"Greta. Don't be proud. You look a little pale. I'm not sure you should be working this evening, let alone exerting yourself like this. Or is that just a sort of night pallor from sleeping all day and sporting into the wee hours?" Her mouth watered more fiercely. She kept walking. "You may as well stop. I'll follow you all the way to the Pharaoh like this if you force me. And I'll dance every dance with you, too. Or if you make it necessary, I can persuade Big Bear to terminate your employ."
Marshall had answered one question without Greta having to so much as glance his way. He knew of her job through some network of his. But he didn't know she had quit. It had been a coincidence that he had guessed to where she was walking. Had it been a coincidence, though, that he was going in the same direction?
"You are such a proud thing. But, Greta. You take it to such self-destructive depths. Please accept a ride. What I have to say can change things for you, if you'll allow."
She was tempted to stop, to face him and just scream. Somehow, though, Greta managed to keep walking, and when the burning temptation to scream eased she even smiled a little. Perhaps she'd stop after all, and make good use of the welling in her mouth that the nausea caused. Instead she walked on. She heard Marshall sigh with frustrated resignation.
There was an underlying chill in his voice, when he said, "Suit yourself. I'm sorry you're making this choice. The least you could've done was think of Tess. I certainly am. I suppose you've forgotten that I'm still her legal guardian."
That did bring Greta to a halt. She lunged toward Marshall, the only thing stopping her was the demi-doors of the hansom. Marshall reared back instinctively.
"Don't you dare threaten me, don't you dare threaten her."
"You're the only one being threatening. All I asked you to do was listen. I'll assure her welfare better than you have." Marshall looked upward as though he could see the driver through the hansom's ceiling, giving it a thump with his fist. "Go!"
The carriage's forward lurch pushed Greta away. And then she did scream, one great forceful cry, sending it skyward. Passers by crossed the street to avoid her. She looked back toward the hansom in time to see it turn at the crossroads, then she began walking quickly toward the landings again.
After a few moments she slowed and wiped at the tears that had sprung up with her scream. She felt weak and wanted to stop, but her legs would tremble if she did and loathed the thought of it. She was afraid. The words which Marshall had left her refused to abate. He could assure Tess' welfare. He would take her away from Greta.
But why would he do that, why would he do such a thing? What would he profit? There was no point to it. No, he simply enjoyed tormenting her with threats. He had the same sadistic streak in him as Burgess. She sent a silent prayer to God, yes, please let it be just that. But her better sense was having none of it. After a year's absence, an entire year? There was no point to his slinking back into their lives merely to spew idle threats for his own amusement. He was going to it. He was going to claim Tess. His reasons were still inexplicable, but, oh, dear God. He was going to do it.
She almost stopped walking, but when she felt the tremors in her legs begin, she forced herself forward. There was a condition implied, though, wasn't there? He wanted something from Greta. What possibly? It didn't matter. How could it matter to her what he wanted? He said he could assure Tess' welfare. He said he could take Tess away from her. The nausea began to surge again. Just a few more paces, after the crossroad where Marshall's hansom had veered, she'd be able to see the facade of the Mississippi Pharaoh. She turned the corner. There was the dance hall, and there was Marshall, in the carriage waiting for her.
"He had a proposition in mind?" Mr. Shane asked.
Greta had to stand again, as though roaming the flat's parlor could distance her from the final moments of her story. She was restless and weary, wondering how she could be both at the same time. And Mr. Shane's choice of words disturbed her.
"It's interesting that you should put it that way," she said, glancing over her shoulder briefly. She began a circuit near the flat's walls, as though she hadn't already examined the paper's pattern and fixtures several times. "That's how he described it."
She hardly hesitated at all once she had arrived at the Mississippi Pharaoh. She walked directly to the carriage and climbed in. The memory was as maddeningly vivid as all the others. They were making their way along the riverside, its street traffic thinning for the evening. She and Marshall must have looked for all the world like a normal brother and sister just taking in the early evening view.
"I have a proposition in mind," Marshall said. Greta waited him out, her eyes fixed to the passing street scenes. "We don't have to go about it like this, Greta. But since you're going to sit there like a sphinx, then I'll hope that at least your ears aren't made of stone. If you love Tess so much, you'll listen, because what I have to say will affect her future. And how you react to me will seal it. Now, you already know that my home was always open to the both of you. And, in spite of what you think, I have never been at ease with the thought of you and Tess living in that godforsaken tenement."
Much as Greta wanted to remain silent, her breath came out in a huff of pure derision.
Marshall's reply was, "You only prove the point I'm about to make. I haven't approached you before, because I knew how I would be greeted. Your ludicrous pride wouldn't have let you hear me out. So I bided my time, thinking that life's harsher realities might be my best allies. Greta, I wish you would look at me. Really, look at me. You'll see a life of considerable comfort and opportunity. A life young Tess deserves. Education, protection…eventually a good marriage. She would want for nothing. But lest you think that I would prefer to wrench her from you--although I would, you know, if you forced me to it…"
Great turned her hatred toward Marshall with a fury. "You will never take her from me. Never. Her better off with you? You heartless, depraved, black farce of a man. Tess better off with you? She'd be better off dead. And if you ever try taking her, that's what she'll be. I'd put a knife to her throat and then plunge it into my heart. Don't think for a minute I won't, Marshall. Don't. Think. I. Won't."
The silence hung between them. But as the hansom jostled on, as Greta stared down her brother with every ounce of her loathing, she watched a knowing smile spread across Marshall's face. So many years at the hands of the Fieldings had created a warped intimacy between their families. She might take her own life, if she must. She might even be able to take what was left of her father's. But Tess? Under any circumstance? He knew perfectly well that she was bluffing.
At last, he said, "I won't even pretend to be shocked."
He glanced away then, as though to watch the Mississippi pass by. It would be several weeks before Greta would come to recognize the gesture; it was what he did when he was close to blatantly lying.
"As I was saying," he began, bringing his gaze back to Greta. She turned away from him, but not in defiance this time. She was in despair. "This 'heartless, black farce of a man' despises the thought of either of you living in squalor, whether you believe me or not. I want you to come, too. I'm all alone in that house. I long for family, for authentic blood-of-my-blood. There's a terrible history between us, I have no intention of denying that. But that was my father's doing. And perhaps I handled things poorly and bolstered this old animosity of your family's, but I'm trying to repair that. Come with Tess, Greta. Neither of you need want for anything."
It wasn't his words that were swaying her. She didn't believe him for a moment, didn't believe that he was filled with regret or desire to have blood-bound kinswomen at his side. In truth, she wasn't being swayed at all. She was beaten down.
Her voice was reedy in her ears, when she said, "I have Father to think of, too."
She didn't have to see Marshall's victorious smile to know it was there. "Of course, you do. And you think I would forget him?"
Was he thinking of the same moment as she? Did he see Father's contorted face, the
smoldering log hurdling toward Marshall colliding with his arm? Oh, God. What did he intend for Father? Greta shut her burning eyes, her spirit too defeated to mask her distress.
"There's an institution, very new, very controversial, but very impressive. I've taken the liberty to look into it, discreetly. In the station of society you're about to enter, these sorts of things are kept quiet. Understand? Out of respect for Lawrence. He'll be cared for better than you could ever manage. I can make it happen. LaFontaine, it's called."
Still, she didn't look at him, but forced herself to speak again. "I know of it."
This seemed to cause Marshall to hesitate, as though disappointed there was no need to further describe the asylum. Or perhaps he'd wanted her to thrill at his solution. The ensuing quiet provoked her, helped her dredge up the remains of her dignity. Greta turned to him as if to bore her disgust of Marshall, of his long dead father, into the center of his black soul.
"Just come out with it, for the love of God. If you think I'm going to weep with gratitude, then you think I'm as addled as Father. Just like Burgess, you wouldn't be at this unless there was some bizarre Fielding profit to be made. Tell me and get it over with. What am I supposed to do to keep my sister?"
Marshall was completely unruffled by the venom in her voice. His face was nearly expressionless, when he said, "You're supposed to be family. You and Tess. Which, in fact, you are, no matter what. You'll be my family and I'll do all that's in my power to make your lives comfortable and happy. But if you insist on resisting, then I'll salvage Tess and leave you and Lawrence to whatever devices you can scrape up. I told you before, family is inescapable. Honestly. It's up to you."
"I don't believe one single word. Except your threat to ruin us."
"These aren't threats, these are assurances." With the same affected casualness as before, Marshall returned his gaze to the scenery. "'Bizarre Fielding profit', you say. Since you insist, yes. Having family would 'profit' me. There is a certain clientele I want to woo, and you and Tess can help me do that. Having two charming cousins in the house will improve my status. Once I find a suitable wife, eventually children...you'll all people the house nicely. It'll look good. The more the merrier. There. Since you make me admit to the secondary advantage, there it is."
Greta narrowed her eyes. "Cousins?"
"Don't you think it would be better to keep our past in the past? It's easier to explain cousins arriving at this late date than sisters." He called to the driver, "Toncey! Turn left at the next."
Then he coughed into his fist. The action seemed dry and affected. Once again, he was looking elsewhere. Greta stared stiffly ahead, glad for the unrelenting nausea. There was very little else she could feel that reminded her of emotions.
Finally Marshall added, "And I expect you to fulfill certain social obligations. They'll profit us both."
"What obligations?" she asked, with minimal interest.
"I'll explain as they come up. Simple, but important in my line of work." The street they were on would lead them back to Greta's tenement. Marshall turned to her pointedly. "Shall I drop you at your flat to pack? Or would you prefer I take you to the Pharaoh?"
Greta's face felt cold. It was as if the skin were shrinking against her skull. "Pack? You expect a decision tonight?"
"I expect a decision now."
Greta was aware that her lips were parted. She felt the slightest movement there, but she had no way of pushing a reply through them. How could she say yes? How could she? How could she say no? The only time she had ever felt grateful to Marshall came then. As though he already knew her answer, he didn't require it of her.
"I'll send my man for you in two hours."
Chapter Twelve
Mongrel Breeds
"A congressman was the first," Greta said. She walked back to the chair opposite Mr. Shane and sat. "I caught his eye at a supper party Marshall was giving. Old Burgess' estate holds the deeds to the two dance halls at the landings. For all practical purposes Marshall owns the Mississippi Pharaoh. Can you imagine my surprise? There was a political row going on about this time, you might remember. Our local congress came close to outlawing dance halls and billiard parlors. The measure was barely defeated." The taste in Greta's mouth was as bitter as her smile. "I can claim a certain amount of credit for the bill's demise. Should I speak more plainly?"
The minister fidgeted, but Greta wasn't sure if he were embarrassed for himself or her. "No, I understand. How did you know... that is... when did you realize what Mr. Fielding expected of you?"
"You mean, concerning Congressman Hodd or in general? I suspected something seedy early on. I was required to attend all evening occasions at Marshall's house. In fact, he made sure I attended no other occasions at all. He chose my gowns..." In illustration, Greta dipped her hands toward the one she was wearing. "All of them beautiful, elegant, and just shy of scandalous. Designed as advertisement."
"But did he actually introduce you to the congressman as his cousin? That would hardly be less atrocious than offering his own sister."
Gracious, just when Greta had forgotten how innocent this man was, he'd say something like that.
"Mr. Shane, his clientele are all seasoned patrons of the night. Most knew the introduction was just a social veil. An excuse to keep me conveniently in the house. They never believed we were related. The only family resemblance between us is our hair, after all."
The minister looked genuinely heartsick. "Oh, Miss Roscoe. It must have been... difficult...that first time."
Emotion hardened in Greta's stomach. The memory threatened, stark and vivid as all the others she had endured. Bits and pieces of that pivotal night warred against her resolve.
Marshall, backed her into a corner of her bed chamber, hissed into her face, "You will do it, and you will make a good show of it. Don't force me to punish you through Tess."
In that very same chamber, an hour later, she was pressed face-first into the mattress. Screaming against the anguish, against Hodd's weight atop her, against the pain, against it all, against it all. Was he really surprised to see blood on the bed clothes? In a satiated mix of delight and sheepishness the congressman admitted he thought Marshall had simply been 'talking her up', he hadn't actually believed she'd never... He said that he'd send her something special, something worthy of her. He threatened--though he called it a promise--to return. Just before he left he decided to give her 30 dollars, a sum that astonished her even though she was still shaking with trauma. And she took it, too, by God, and hid it away against the day she could figure out how to get Tess away from Marshall. Two days later, a ruby brooch was delivered to her. Greta fixed onto Mr. Shane's face. In doing so, she could ward off the bulk of the memory.
"I won't speak of it," she said.
He nodded, looking pale. Greta cleared her throat, wishing again for just one more cup of tea. "Not long after that, Marshall introduced me to Elias Page."
"And finally to Walter Tandy."
Greta was jolted; suspicious of Mr. Shane's knowledge. But, of course, that's right. Before their murders, Mr. Shane was introduced to her and the judge. In fact, the judge had behaved so sinfully right in front of him. Mr. Shane had no way of knowing... why, there had even been an intention to make him think the worst. Greta smiled in amused recollection before catching herself. Mr. Shane seemed confused by her change in mood. He smiled, too, uncertainly.
"What? What is it?"
"Nothing, I'm sorry."
Too late, she caught herself. She may as well have said outright that she was amused at his expense. Mr. Shane seemed a little hurt, a little offended, on the other side of the joke as he was. But he didn't pursue it. He had other questions he needed answered.
"At any rate," he said, "Mr. Fielding had lied to you from the beginning, then. I saw Tess' room, you recall."
"Actually, no, he didn't. Marshall rarely lies in an absolute sense. He doesn't like to, unless he's forced to choose between blunt falsehood and adulterated truth.
Tess had a very pretty room. A private tutor, as well."
"Then how did she end in that sorry little hole?"
"Because all along Tess was nothing more to Marshall than a way to control me. If I refuse him anything Tess suffers for it. I was a poor learner in the beginning. I botched a supper party early on and Tess lost her tutor. I scratched Hodd across his face when he returned...Tess was imprisoned. I never saw Hodd again, but what kind of victory was that, knowing what I'd done to my sister? I didn't even have the satisfaction of ruining things for Marshall with my outburst. He'd already saved his dance halls, and in the end, he simply replaced Hodd with Page. The bargain is very simple and well-defined. I behave, do as I'm told, and Tess is left alone." With those words, Greta saw Tess' face, the abused eye puffed and bruised. She pressed her own face into her gloved hands. "No, not even that's true anymore. Everything's changed now. I'd thought we'd found the way, but..."
When she looked up Mr. Shane was staring down, his eyes fixed just ahead of his shoes, as though he were in deep thought. His brow was furrowed. Greta wondered if he had even heard her answer his question. He spoke, though his posture didn't change.
"I'm baffled. Try as I might, I can't begin to guess at Mr. Fielding's motivations. I have a better grasp of his father's reasons for torment than his, and even those mystify me."
"I told you. I was a business tool for him. Marshall is as greedy as old Fielding ever was. Only two things separate him from his father. Burgess had all the couth of a mongrel dog. Marshall's very polished, very suave. He can give the Fielding perversion a veneer of respectability. Since he doesn't have his father's power, he's learned to compensate. The other is that he's lazier than Burgess. He spends his inheritance as easily as he draws breath. He's in a constant struggle to keep his debts current. He uses me for money and influence."
VOYAGERS Page 12
