VOYAGERS
K.L.Nappier
VOYAGERS
Copyright © 2005 K.L.Nappier
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 1-55404-312-3
First Edition December 22, 2005
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Acknowledgments
Here on Earth:
As always, deepest thanks and affection are due the Indiana Writers' Workshop for helping me get my work burnished and buffed. If you spy any dull or tarnished writing, that's my fault not theirs. Likewise for the expertise of Mae Argilan and Celeste Root at Dragon's Heart for putting such a beautiful, finishing gloss on the work.
Thanks to the Indianapolis and St. Louis Municipal Public Libraries and their marvelous librarians for the research marrow that fed the book. Understand, however, that only the mayor is based on an actual, historical person. The bad guys, their schemes and the rest of the book's characters are completely made up.
And endless thanks to everyone in my much adored family, sprawled from California to Missouri, from Indiana to Georgia, from Florida and newly to the Chicago area, for their never ending love and support.
Most especially, though, my love and thanks are for Richard, who never leaves my heart or my side.
And in Heaven:
Always, deep and humble thanks to the Mystery that is the Creator, without Whom all the rest of this would just go poof.
R.I.T.R.
Chapter One
St. Louis, Missouri
Autumn, 1896
"I wouldn't let him in last night. Then this morning, when I unlocked the door and came out, he was there to hit me."
Gently, Greta cupped her sister's chin, tilting the girl's face toward the hurricane lantern so that she could see better. There was a dark bruise under the girl's eye, the lid was puffed and reddened. Greta forced the lump out of her throat.
"It must hurt fiercely, Tess."
Tess' eyes grew teary, and she whispered, "When can we leave?"
"I know it's hard, but try to be patient. We have an ally now. Tonight should put it all in place. I promise you."
"Then tell me what I can do. I can help, I know."
"Darling, if I do, you'll be at worse risk than you are and I can't let that happen."
"I'm so angry. I'm so afraid. It feels like it's been 20 years."
They clung to each other in Tess' barren room, the young woman dressed in finest satin and the 14-year-old in a plain, cotton frock. And Greta thought, yes, it seems like decades. Yesterday made it two years since Marshall had had his way.
Greta stroked her sister's hair, so much like her own--dark red, sable soft--and a shudder came over her to think what Marshall had wanted of Tess last night. Dear God, should she tell her sister to let him have what he wants? Wouldn't that be easier to bear than a battered face? No. No.
"Hold your ground, darling," she whispered. "This is almost over."
She found Marshall waiting in her chambers, something he did frequently. It seemed bizarre in its normalcy, this ersatz gentleman standing by the elaborate gas hearth, its iron logs pretending to burn. All around him were the trappings of the elite: thick, dark tapestries against gilded wallpaper; the finest horsehair divans. Four feet above their heads the ceiling's plaster molding recessed more deeply, because of the lamplight. Below Marshall the massive Persian carpet was so busy with magenta, indigo, and green it seemed to be in motion.
Greta looked at Marshall again, aware she was nauseous like she had been in the beginning. Everything in the room sickened her. The etched beveled crystal, everywhere crystal could possibly be, sparked and glinted, hurting her eyes. Even the water pitcher set beside the great mahogany bed, canopied with dark, embroidered silk. Oh, that silk. Its value alone could have fed Greta and Tess for months.
Marshall had been watching her. Her skirts had announced her arrival as they rustled across the threshold, but he had yet to say a word. She steeled herself to walk toward him, but Marshall held up a hand. The tangy taste of fear surged in her mouth. She'd given away something…in her expression, perhaps in her posture. But no. It was simply inspection time.
Tonight she wore emerald silk as luxurious as that adorning the bed. The gown was designed to barely escape scandal, provocatively snug at the bodice and hips, flaring below in a riot of ripples. Her opera gloves were cut from the same bolt of cloth; her diamonds were dazzling, but tasteful. Greta's dark red hair was gathered away from her neck. An aigrette was set above her right ear; the jeweled comb at the feather's base glinted in the gaslight. She was the most elegant courtesan in St Louis.
Marshall smiled. "Oh, the judge is going to be delighted."
Greta ignored his comment. She'd regained herself and was set on a comment of her own. A risky thing to do, but she couldn't keep silent.
"Bad taste, what you did to Tess this morning."
She moved into the room, pleased to see Marshall lose his smile, pleased to see him pat his fashionable, macassared hair, too close in color to her own. Marshall did that only when he was nervous. It was rare to see him so. He turned and lifted a cordial glass that had been sitting on the fireplace mantel.
"She was belligerent," he said.
"Was she? What did she say, Marshall? 'No'?"
"I just wanted to talk to her."
Revulsion and anger knotted her stomach. "She's not part of the agreement, you perverted bastard. If I see another mark on her, Marshall, I swear to you…"
His laugh stopped her. "You can't swear a thing."
"There's a stench around you worse than your father had."
He slammed his glass back onto the mantel and came across the room in four strides. Well, that was crossing the safe margin, she thought, and gasped when his nails dug into her arms. She refused to cry out.
"Watch your mouth, damn you. Watch your mouth."
"Careful. If I'm damaged goods, the judge may renege on your arrangement."
She could see the struggle in his eyes before his grip slackened. "He won't see the damage on Tess, though. You owe me an apology."
Greta swallowed and, thinking of her sister, said woodenly, "I'm so sorry."
Smug and victorious, Marshall replied, "I don't like your tone."
"You can't do this to us forever."
Why did she bother to say things like that, what good did it do? Marshall's smile became more civil. He rubbed her arms where his grip had pained her, almost brotherly in nature, and it galled her. But she said nothing. He returned to his cordial.
"Don't worry about Elias tonight," he said. "Someone's keeping him busy with supper
and brandy until the judge can steal away with you."
"Oh, I never worry about your side of things. I just do as I'm told."
Marshall's expression didn't change, but he didn't ignore her sarcasm. "You really don't want to botch anything. This favor we're doing…"
"We?"
"Fine. This favor I'm doing the judge is valuable for all of us. He'll be a powerful friend."
"How happy I am for you."
Marshall opened his arms in a gesture of reconciliation and moved casually toward Greta. She stiffened.
"Greta. Don't be such a grouse. I'm very serious when I say this is good for all of us. Tandy's a bigger catch than his fellow Elias. This could mean more of everything for you, except any cash, of course. That rule still applies. Why insist on making the good things so hard to live with?"
Greta needed a moment to gather her self-control, and she looked about her chambers in silence. The excess and opulence assaulted her. It was hard to pretend, so hard to pretend. Marshall smiled and rested his hands on her shoulders.
"All right, then?" When she didn't reply, he gave her a firm, warning shake. She managed a quick nod. "Good. Now. Give us a kiss."
Chapter Two
That Which Is Mote, That Which Is Beam
The young minister was grateful for this gift from his father; the Reverend Mr. Aaron Shane, newly ordained, invited to one of Marshall Fielding's soirees. And it was a Festival party to boot, the all-important first in a line of elite celebrations ushering in the Veiled Prophet Fair.
All of St. Louis was in a bright mood, even more so than what accompanied the annual tradition. The Festival was more than simple frivolity this year. It was sorely needed, after the horrific storm that had so wasted the city last spring. This year, the anticipation leading up to the Fair was a balm for St. Louis's wounded soul, as all awaited the day of the Procession, when the Veiled Prophet would reign over the streets like Rex at Mardi Gras. Of course, there had been an appropriate, official reception commemorating Aaron's ordination--the Episcopal son following the footsteps of his Episcopal father. But this. This was the real celebration in Aaron's mind.
He stood quietly at the main parlor's wall, taking time to assess things. From the library the strains of the quartet's music glided over the bejeweled, coifed, and oiled heads of St. Louis' beau monde. Aaron glimpsed his father already moving through the swirl of Who's-Who, sizing up the correct introductions for his son. But there were two men in particular that Aaron was to rub shoulders with tonight: Father Elliot Alcott and Carroll Enderly.
The right parish at the beginning of his career could save Aaron years of struggling up the ladder of clerical hierarchy. On this point the young minister and his parent agreed. But Aaron had an unspoken agenda, as well. A wealthy and prestigious congregation could establish far greater things than an Episcopal priest's future. He wanted to open minds to true reform; Godly, social reform. But such things had to be approached just so if they were to succeed. That was why Aaron kept his dreams to himself. God would tell him when the moment was right, when those minds would open.
He had just taken the champagne from a server's tray when he saw her at the top of the staircase, her slender, gloved arm curled around Mr. Fielding's sleeve. Her beauty and manner, the rich, emerald dress, stood out even in the dazzle of the Festival party. They caused a little stir as they descended, and even though he had never seen her before, Aaron knew who she was. Mr. Fielding's stunning cousin, Greta Roscoe.
"Cousin." Aaron's mouth set tightly.
Certain men enjoying his father's smoking parlor made it clear she was no such thing. The rumors abounded, and his father--though not indulging himself--did nothing to turn the subject when it cropped up. It was distressing to discover that some of the gossip was true. She was as lovely as claimed. But the gossip had not mentioned the intelligence in her face; they had made no reference to her poise. He felt anguish and frustration. The waste of a soul always disturbed him, and the spectacle before his eyes was a more garish example than he usually witnessed. Why would she choose such a life? He disliked her for what she did, and the way she did it, and the way she wore it; her auburn head erect, her eyes as clear as a child's conscience.
He watched the Honorable Judge Walter Tandy take her hand courteously, the lady in emerald satin. But she wasn't really a lady, was she, in spite of the refinements? No, she was a kept woman, mistress of the 'Honorable' Judge Elias Page. A whore. As much a whore as the ragged creatures that haunted St. Louis's seediest dance halls. Aaron struggled to keep that thought in his mind. She's a whore, pure and simple.
And now Judge Tandy escorted her across the room, meandering through the merrymakers, heading toward Aaron. As they approached his back stiffened. His priest's collar squeezed his throat when he swallowed. Had he not good discipline, Aaron would have reached up to touch the slick surface of his blue-black hair.
"Father Aaron Shane," said Judge Tandy. "May I present Miss Greta Roscoe?"
"Miss Roscoe," said Aaron.
"Father Shane," she replied. Her eyes narrowed. "Related to David Shane?"
"The elder's son," Judge Tandy answered for Aaron. "Our young, handsome minister here has just been ordained."
"Really? Congratulations."
"Thank you," Aaron managed, with less brittleness.
"All he needs now is a good parish," the judge began, but was interrupted.
"Walter."
Mayor Walbridge was heading toward them in full campaign stride, despite elections being five months away. He was putting up an excellent front, but everyone knew the mayor was in trouble. The Great Tornado of last spring had been massive, of infamously historic proportions, shredding the city. Two hundred souls had perished, thousands had been injured. City Hospital had been destroyed, making care for the wounded nearly impossible. Despair had turned to anger and the anger focused on Walbridge. His enemies were making the best of it.
Walbridge patted random backs and clasped palms as he approached. His full, waxed mustache seemed to broaden his smile (it was a long-standing joke of his that what he couldn't grow on his head he intended to grow on his lip). When Walbridge reached the trio, he shook hands with the men, bowed coolly but civilly to Miss Roscoe, and turned his attention to the judge.
"I don't believe my eyes," said the mayor, tilting his head and shading his brow as if looking toward a great elevation. Being long-limbed Tandy's full, cottony hair only added more height. Standing next to the diminutive mayor made him seem a giant. "The Honorable Walter Tandy actually enjoying some festivity! What could possibly coax you out of that cave you call a study?"
The judge glanced quickly at Miss Roscoe, and replied, "I'm a gad-about compared to you, Cyrus. The only time a soul can tip a glass with the mayor is during Festival. What else would bring me out?"
Walbridge laughed as though he had not a worry in the world, then looked at Aaron and Miss Roscoe. "He has a tongue of pure silver. I've been in politics long enough to be wary of that kind of flattery." He looked significantly at Miss Roscoe before returning his attention to Tandy. "Your bias wouldn't be in favor of a certain fellow justice this coming spring, would it?"
"My bias, old friend, is always in your favor."
"I trust you've told Elias Page that."
"Elias loves the bench. He has yet to officially vie for the Democrats' nomination, let alone challenge for the mayoralty…"
"So he says, so he says. But certain men might tempt him…"
"Doubtful. And I'm not one of them. To do so would betray St. Louis. The city will come to her senses soon and realize what a sturdy oak you are. I'm sure of it."
Walbridge laughed and regarded Aaron and Miss Roscoe once again. "Gold. Now his tongue turns to gold. Well, come have that glass with me, you old liar, and we'll relieve these two young people of our stuffy company."
The judge hesitated a moment. "Would you be kind enough, Mayor, to find us two whiskeys, and I'll be right with you."
It was clear
that Tandy was reluctant to leave Miss Roscoe's side. How embarrassing to see such an otherwise dignified man so weakened by the woman's presence. But as the mayor left in search of the liquor the judge recovered quickly enough.
"Mr. Shane, I'd like to leave Miss Roscoe in your capable hands for a moment."
Well, I have no choice do I, Aaron thought. "Of course, Judge, my pleasure."
Judge Tandy took Miss Roscoe's gloved fingers and, much to Aaron's chagrin, kissed them. Even the coarsest of men would know such a display with an unmarried woman wasn't done. Aaron blushed.
But even worse, the judge winked at Aaron, and said into his ear, "Now, I hope your hands aren't more capable than mine, eh?"
Incredible. To say such a thing to him. But equally incredible were these innuendos that Miss Roscoe was Tandy's evening sport. Until that moment Aaron had assumed the judge was merely serving as a watch dog for his fellow, Elias Page; keeping guard over the mistress until the arrival of her patron. Could Miss Roscoe be cavorting with two judges? Tandy smiled at his own joke as he walked off, leaving Aaron so terribly alone with the woman.
Tense under Miss Roscoe's scrutiny he cleared his throat, and asked, "May I get you a glass of champagne?"
"Thank you, no, I don't drink."
"Oh?" His surprise was obvious.
A smirk turned the corners of her lips. "Father," she said, mulling over the word. "Excuse me, but I'm confused. The judge referred to you as Mister Shane, also."
"I'm an Episcopal priest, Miss Roscoe. Either reference is appropriate, though my father prefers the more formal. As for me, I'm not quite so traditional. At least, not where titles are concerned."
She smiled stiffly. "Yes, I'm acquainted with your father. But my cousin is the Episcopalian of the family. I'm not familiar with your faith."
"I wouldn't expect it of you." He should have resisted saying that, if only out of courtesy. But he hardly regretted it, especially when Miss Roscoe's eyes were growing so hard. If she had seemed chastened, it would have been easy to regret. Even so, he felt compelled to say something apologetic, to break the crust of icy silence between them. "What I meant was, if one isn't among the faithful…"
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