Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Our future.”

  Looking at her hands, her fingers clenched so tight they appeared in danger of breaking, he gave in to temptation and reached for her right hand.

  He clasped it in between the two of his and ran his fingers along her knuckles and fingertips. Smiling as he felt the faint calluses on her fingers from all the writing and cataloguing she did at the library.

  “Your hands are cold,” he stated, liking the feel of her hands in his. Liking the way their hands fit together. So different, but strangely compatible.

  “Are they? I hadn’t noticed.”

  She did sound foggy. He suddenly wished he were the type of man to enfold a woman in his arms to offer comfort, just as he had wanted to in his office earlier that morning. Wished she were the kind of woman who would accept such forwardness.

  Knowing that delaying his words was only going to make her feel even more ill at ease, he cleared his throat. “Lydia, your mother and I came to an agreement. You and I need to marry, and as soon as possible.”

  Instead of looking relieved, she shook her head. “Of course we do not.”

  “Surely you are not that naïve.”

  “Naïve?” Her mouth worked. “Mr. Marks, is this about last night?” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh my goodness! Are you concerned about gossipmongers?”

  It seemed only Lydia Bancroft was capable of making him feel like the tallest man in the room and a complete idiot all at the same time. “Of course it is. But it is also because the two of us uniting in marriage is the right thing to do.”

  “I beg to differ, sir.” She stood up and went back to the spot she’d been standing in when he’d entered the room. “A marriage between the two of us is undoubtedly the worst thing we could do.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Sebastian, we hardly know each other.”

  “I disagree. I know you as well as I know any of my acquaintances.”

  She practically leapt upon that key word. “You said acquaintances, Mr. Marks. That means two people who have been merely acquainted. That is telling, don’t you agree?”

  “I do not. Acquaintances means we are close to friends. It also means we are the exact opposite of strangers.”

  “Indeed. However, that does not mean we should enter into marriage.”

  “Enough with the wordplay,” he snapped, then just as quickly wished he could begin this conversation all over again. He’d meant to keep his voice soft and his reasoning steady. But seeing her dismay . . . no, seeing her, well, fear made him yearn to be a little more honest. “Lydia, I do not make friends. I do not yearn to befriend others. For most of my life, I’ve been perfectly happy to live relatively alone.”

  “Which is yet another reason why you do not need me.”

  “But I do.” Of course, he was willing to say almost anything to encourage her to see his way. But as he heard his words, he realized he was correct. He did need her. “I do need you, Lydia. If life has taught me anything, if that World’s Fair in the middle of our fair city has shown me anything, it’s that everyone, no matter what their circumstances or bearings or hopes, deserves to be around other people.”

  “Do you think so?”

  He knew he’d struck a chord. “I know so. I may have lived my life on the outskirts of good society, Lydia, but you haven’t done much better. You, too, have been perfectly happy to live on the fringes of communities. Instead of becoming involved with other people or even with charities or organizations, you’ve stayed to yourself and your books.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Prove it. Who is your best friend? What do you do when you are not at the library and are not waiting hand and foot on your mother?”

  The look of devastation on her face told him everything Sebastian needed to know.

  “I don’t want a marriage to be another mistake that you need to make better,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be another liability on your life.”

  She had no idea about liabilities. She had no idea about pain or embarrassment or anything to do with living in the shadows of hunger and a mother’s total sacrifice of everything she was . . . to still feel like she was a failure.

  “You won’t be a liability.”

  “But—”

  “You will be much better, Lydia.”

  “Oh.”

  He saw her wavering. Saw her weigh his words, wonder if he was lying or being sincere. Because he hated to see her suffer, he gave her the nudge she needed. “Your mother was relieved, Lydia. She was thankful to know that you will be taken care of.”

  “Did she say such a thing?”

  “Yes.” He waited a beat, then added the words he instinctively knew she would hold close to her heart. “She was also grateful to know that she would no longer have to worry.”

  Behind her lenses, blue eyes widened. “She said that?”

  “Oh, yes. She wants to stay here. I told her I’d rehire Ethel and hire a nurse and a maid. She will be taken care of for the rest of her life.”

  “That . . . that is very kind of you.”

  “It is nothing. It is what a son-in-law does.” He smiled then, finding both his new title and the strange turn that was transpiring most amusing.

  He leaned forward. “Lydia, you are good with words. You have a brilliant mind. You also have a good heart. I know if we stayed here all day, you could come up with a myriad of reasons to refute my reasons. But simply concentrate on one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Marrying me is the right thing to do.” He inhaled. “I promise to make you happy.” At the very least, he would certainly try.

  She stared at him a long moment, then opened her lips a fraction.

  He prepared himself for a torrent of arguments, each one more logical than the last.

  Instead, she merely shocked him out of his skin.

  “Will you say the words?”

  “Hmm?” He’d say whatever she wanted, but he wasn’t following.

  “Will you ask me to marry you?”

  His cheeks flushed. Not because of what he was about to do, but because he was such a fool that he hadn’t remembered what was important. He hadn’t recalled what women needed.

  Well, at least what this one lady needed.

  And because of that, he did something he’d sworn at a young age he would never do.

  He stood up.

  Walked to the front of her chair.

  And knelt down on one knee.

  Taking her hand, he gazed up into her eyes. “Lydia Bancroft, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her lips curved up, the sweetest sight he’d ever seen.

  “Yes,” she said.

  And, by his honor, Sebastian Marks knew that one word had never meant so much.

  CHAPTER 25

  CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

  January 26, 1894

  Reported by Benson Gage

  The city of Chicago has put the team of Ryan and Howard in charge of the investigation of Jason Avondale’s murder. Readers might recall that this dashing team of detectives solved the Society Slasher case. This reporter, for one, is glad this team is on the case, since there are rumors that quite a number of society’s elite were visiting the alley that night . . . including a certain auburn-haired, blue-eyed, former debutant.

  Although more than a full day had passed, Vincent Hunt was still chafing from the indignity of having to answer Lieutenant Howard’s questions.

  Standing in front of his mirror, he attempted to fasten a tie, failed, and then attempted it again. His fingers felt useless, but perhaps that was because his mind kept racing back to last night’s interrogation.

  “So what do you do, exactly?” Howard had asked, his expression filled with contempt.

  “I do whatever my employer asks me to do.”

  “Give me some examples. What does a man like Sebastian Marks ask a man like you to do?”

  Vincent had known Howard had made his tone derisive intentionally. He’d wan
ted Vincent to get flustered and upset. Infuriated. It was an excellent way to obtain information without having to use one’s fists. Vincent had used the same method more than once.

  Therefore, he’d stood his ground. “I manage his employees. I confer with the floor managers and compile their reports. I make sure the club runs smoothly.”

  “Sounds like there hardly needs to be a Sebastian Marks if you do everything.”

  “I did not mean to insinuate that. Obviously, I do not.”

  Howard had shuffled through a sheaf of papers. “I looked into your past employment records. It says here that you worked for Sheffield and Towne.”

  “Yes, I did. I worked for that law firm for eight years.”

  Pointing to something scribbled in his notebook, Howard said, “It seems Avondale had Sheffield and Towne on retainer.”

  “Did he? I don’t recall,” he lied. Mr. Sheffield had in fact given him several of Avondale’s papers to proof and copy.

  “Are you certain that your paths never crossed there? Mr. Galvin seemed to think perhaps they had. In fact, he said Avondale did not like you.”

  “If our paths did cross at Sheffield and Towne, he wouldn’t have remembered me. I was a mere clerk. He was not only a paying customer but an acquaintance of Mr. Sheffield. And most of the men who owe the Grotto a great deal of money do not like me.”

  “Why did you leave Sheffield and Towne?”

  If Howard was reading Vincent’s employment record, he knew why he’d left. But he allowed him his fun. “I did not leave voluntarily. I was fired.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I missed too much work.” He’d missed too much work, lost too much sleep, and had botched one of Jason Avondale’s financial trusts. Avondale had been furious.

  Howard had raised a brow. “Frankly, I’m surprised a man like Sebastian Marks hired you. A record like that is embarrassing,” he stated, his voice once again full of derision. “It’s nothing to be proud of, certainly.”

  “That is true.” Though it hurt to hear his past reduced to Lieutenant Howard’s disparaging terms, he was glad Irene hadn’t been mentioned. He wanted to preserve her good name at all costs. At least her memory was spared that indignity.

  “Or is that the whole story?”

  “You seem to think it is.”

  Howard had slammed a hand on the table. “Don’t play games with me, Hunt. You won’t win. Why did you miss so much work? Were you gambling? Experimenting with drink?” He paused, practically leered at him. “Or did you, perhaps, discover other women?”

  Each innuendo felt as harsh as a man’s fists. “My wife had scarlet fever,” he said. “That was why I missed work.” That had also been why he’d done such sloppy work on Avondale’s documents.

  Immediately Howard’s expression turned blank. “There was no notice of a wife when I researched you. Only a daughter.”

  Vincent didn’t want to discuss the gaps in the policeman’s research about his life. His statement only reinforced everything he didn’t like or trust about the police force. They were a bunch of Irishmen who excelled at bending the rules to subjugate innocent people. “I was married,” he snapped. “When she fell ill, it was . . . difficult. I was not always able to get to work.”

  “Did she survive?”

  Howard’s voice had turned oddly gentle. It was as much a surprise as it was unwelcome, because it forced Vincent to say her name. To not do so would do her a disfavor.

  “Irene did not survive,” he said at last. “She died.” Then, because he’d already shared more than he’d wanted to, he gave in and completed the story. “After she passed, I spent almost my last dollar on providing her with a decent funeral service and burial.” He raised his head, meeting Howard’s eyes. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Of course it was.” He paused. “But I imagine Sheffield and Towne didn’t approve of your time away.”

  “Indeed, they did not. I was their law clerk, Lieutenant Howard. When I worked for them, I was expected to blend into the woodwork, doing the work I was paid to do.”

  “There is nothing wrong with that.”

  “No. But I was only one of their many nameless faces who organized reams of paperwork into more manageable piles,” he stated, bending what had really happened into something that was almost the truth. “And when I wasn’t there to do that, when I spent too much time caring for my wife instead, I was easily replaced.” Now, as distance afforded a better impression of his past, Vincent knew that his weakness had played a large part of his being let go as well.

  He’d never stood up for himself. He’d taken the jibes from his employers, the comments about his tentative nature, the slurs about his less-than-impressive appearance.

  Now that man he had been embarrassed him. He hadn’t expected anything and therefore thought he’d deserved nothing.

  “So that was why you went to work for Sebastian Marks. Because you were desperate and had nowhere else to go.”

  Howard had been correct, but he’d also been so very wrong. Vincent had gone to work for Sebastian Marks so he could become different. He hadn’t even cared if he was going to become a man of worth.

  All he’d known was that he couldn’t continue to be the man he was.

  The interview had continued for another hour, with Vincent sharing far too many details about the running of the Silver Grotto to feel like he could ever look Sebastian Marks in the eye again.

  When he’d exited the room, he hadn’t wanted to do anything but hang his head in shame. He’d broken his three promises to Marks. He’d lied. He’d gossiped. And though he hadn’t actually stolen an item, his hands had felt as dirty as if he had.

  But unfortunately, the first person he’d seen was Mr. Marks himself. He’d been leaning against the wall. Somehow, even after being up all night and being interrogated himself, Mr. Marks’ suit had looked pressed, his hair perfectly coifed, and his dark eyes alert.

  When Mr. Marks had looked Vincent’s way, it had felt like he’d seen everything. Furthermore, the man had looked concerned.

  It had almost made tears spring to Vincent’s eyes, knowing how different he would look at him after he became aware of just how much Vincent had revealed. After ascertaining that Mr. Marks was determined to wait for Bridget, Vincent had left.

  He’d only tossed and turned as he’d tried to sleep, though, and now he was determined to go to the club and keep watch over things. Mr. Marks had said he was not sure how long the Grotto would be closed, but all sorts would be sniffing around, waiting for their opportunity to benefit from an empty building.

  Vincent would make sure that, at least, didn’t happen. He might tell tales against his employer, he might lie about his past experiences with Avondale, but Vincent wasn’t about to let some random gang of thugs take advantage of the Grotto.

  As soon as his cravat was tied securely, his vest neatly buttoned, and his shoes freshly polished, he exited his bedroom. He would check on Mary and Janet, then get on his way.

  Except he found Mary sitting rather disconsolately at the top of the stairs. Her doll was in one hand, but it was dangling from her fist like it was in danger of leaping to its death down the stairs.

  “Careful with Willow, Mary,” he said. “She’s in danger of falling.”

  She looked up. “Oh. Hi, Daddy.”

  “What is wrong, sweetheart?”

  She sighed. “Aunt Janet doesn’t feel good.”

  “Oh? Is she feverish?” Even after all this time, he still feared fevers.

  “I don’t think so.” She twisted her lips. “When I was downstairs this morning, she was sitting next to the oven. She said I was going to have to be really quiet today. Me and Willow couldn’t play outside either.”

  This was alarming. “I had better go see your aunt Janet.”

  Mary nodded her head. “I think you’d better, but watch out, on account of her feeling yucky.”

  “Yucky, is it? I’ll do my best.” He ran a hand along her da
rk-blonde curls before walking down the stairs, weighing what the future would bring with each step.

  By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was torn between sending for the doctor and quarantining the house. Actually, he’d begun to think both would be the best course of action.

  “Oh. There you are,” Janet murmured from the sofa in his living room. “I wondered how long it was going to take you to come running to investigate once you were up.”

  Her sarcasm surprised him. Especially given the way she looked so pale and clammy, and her eyes were rimmed with red. “You look wretched.”

  “I know. I should, of course. I feel wretched.”

  “What is wrong? Where is Thomas? Shouldn’t he be looking after you?” He couldn’t keep his disapproval out of his tone. Usually her husband was attentive, so for him to have sent her over to his house in the condition she was in was surprising.

  Somehow her look softened. “Thomas knows I’m fine, Vincent.”

  “You are hardly that.” Before she could interject a word, he began making plans. “Never mind. I’ll take care of everything. Mr. Marks’ private physician is the best in the city, and for a small price he won’t hesitate to pay a house call here.” Thinking quickly, he said, “I know a couple of reliable boys at the end of the block. They’ll fetch him without much coaxing.”

  “There is no need.”

  “Of course there is,” he said. “Now, Janet, this is what we are going to do. You are going to lie down right here while I fetch the doctor. Until he gets here, you can rest or sip tea.” He pivoted on his heel. “I’ll go make you some.”

  “Tea, Vincent? I’m surprised you even know what such a thing is anymore.”

  “I know about tea, sister,” he snapped. “We’ll determine our next steps after the physician gives us his recommendations.”

  “There’s no need for any of that.”

  He brushed off her concerns. Janet always put herself last. He would put a stop to that. He would also talk to Thomas and see if he needed a gentle reminder about looking after his own wife better. For the first time in days, Vincent was glad of his fearsome reputation and ability to coax all sorts of things with his fists. “Don’t worry about the physician’s fee. Marks pays me well. Besides, with everything you do for Mary, nothing is too dear—”