against us, and this opportunity would be closed forever. I acted because it was physically impossible for me to sit back and do nothing. Because I am in the fight of my life, a fight against microscopic enemies that can wreak unimaginable devastation. And in such a case, I cannot stand down. That is why.”

  His words were spoken quietly, but they echoed in the room with the force of a trumpet blast. The next few days were going to be a grueling, wet, and messy slog, but Rosalind sensed they were on the verge of a precipice. History was in the making. She was in the room where it was being written, and she had never been so proud.

  Rosalind struggled to hold an umbrella over her head as she gathered soil samples, but her skirts were quickly waterlogged, and it was hard to work while bracing an umbrella against her shoulder. She discarded the umbrella, rolled up her cuffs, and tackled the assignment with both hands.

  She was sopping wet by the end of the day. Rivulets of water dribbled from her hair, and her clothes were filthy as she walked home, but it couldn’t dampen her spirits. Preliminary results from the lab already showed that the chlorine was working. The real test would emerge in the coming days as the rainstorm continued to batter the county, but she was optimistic and couldn’t keep a smile from breaking across her face as she turned down her street toward home.

  Her good mood came crashing to a halt as she stepped through her front door to see a mess, papers and books scatter
ed everywhere. Gus sat on the sofa, his arm around Ingrid, who was gently weeping.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosalind asked.

  Gus sent her a grim look. “Ingrid interrupted a burglary this afternoon. Someone broke into the house. We’re still not quite sure what was taken.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked Ingrid. “And the baby?”

  “No, I am not all right,” Ingrid declared, her voice full of fire. “I woke up from a nap to find a prowler in the house. Making a mess. Making accusations.”

  Rosalind wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Accusations?”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,” Gus said. “I think the burglar was as frightened as Ingrid when she came down the stairs. He claimed to be a friend of yours.”

  “A special friend,” Ingrid added. “He said you gave him permission to be here, then he broke a window and ran out the back door.”

  It only took a couple of steps to peer around the corner at the broken glass and overturned chairs in the kitchen. Some plates had been knocked off the shelf as well. Rosalind hadn’t given anyone permission to wander into the house. And she certainly didn’t consort with the type of person who would break windows and cause needless damage.

  After her pounding heart slowed to a normal pace, she joined Gus and Ingrid at the kitchen table to get the complete story. The man had been creeping through the parlor when Ingrid awakened from a nap and heard movement in the house. Gus had gone to the library to study for an exam, and Ingrid assumed he’d returned early and went downstairs to greet him. When she saw a heavyset man poking through Rosalind’s desk, she started screaming. The stranger tried to calm her, claiming to be a friend of Rosalind’s and only here looking for something. When Ingrid wouldn’t stop screaming, he darted to the kitchen, broke some things, then fled out the back. Ingrid telephoned the police, who had already come and gone. They seemed to think it was a simple burglary that had been interrupted before any real damage could occur, but they suggested Rosalind call if she later discovered something of value missing.

  Rosalind made a thorough evaluation of her belongings. The only thing of actual value she had was the Fabergé music box from Nick, and it still sat on the mantel alongside the plain oak music boxes she had made with her own two hands. She was ridiculously glad they had not been stolen. Aside from Nick’s, none of them had much monetary value, but the sentimental value was huge. What little cash Rosalind kept in the house was still safely hidden in the tea tin behind a row of books.

  Her teeth chattered and a chill raced through her, made worse by her sodden clothing. She felt violated. This home was the sanctuary she’d created after fleeing Germany. She faithfully paid the bank note each month from money she earned from her Doctor Clean stock. It was maddening that a shiftless thief should try to help himself to her hard-earned belongings, then cause needless destruction on his escape. That had been pure meanness.

  “Go run a hot bath,” Gus said. “I’ll borrow some supplies from a neighbor to board up the window until it can be repaired.”

  An involuntary shiver raced through Rosalind at the thought of Gus abandoning the house while she stripped down and took a bath. Ingrid must have noticed her hesitancy.

  “I will stand guard outside the bathroom door,” she said. “If anyone dares invade this house, they will see what a strong German girl can do.”

  Rosalind met Ingrid’s gaze. A flash of comradery hummed between them for the first time. As horrible as this incident had been, at least it brought a temporary thaw to the arctic blast that characterized their relationship.

  True to her word, Ingrid stood guard outside the bathroom as Rosalind soaked her numb body in a hot, soapy tub of water. Even as the hot water warmed her, the shock of having her house invaded made the chill impossible to shake.

  She didn’t sleep much that night.

  Nick got off the train at Kingston, New York, a town ninety miles north of New York City, bracing himself for his first major test as commissioner of the State Water Board. He would soon be sending three thousand people into this valley to build the reservoir. Construction workers, mechanics, pipe fitters, diggers, dredgers, and linemen. Lumberjacks were already clearing forest land, and soon carpenters would arrive to build dormitories for the work crews.

  He also needed to see Bruce Garrett, whose limestone quarry was polluting the watershed, and Nick would have to handle him carefully. They’d established a cordial relationship at Oakmonte during Uncle Thomas’s funeral, but when a man’s business was on the line, things could change. Bruce Garrett was rich, powerful, and not going to welcome interference in his quarry. Even so, it seemed Garrett was willing to cooperate, as he’d offered to let Nick stay at his home during the visit.

  Nick hired a hansom cab in Kingston to take him the ten miles to Garrett’s mansion. Rumor had it that the wealth Garrett earned from quarrying limestone had bought him a castle in the hills. As the carriage rounded a bend through the deeply forested land, Nick got his first view of Bruce Garrett’s home.

  It wasn’t a castle; it was a fortress.

  Built of pale rock, it perched on the side of the hill that had been cleared of trees. A serpentine path cut up the side of the hill, passing through a series of walls and gates as it led to a three-story house with windows that sparkled in the sun and wide terraces overlooking the valley. Nick had never been to Europe, but he’d seen pictures, and this looked like something a medieval crusader might have built to defend Christendom.

  Bruce Garrett was already standing on the terrace in front of his house as the carriage drew near. Nick raised his hand in greeting, and Bruce returned it.

  “Welcome!” he said the moment Nick’s feet touched the ground. “How’s your aunt doing?”

  The last time Nick saw Aunt Margaret, she had been slinging poisoned barbs at Colin, but it was going to take time and patience to mend the family rift. “She’s doing okay.”

  “Well, give her my best the next time you see her.” There was genuine concern in Bruce’s face, and Nick appreciated the gesture.

  It was hard not to be impressed with Bruce Garrett’s house. Nick had been inside some of the wealthiest homes in Manhattan and had seen plenty of gilded splendor, but Bruce’s home was different. It had a roughhewn quality Nick found appealing, built from locally carved stone. Inside, the house had hand-carved furniture and a simplicity of design that was a refreshing change from the obnoxious display of wealth so common in the city.

  Nick barely had a chance to set down his traveling bag before Bruce wanted to get to business.

  “Come, let me show you the quarry,” he said, and twenty minutes later, Nick got his first close-up view of an open-pit limestone quarry.

  Cut into the hillside that had once been blanketed with pine trees was an immense scar of exposed rock. Even from a distance, Nick’s nose prickled at the scent of chalk.

  “That’s where we’re blasting,” Bruce said. “I’ve got experts in explosives to drill and set off the charges, which shears off the rock. Manual laborers use sledgehammers to break it up into pieces small enough to load aboard the wagons.” He went on to explain how the rock was superheated in coal-fired kilns and then broken down into cement mix.

  Nick looked down at the ground. They stood half a mile from the kilns, and yet the grass was coated with a layer of pale white dust. It was fly ash from the kilns. When it rained, it would sink into the groundwater.

  Bruce pointed to a village in the valley below the quarry. “That’s Duval Springs,” he said. “It has around two thousand people, half of whom are employed by my quarry.”

  Nick stared at the village nestled in the valley alongside a swift-moving river. Most of the structures were houses, but it was easy to see the town square lined with shops, cafés, and a few churches. From this vantage point, it looked like the picture of small-town prosperity. A year from now, it would be obliterated. Duval Springs had the bad luck to be planted precisely where the state wanted to build their ne
w reservoir.

  He glanced back at the limestone scar Garrett’s quarry cut into the forested hillside. There was no easy way to broach this conversation. “You know why I’m here.”

  The cordial expression remained on Bruce’s face, but his eyes went on alert. “I do. You were still in short pants when I started this quarry, and I’ve never had any complaints from the government in all those years.”

  Nick crouched down to run his fingers over the grass. He stood and showed the chalky dust to Bruce. “This is going to be a problem. Your operation is on top of groundwater that will someday be piped into Manhattan.”

  “Then find another source for your water,” Bruce snapped. “We’ve been minding our own business up here for decades. We were here long before anyone ever dreamed of a new reservoir to keep New York City happy.”

  Nick held up his hands. “I agree with you, but there’s an ugly term called eminent domain. It’s some fancy Latin phrase that means that what the government wants, it’s going to get. They’ll have to pay for it, but you’ll have to cooperate with them. The quarry is polluting the groundwater with dust and ash.”

  “And how does one make cement without a mill?” Garrett’s voice seethed with contempt, and Nick did his best to put him at ease.

  “Look, we’ve built the Brooklyn Bridge, and now men are flying in airplanes. If we can figure out how to make men fly, we’ll figure out how to keep your quarry in business. Right?”

  “Don’t think you can pacify me with your pretty speeches,” Bruce bit out. “Where is the flow line going to be? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I have a right to know.”

  The flow line was the most controversial decision in the entire project. It was the geographic boundary defining where the new reservoir would be built. Everything above the flow line was safe. Anything below it would be submerged under billions of gallons of water.

  “Duval Springs is below the flow line,” Nick admitted. “Those people will have to move. Your quarry and home are safe. Figure out a way to clean up the runoff, and you’ll be fine.”