The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  Frank nodded once. “Won’t even let me explain.” He dragged a hand through his hair. Was it too early in the day to start drinking? You’ve lost everything. Might as well get drunk.

  “I don’t understand. You had good reason to cover up your past from what I read. She has to know, with a family like hers, that society never would’ve accepted you otherwise. Your career wouldn’t have thrived had the truth been known.”

  “She doesn’t care about society. If she did, she would’ve married Livingston.” Frank then explained about Mamie’s involvement with the tenement families, Mrs. Porter and the Porter children.

  Julius’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Stealing money from those fools stupid enough to gamble in casinos? Oh, that is absolutely priceless. I adore her already.”

  “You would. She is beyond reckless, just like you were once.”

  “And you. Don’t play the choirboy around me. I’ve known you too long.”

  Fair enough.

  “So, friend,” Julius said. “Now that you’ve wallowed in your pity this morning, what do you plan to do about all this?”

  “I haven’t a clue. The firm forced me out and Mamie won’t talk to me. Thought I’d spend the afternoon getting as drunk as absolutely possible. Care to join me?”

  Julius’s head tilted. “That hardly sounds like you. Where’s the man who could unlock any legal puzzle with his mind? Who would argue and fight for his clients to the very last second? You’re not one to give up. Ever.”

  Frank slowly spun a pencil on the surface of his—the firm’s—desk. “I suppose that was when I had something to lose.” Hard to fight when one had nothing.

  “My, we are feeling sorry for ourselves today.” Julius leaned forward. “Frank, the clients you have, the firm you work for, do not define you. The address of your house, the clubs you visit . . . Those things do not make up who you are inside. I’ve seen you treat debutantes and street urchins alike with the same amount of respect and courtesy. This,” he said, gesturing to the office, “is merely the gilding on the man you already are.”

  “And who is that?” he snapped. “The son of a violent alcoholic? The boy who grew up in filth and terror? Who relied on the kindness of charity until he was nearly seventeen? I don’t want to be that man. I never did.”

  “Don’t you see? All that only makes the man you are now more remarkable. We may try to outrun our past, but it always manages to catch up with us. Take this from me, it’s a lot easier to make peace with your inner demons than to fight them.”

  Julius’s middle-class childhood had contained violence and tragedy, something he’d never shied away from. Frank had always admired that. “None of that will help with Mamie. She’ll never forgive me.”

  “You can’t predict that. The greatest gift the world has been given is a woman’s capacity for understanding and forgiveness—though she may make you work hard for it this time.”

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” he mumbled.

  “Then start at the beginning.”

  Frank frowned at his friend. “What does that even mean?”

  “I have no idea, but I have every confidence you’ll figure it out.” He stood and put on his derby. “By the way, I’ve already told your partners that my business stays with you. Whatever your last name, you’ll always be my attorney—and my friend.”

  The street had changed considerably since the last time he’d stood here. Where there had been dirt now there were buildings. The bare ground paved over with cobblestones. And where once stood a shack of untreated wood was a house painted white. With a second floor.

  Frank stood on the opposite side of Worth Street and tried to take it all in. How had they managed it? Patrick? His sisters? Frank’s money would have helped, but his mother hadn’t spent it, at least according to his brother.

  Start at the beginning. Wasn’t that what Julius had said? Mamie claimed Frank didn’t know himself. So here he was, trying to figure himself out now that he was no longer Frank Tripp, the attorney to New York City’s elite.

  He watched the house for a long time. There was movement inside, but he couldn’t make out the identities of the figures. Supposedly Patrick lived there with his family and their mother. Was there laughter? Were the children happy? Frank couldn’t imagine it.

  I’m glad you’re dead, he said to the ghost of the man who’d terrorized that piece of land. At least Colin Murphy could no longer hurt people.

  Suddenly, the door opened. Patrick appeared on the stoop, shut the door behind him and put his hands on his hips. His gaze locked on Frank. “Are you going to stand there all day or come inside?” he shouted.

  Fuck. He hadn’t realized his vigil was so obvious.

  Still, he hesitated. Was he ready to go inside? He’s not there. It’s different now, he told himself. But there were memories. And memories were often not improved upon by reality.

  Sometimes, the reality was worse.

  Mamie’s voice echoed in his head. You’ve broken my heart—and I’m not certain who to blame. If he hoped to win her forgiveness, he had to start here.

  Patrick waited patiently, as if aware of Frank’s struggle. Swallowing hard, Frank thrust his hands in his pockets and started forward. When he reached the steps, Patrick met him and held up a palm. “If you’re here to upset her, then I won’t allow you inside.”

  “I don’t know why I’m here, but it’s not to hurt anyone.”

  Patrick’s gaze narrowed on Frank’s face. “See that you don’t. I may have a bad leg but I’m still able to pummel you, uptown boy.”

  Frank resisted the urge to laugh at his older brother. “Understood.”

  Patrick turned and opened the door. He went through first, leaving Frank to follow. “She’s in the kitchen,” he said over his shoulder. “Come with me.”

  The house was tiny but clean. Decorated with feminine touches and personal items. It was homey. Warm. Well lived in. Absolutely nothing like its former shell that had contained three small, unkempt rooms.

  They crossed through a parlor then a dining room. The smell of freshly baked bread grew stronger as they traveled. Patrick paused at the doorjamb at what had to be the kitchen. “Wait here.”

  He disappeared inside and Frank took a few deep breaths. Then he heard a chair scrape and an older woman with his mother’s features suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her eyes grew round as she took in the length of him then filled with tears. “Oh, my heavens. It’s my baby boy.”

  She threw herself against his chest, her arms wrapping tight around him, and Frank had no choice but to reciprocate the embrace. She was slighter than he remembered, her dark brown hair now streaked with gray, but it was definitely his mother. “I knew you’d come back,” she whispered into his vest. For a long moment, he held her as she cried and his own eyes filled with moisture. It had been so long.

  “The last time we did this I wasn’t taller than you.”

  “And now look at you. All grown up.” She pulled away and wiped her face. Then she reached up and placed her palm on his cheek. “You’re just as handsome, though. And that suit! It must’ve cost a fortune.”

  “Ma,” Patrick called. “Stop fawning over him and both of you get in here.”

  The side of her mouth kicked up. “He’s always fussing after me. Well, come on and meet Rachel. That’s Patrick’s wife.”

  Frank nodded and followed her. The kitchen was clean and bright, a rack of pots and pans hanging from hooks on the wall near the black iron stove. There was a sink with a faucet, which implied running water indoors, and Frank tried not to remember going out to the well to draw water as a boy. In frigid temperatures, the trip had been nothing short of miserable.

  And don’t get him started on the outhouse.

  “Hello.” A tall woman with dark eyes approached and held out her hand. “I’m Rachel Murphy, Patrick’s wife.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Frank, Patrick’s brother,” he said as they shook.

  “I know. I
’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  “Oh?” He shot a quick glance at his brother.

  “Thank you for helping with his arrest a few years ago,” she said. “We were all worried sick before he was released. It was like magic.” She smiled brightly.

  “Or a lot of money,” Patrick said under his breath.

  “Ignore him,” Rachel said. “He’s grateful but also proud.”

  “A common Murphy trait, I’m afraid. And it was my pleasure to help.”

  “Come sit down,” his mother urged. “I want to hear all about your life as a big city attorney. According to Patrick, the newspapers sure do love to talk about you.”

  Especially today. Had his mother seen the morning’s rags? Big city attorney no longer. More like disgraced man with useless legal knowledge.

  Rachel went to stir something simmering on the stove. “Shall I put on tea?”

  “I’m afraid we’re all out of champagne,” Patrick said to Frank. “Will tea do?”

  “Patrick,” their mother snapped. “Mind your manners.”

  Frank had to smother a smile. Some things never changed. “Tea is just fine.”

  Tea was soon poured and Frank learned about his two nieces (both attending school this morning), how Patrick and Rachel met (in Brooklyn), and the rebuilding of the house (completed by Patrick and some friends). He kept asking them questions, partially out of curiosity and partially out of a need to keep from talking about his own miserable life.

  “That’s enough about the brewery,” Ma said when Patrick had gone into detail regarding his expansion plans. “I want to hear about Frankie. Let him talk for a change. Tell us, are you married? Do I have more grandbabies?”

  “No and no. I . . .” He sighed. “Well, there is someone I plan to marry but she’s not exactly interested at the moment.”

  “And why not?” His mother set down her mug on the table. “You are handsome and successful. What more does she want in a husband?”

  “Have you seen the newspapers today?”

  Ma shook her head. “I never bother reading them. Patrick and Rachel tell me all I need to know. Why? What’s happened?”

  Patrick leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear. She nodded then left the room, Patrick on her heels.

  Frank turned his mug in slow circles on the wood, thinking how best to begin. “I quit my job a little over two hours ago. Well, it was quit or be fired.”

  “Whatever the reason, they were fools to let you go.”

  The unwavering, unflinching support from this woman he’d turned his back on half his life ago staggered him. He didn’t deserve that unconditional support, not even from his mother. “Ma, when I left, I changed my last name. I never told anyone where I came from. I . . . made up a childhood in Chicago where I had wealthy parents and every advantage money could buy. The truth was discovered recently and revealed to the entire city. It’s caused quite the scandal.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “You thought that would upset me? I found out about Frank Tripp when Patrick was released from prison. He was angry, but I was so proud. Look at all you’ve done. How far you’ve risen. And you helped your brother when he needed it. How could I blame you for changing your name? You wanted so desperately to leave, to be anywhere but here.”

  That was true. He had wished to be anywhere but here. “I still felt guilty, leaving you and the others here with him. It . . .” He blew out a long breath. “Why did you stay with him? Why didn’t you leave?”

  Pain flashed in her gaze for a brief moment. “Where would I go? How would I support us? What if he took you all away from me? You don’t understand. Women are stripped of choices in small ways every day. Makes it easier for them to convince us we have no choices whatsoever when the time comes.”

  He stared at the wall, unseeing. “I would have helped you. Patrick, Laura, Sarah—we all would have helped you.”

  “And put you at further risk than you already were? No, I could never do that to you.” Her chin trembled. “Not once did I regret letting you go off to boarding school. I let you go because you were too smart to stay behind, caught up in the gangs and the troubles down here. I missed you, yes. And there were times we needed you. But seeing you rise so high, everything you’ve accomplished . . . Why, Patrick says you live in a mansion on Fifth Avenue. No mother could ever regret a path leading to who you’ve become.”

  “But that’s just it. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve lost nearly everything and I haven’t the faintest idea how to fix things.”

  “This is about a woman. The one not interested in marrying you at the moment.”

  He took a sip of tepid tea. “Yes. She hates that I lied to her.”

  “My darling boy, words often lie but our actions do not. Your father professed his love for me daily . . . but his actions told a very different story. So what have you done to show her that you love her?”

  “I’ve sent her gifts,” he said, the only answer he could think of.

  “But that’s just money,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “I’m talking about finding something she cares about and showing her you care about it, too.”

  “She cares about helping people.”

  “Good. Now, what can you do to aid her in doing that?”

  The idea was so obvious, it hit him like a thunderbolt. “You’re right, and I think I might have a way. Thank you, Ma.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  He had the urge to leave, to put the wheels of his plan immediately in motion, but he didn’t wish to cut this visit short. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. The reluctance surprised him. “Do you think I could bring her down to meet you sometime?”

  His mother drew in a shaky breath, emotion causing her eyes to glaze over. “I would like that very much.”

  “Good. I’d like to stay and meet my nieces, but I have a case to argue and a lady to win back. I will return, though. I promise.”

  “I know.” She clasped his hand and squeezed. “I was certain you’d come back when you were ready. And I can see you’re ready.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The courtroom was packed.

  Mamie hadn’t expected that. She had thought this would be a quick few hours with the attorneys, two or three witnesses, and a judge. Instead, the room was nearly full to capacity.

  That’s what happened when one of the city’s most famous attorneys caused the biggest scandal of the year, she supposed.

  From her seat near the back, she could see him, this tall and dashing dark-haired man in a striped navy suit at the front of the courtroom. His hands were in his pockets but his shoulders were tight, a subtle reminder that he was mortal. Aware of the spectacle he’d caused and . . . what? Regretted it, most likely. How long would he have carried out the deception? Until he died?

  I would have married a man without truly knowing him.

  The idea gave her shivers.

  She missed him, yes. Her body ached for him and her heart yearned for him. But her brain . . . Her brain told her she’d been duped, that he hadn’t cared enough to tell her the truth about himself. And that hurt.

  She was confused, angry and crushed. Perhaps a year in Rome would help clear her mind and give time for the scandal to die down. Being a ruined woman wouldn’t be so terrible. Her sisters would forgive her and her parents still loved her. New York society might turn its back on her but she never cared much for society anyway. She’d played the dutiful daughter to please her parents, but that was no longer necessary.

  I’m free.

  Free to do whatever she wanted. Go wherever she wanted. Be with whomever she wanted.

  Her gaze strayed again to Frank, alone and remote on the other side of the room. She could feel the stares of those seated around her, those who’d learned of her ruination at the lawyer’s hands. It had been spread all over New York by the Livingston family, as a way of preserving their dignity over the broken engagement, she supposed. Mamie was too devastated to care.


  A police officer near the bench asked everyone to rise and announced Judge Smyth. The judge came in and took his place behind the massive wooden dais. When everyone was seated, a matron led in Mrs. Porter. Mamie’s friend was wearing clothes Mamie had brought her, a white shirtwaist and a navy skirt. Her eyes darted around nervously until she spotted Mamie in the crowd. Then she seemed to relax, nodding her head in acknowledgment. Frank came to meet his client, helping her settle into the chair next to his.

  Mamie clasped her hands tight, her heart racing as the judge addressed Frank. “Mr. Tripp, you have filed a motion to withdraw as the attorney of record. Is that true?”

  “Yes, your honor.” Frank’s voice, deep and familiar, filled her head and caused her skin to prickle. It reminded her of whispers and promises, lies and endearments. Everything that made up this complicated man. “However, the defense wishes to withdraw that motion from the court.”

  “You wish to withdraw the motion?”

  “Yes, we do. I will continue representation for the defendant.”

  “Mrs. Porter, this is acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  Frank had tried to back out of representing Mrs. Porter? This was news to Mamie. Why would he give up the case? Because of the scandal?

  “Then the motion is withdrawn,” the judge said. “Proceed, Mr. McIntyre.”

  The prosecutor stood up and called his first witness, the sergeant Mamie remembered from the murder scene. After being sworn in and identified, the prosecutor asked about what Sergeant Tunney had seen the day of the murder. The facts were as Mamie knew them, that the sergeant had arrived to a dead body and a wife covered in blood.

  “And was Mrs. Porter crying?”

  “No, she was not.” He looked quite smug at that fact.

  “Upset in any way over the loss of her husband?”

  “No.”

  “And why do you believe that was?”

  “Objection,” Frank called out. “Speculation.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Sergeant Tunney, do not answer that. Mr. McIntyre, please move on.”