The warden seemed a decent man, and within an hour, the tools were provided. Rosalind was grateful for Melinda’s muscular build as the older woman used the jigsaw to cut the upper windows from the frame. Rosalind detached the hinges from the lower windows, and it didn’t take long to get them installed on the upper casement. By nightfall, the attic had two narrow windows that created a healthy cross-breeze with the open door on the other end.
She had the gratitude of everyone in the attic, especially Gabriella. The pregnant inmate planted herself beneath the open casement, sagging against the wall to enjoy the breeze.
“When are you due?” Rosalind asked.
“Two more months,” she said. “I should get out in a couple of weeks when my husband’s ship gets back. My bail is only fifty dollars, but I won’t have it until Benjamin sails back into town.”
The way Gabriella’s face softened when she said Benjamin made Rosalind ache. She remembered feeling that way. Gabriella must have noticed, for she perked up from leaning against the side of the wall.
“Have you got a man?”
The question touched a nerve. For a while, Nick had seemed so perfect, he made her heart soar. It had been the most exhilarating feeling . . . like she had spread her wings and taken flight. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to let her guard down like that again.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have a man.”
It hadn’t taken Nick long to get what he needed from George Fuller, which was why he found himself wandering the streets of Washington, D.C. the following day. He was as dazzled as any sightseer as he gaped at the massive government buildings that looked like ancient Greek temples. In the early morning sunlight, the white granite was almost blinding. Everything here was so different than in New York, where the narrow streets were dwarfed by towering skyscrapers that blotted out much of the sky. Here the view was expansive, letting him see the massive Capitol building, the Library of Congress, and the Washington Monument.
The stark differences made him realize how limited his view of the world had been, for he’d never traveled farther than a couple hundred miles from New York City. He’d never wanted to go anywhere else. Washington was a surprise and a place he’d like to explore, but he wasn’t here as a sightseer. He had business to conduct.
He’d carried the oversized canister filled with blueprints all the way down from New York, complete with a dozen pages of notes and an affidavit from both Dr. Leal and George Fuller. In a perfect world, they would have accompanied him on this mission, but both were monopolized by the final stages of the chlorine test.
“Everything you need is on those blueprints,” Mr. Fuller advised.
Nick would have to take it on faith. He’d never applied for a patent, but he understood enough about how bureaucracies worked to navigate the process. He had dropped the paperwork off first thing this morning at the Patent Office, and had been cooling his heels walking down the National Mall like a tourist.
At three o’clock, he returned to the Patent Office, wondering if he would be successful or if this entire trip had been a waste of time. Money could buy expedited patent service, and Nick wanted to be on hand to explain the unusual details he wanted for this particular patent.
He was directed to the third floor office of Neville Bernhard, the patent examiner who would decide the fate of the chlorinator. The patent examiner’s office was as odd-looking as the man. Nick had to duck to avoid the model of a hot air balloon dangling from the ceiling. Charts and mathematical equations covered the walls, and the surface of his desk was cluttered with miniature models of mechanical contraptions. Atop it all was the blueprint for Mr. Fuller’s water chlorinator.
“I am in love with this invention!” the patent examiner roared the instant Nick entered his office. Neville Bernhard was the tallest and skinniest man Nick had ever seen, and he constantly twitched with a tick in the side of his face, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent. “So many of the applications I review are a waste of human time and energy,” the patent examiner said. “Yesterday I lost an hour of my life processing the patent for a head-mounted umbrella. I was reading a patent for a cat exercise machine when your request crossed my desk. A method for safely chlorinating water . . . well! You’ve made my day. My month, my year.”
Neville rummaged around his desk for a pair of spectacles, then scanned the paperwork sent by Mr. Fuller.
“You are an agent sent on behalf of the inventor?” Neville asked.
“I am. Mr. Fuller asked me to deliver it in person. I will be underwriting all the expenses associated with the patent.” Of course, the biggest expense was going to be putting it into commercial operation. Nick was going to underwrite some of the start-up costs as well, but in exchange, he had a single request.
It was a departure from bureaucratic red tape, and it was a favor that was going to require the cooperation of the twitchy, eccentric man sitting before him. The Patent Office had a three-page document with rules for the naming of patents, and any deviation from the norm required jumping through some hurdles. Nick had come all the way from New York to do the jumping.
The patent examiner took off his glasses and looked at Nick. “The contents of the patent are in order, so I’m ready to sign off on the notice of allowance. The only oddity is the name. It’s too long, and frankly . . . confusing. Sometimes inventors want their names on the patent, but I have no idea who Frieda and Augustus Werner are.”
They were Rosalind’s parents. They were the reason she had entered this field and had inspired her to work toward making the world a safer place. They were the people Rosalind feared would be forgotten. He was here to make sure that didn’t happen.
“They were two people who would have benefitted from this patent,” Nick said quietly. “Their daughter worked very hard on their behalf. Mr. Fuller’s letter has endorsed naming the invention in their honor.”
The patent examiner took a moment to skim the letter, the corners of his mouth turning down. He didn’t look pleased, and Nick clenched his fists, marshalling his arguments should the request be denied. Rosalind had never asked him for a single thing, and he’d given her precious little aside from the short end of his temper. He instinctively knew she would value the naming of this patent in her parents’ names more than any diamond or treasure he could buy her.
“Here’s the thing,” Neville said. “Patent Guideline 15.7 under the naming conventions discourages the use of personal names or brands in a patent title. So unless you can give me a good reason . . .”
“What is the definition of a guideline?” Nick asked.
“A guideline is a principle used to determine a future course of action, policy, or conduct,” the patent examiner recited from memory. Nick was glad he didn’t work in the legal profession and wasn’t required to spout off chapter and verse of bland government manuals. Still, he caught a note of humor in the older man’s face and suspected there was still a chance.
“So a guideline has room for maneuvering.” Nick was no lawyer, but he had a good head on his shoulders and was willing to use it in order to slam this unconventional request across the finish line.
“Usually. Provided there’s a good story involved. And since you came all the way from New York, I suspect there’s a good story here.”
Nick pulled out the desk chair, prepared to tell Rosalind’s story in exchange for a one-day turnaround on the patent.
He got it.
At six o’clock he headed out the door with the paperwork for the chlorinator, named in honor of Frieda and Augustus Werner. He wished he could present it in person to Rosalind, just to see the expression on her face when she knew her parents would live forever through this piece of technology that would make the world a better and safer place. A piece of him wanted to rush home to New York, wipe out the last month from his memory, and try to start again with her.
Then again, maybe he ought to stay another day or two in Washington for the simple joy of being an ordinary tourist. He was
thirty-six years old and had never visited a city of any size other than his own. Rosalind wouldn’t be waiting for him. A physical ache squeezed his chest, and it had nothing to do with his injured ribs. He just missed her. He missed what he thought they could have together, but he would never trust a woman who could look him in the face and lie as she had.
Could he? She’d been painted into a tight corner and acted in the best interest of science.
He’d made his position brutally clear, and only an idiot would go spilling scientific secrets in front of him when she knew he would blow the whistle on her. Within seconds of learning it, he’d scooped up her notebooks and risked his neck speeding over lousy roads to take them straight to the judge.
A heavy sigh escaped him. No matter how disappointed he was, he wished he hadn’t publicly attacked her. She hadn’t deserved that. Hopefully his gift of securing the patent in her parents’ name would help ease the sting of what he’d done.
By the time he returned to his hotel overlooking the Potomac River, an avalanche of exhaustion overcame him. The bedsprings squeaked as he eased down onto the mattress, the aches in his body starting to catch up. It was easy to kick off his shoes, but harder to lean down and pull off each sock. His damaged ribs screamed in protest, and for once in his life, he wished for a valet like other rich people.
He’d just gotten the last sock off when a knock sounded on his door. He wasn’t about to get up to open it. “Who is it?” he yelled.
“The front desk clerk has received a telephone call from New York for you. The gentleman is waiting on the line.”
It could be important. It wasn’t about Sadie, for it would have been his housekeeper calling if something was wrong with his daughter. That meant it was probably water department business, and he was going to have to go downstairs and answer it.
He sighed and pushed himself off the mattress, walked to the door, and opened it. “Do you know who is calling?”
The porter looked at a note in his hand. “Dr. John Leal.”
That was a surprise. Nick had no idea why Dr. Leal would be calling him, but he’d better take the call.
“I’m coming,” he grumbled, but he wasn’t going to torture himself by pulling on his shoes and socks again. If the people of Washington fainted at the sight of a man’s bare feet, they didn’t have enough problems in their life. He padded down the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and across the hotel lobby to the front counter. The hotel clerk handed over a telephone receiver.
“This is Nick Drake,” he said.
“Rosalind has been arrested.”
Nick couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly, but he asked Dr. Leal to repeat it twice then tell him the charges. It had nothing to do with the scandal in Germany, but some bizarre embezzlement scheme he couldn’t begin to understand. Never in a thousand years would he have thought Rosalind would have embezzled money, but he didn’t think she would have lied to him about turning on a chlorine drip either.
“Did she do it?” he asked.
“Of course not! I don’t know who is behind this, but she needs five thousand dollars for bail. I don’t have that sort of money, and neither does her family.”
Rosalind had deceived him once before, so she wasn’t quite as pure as the driven snow. She might bend the rules for a cause, but he didn’t think she’d lie or cheat for personal gain. There was a big difference between the two.
Silence stretched across the telephone line, and it was obvious Dr. Leal was calling Nick for help with bail. He was used to people asking him for money, but if he opened his wallet every time a charity or needy associate came knocking, he would have been drained dry years ago. He’d never expected the request to come from Rosalind, but that didn’t really matter.
“Where do I send the money?”
Chapter
Twenty
Nick grew convinced that Aunt Margaret was behind Rosalind’s troubles during the long and uncomfortable train ride back to New York. Dr. Leal had told him the details of the evidence against Rosalind, and it was possible that Margaret had arranged it all. He remembered the cunning glare in her eyes when she had taunted him on their last meeting. I have lost my husband and my son. Who will you lose, Nick?
He’d assumed her threat meant she would go after someone in his family. Now he suspected she was going after Rosalind, and the gears had been in the works for a long time. Margaret had first met Rosalind at his speech in Central Park, and according to Frank McLean, she bought the photograph of Nick and Rosalind a few days later.
The first thing Nick did on returning to the city was pay a visit to Margaret herself. He’d never been to her Manhattan apartment, and its grandeur took him by surprise. When he’d been trying to extend the olive branch, he had assumed her newly found social conscience would have prompted her to start living more modestly. She hadn’t. She lived in one of the most prestigious apartment buildings in New York City, complete with a view of Central Park.
It was impossible to guess if she would be willing to see him, but after placing a request through the apartment’s doorman, he was directed to wait for her at an elegant café on the building’s first floor.
The Scandinavian Tearoom was the last place he wanted to meet her. With its pastel colors, delicate china, and little vases of flowers, it was the sort of fussy gentility that always made Nick feel out of place. It wasn’t the spot for the knock-down, drag-out fight he wanted, but Margaret had picked the place, and she held all the cards right now. He would grit his teeth and play along until he got what he needed.
He was the only man in the tearoom. Clusters of women sat at various tables, their ramrod-straight spines coming nowhere close to the back of their seats, their faces showing only the serene composure he’d seen on department store mannequins. He took a seat at the only unoccupied table. It was too short for him to get his knees beneath it and too small for the amount of china and silver covering its surface. He glanced at the menu engraved on fine linen paper, rolling his eyes at the prices before tossing it aside.
“Just a pot of tea,” he said to the waiter. He’d eat nails before paying five dollars for a few pastries. He wished he’d brought a newspaper, as it was obvious Margaret intended to make him wait. He drummed his fingers on the table, growing hotter and more impatient with each passing minute. The tea was delivered in a porcelain teapot with hand-painted figurines of nymphs frolicking in some sort of garden, but he didn’t touch it.
Margaret finally made her appearance after a full twenty minutes. He narrowed his gaze on her whip-thin figure as she wended her way through the tables toward him. He did not stand as she approached.
“Don’t you look dainty,” she said in a mocking voice as she lowered herself onto the seat opposite him.
“I didn’t know you had any interest in photography,” he said bluntly. “Even for you, paying two hundred dollars for a grainy picture of me in an alley seems a little much.”
“I consider it money well spent. I’d like to find more pictures of Dr. Werner, as the public seem fascinated with her. Oh, wait,” she said, pulling her face into an exaggerated look of dismay. “She’s in jail, so I suppose no new pictures for now. Such a pity.”
Anger simmered inside him as Margaret poured herself a cup of tea from a porcelain teapot that cost more than most people earned in a month. A sapphire the size of a walnut glittered on her hand, and she beamed with smugness.
“Why do you need all this?” he demanded with a glance at the gilded surroundings. “A hundred-dollar teapot to serve a dime’s worth of tea? A five-dollar lemon scone that’s no better than the five-cent pastries served on Orchard Street? It’s revolting, and you sold your soul for it.”
“Have you learned nothing?” Her voice was as cool as a duchess’s. “We are no blood relation, but as my husband’s nephew, I expected a little more cleverness. We aren’t even twenty seconds into a negotiation, and already you’ve lost your temper.”
She was right. The goal was to get Rosalind
out of jail, not shame his aunt’s nonexistent sense of decency.
He swallowed back his anger and spoke calmly. “What will it take to call off your dogs?”
She set the teapot back on the tray without a hint of a clink. “Perhaps this is the time for you to surprise me with a tempting offer.”
“Money? An appointment on some fancy board? Just name your price.”
“My husband always said I’m priceless,” she said in a cloying voice that made his toes curl. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Frankly, I’m enjoying your misery far too much to be interested in ‘calling off my dogs.’ Besides, you ought to be thanking me. I was curious about the young woman you held in such high regard. Imagine my dismay when the investigator I hired found such distasteful revelations about her. And she looks so prim too! Such a pity that when one peeks behind her façade, she’s no better than a common trollop hankering after some minor German aristocrat. A married one, at that.”
Nick and Rosalind had their differences, but she was still one of the finest people he knew. Aunt Margaret was surely among the most despicable.
“It’s easy to throw mud from a distance,” he said. “On any given day, you can dig up something nasty to score a point against a decent woman, but over the course of a year? Or a lifetime? You can’t throw enough mud to ruin a woman as fine as Rosalind Werner. Your family lied, cheated, and swindled to amass a fortune. Rosalind never got rich from the work she does. She lives in a house plainer than your gatehouse at Oakmonte. When your honor and dignity are measured against Rosalind’s, you can’t hold a candle to her.”
As he spoke, his shame over his falling-out with Rosalind grew deeper. Rosalind wasn’t perfect, and he’d done her a disservice in expecting her to be.
“Once again, your temper is getting the better of you,” Margaret said, and he cursed himself for falling into her trap. She had always thought the sun, the moon, and the stars revolved around her son, and his imprisonment was a thorn in her side she couldn’t forget. She had engineered a similar punishment for Rosalind. The key to getting Rosalind released was probably the same one that would open the door for Tom Jr.
A Daring Venture Page 24
