by Holly Bush
Jennifer stood, as if in a dream. She turned away from the doctor now patting Thomas O’Brien on the back. She walked to the steps and up them, trancelike, not conscious, but not so far away that some terrible truths were not able to begin to take hold in her mind and make her queasy. She walked down the hallway to where O’Brien’s brother sat on the floor near a door, his head on his knees. She touched the doorknob and looked at the blood on the door and its frame before opening it.
She took a deep, gulping breath at the sight of her friend and tears streamed down her face. She smoothed O’Brien’s hair. “O’Brien,” she whispered. “Who did this to you?”
O’Brien’s uninjured eye flittered open and she panicked, struggling against Jennifer’s hands and making terrified guttural noises in her throat. She finally connected with Jennifer’s eyes and looked past her, wildly writhing as if to see someone else in the room.
Jennifer shook her head. “There is no one with me. Your brother is guarding the doorway, and your father and the doctor are guarding the door to this house. It is just you and me. Calm yourself. Shhh.”
O’Brien shook her head.
“You must be calm,” Jennifer soothed, and opened the drawer on the nightstand beside the bed, finding a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. She put the pencil in O’Brien’s hand. “Tell me who did this to you. I am terrified at what I am thinking. Please tell me.”
O’Brien clutched the pencil and waved it at her.
“Paper. Yes. Here is paper, O’Brien. I will hold it for you. Tell me,” Jennifer begged.
After some struggle, O’Brien scratched two words. Jennifer turned the paper around to read them but it did not say a name. It said merely, “be terrified.”
She looked at O’Brien and their eyes met. There was no mistaking the message even with no words between them. O’Brien grabbed her hands then, and Jennifer held the paper for her again. She knelt on the floor to watch as O’Brien wrote.
“B. F. J.,” Jennifer said. “What does that mean? What does it stand for?”
But O’Brien was running out of energy. She scrawled “initi” before her hand fell away to the bed.
Jennifer stood and looked down at her friend. “Initials. Those are the initials that we were unable to decipher. Those are the initials of the person who attacked you. It is connected.”
O’Brien nodded once, and Jennifer kissed her forehead. “Do not worry about anything. I will see that your father has help and that you have the best care and that there are guards at your door if you feel it necessary. Do not worry. Rest and I will be back often.”
* * *
Zeb watched the door to the parlor as he waited for dinner to be announced, and socialized with Jolene and her father. Jane Crawford was on a settee with Jeffrey Rothchild, whom he’d been formally introduced to on his arrival. The man had quickly turned back to Jennifer’s mother, as if Zeb were as insignificant as a worm under his polished boot. Jane and Rothchild had their heads close together now and Jane was patting his hand, and looking at him from under her lashes.
There was not an ounce of doubt in Zeb’s mind as to who was tormenting Jennifer. He recalled the look on her face when he’d interrupted her and Rothchild’s embrace in the music room. She had looked up at him when he said her father was asking for her and the look on her face was combination of terror and helplessness that had made him swallow back his anger and hatred for the man and concentrate on escorting her somewhere she could compose herself. She could not bring herself to look him in the eye otherwise.
“I had best check on Jennifer,” Jolene said. “I don’t know what could have kept her so long.”
Zeb looked up just then and saw Jennifer, standing outside the door, one hand on the doorframe as if to steady herself and the other fisted tightly at her side. She was pale and took a deep breath before coming into the room. She avoided her mother and Rothchild and made straight for her father’s side.
“It is time for dinner, Bellings has just told me,” Jennifer said in a breathy voice. “Please escort me to the dining room, Father.”
Zeb winged his elbow for Jolene to take as they passed Jeffrey, now assisting Jane from the settee. “Your sister is white as a ghost.”
“She is,” Jolene replied. “I stopped in her room earlier and she was shaking and near tears. She told me that her companion at work was severely beaten last night. O’Brien is her name, and she is the daughter of the man who manages the Willow Tree stables. She is a well-educated young woman and has known our family since she came here with her father years ago.”
“Beaten?”
“Yes. The doctor that attended her feels she will live, but she has broken bones and is cut deeply on her chest. Jennifer has told Cook to send three meals a day to O’Brien and her family and to have a maid attend them once a day to clean and wash laundry and help with changing dressings and that sort of thing. Mrs. O’Brien died during the same flu epidemic that claimed my son, William. Few families were untouched.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Miss O’Brien,” he said. He watched Jennifer and her father ahead of them walking down the hall to the dining room, she hanging on to her father’s arm, even leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked.
“Here, Jennifer,” her mother said once she was seated. “Sit between Jeffrey and I. We have much to talk about with the Randolph dinner dance coming soon.”
Jennifer stood stone-still, not looking at anyone as her father moved to his seat at the other end of the table. Jolene swept past her.
“But Mother,” Jolene said as she circled past her mother’s chair and seated herself between her and Rothchild. “We’ve had so little time to chat, and I haven’t had the opportunity to get to know Mr. Rothchild.”
Zeb held a chair for Jennifer beside her father and then seated himself across from her.
“I am anxious to hear of your work in service to the Crawford Bank, Mr. Rothchild. Please tell me every detail,” Jolene said, snapping open her linen napkin and forestalling a comment from her mother.
“How are you today, Miss Crawford?” Zeb asked.
She looked up and took a sideways glance at Rothchild. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said, Mr. Moran.”
“I was wondering how your day was, Miss Crawford. It was a pleasant temperature out of doors, and I wondered if you’d been able to enjoy it,” he replied.
“I did not notice, the temperature, that is,” she said softly.
“It has been comfortable as of late, even for a late-night stroll,” Rothchild said. “Although going out alone without the company of family is never prudent for a young lady.”
Jennifer looked up sharply, startled by Rothchild’s words. He appeared pleased he’d been able to do so, staring at her still and smiling.
“I heard today that your friend O’Brien was set upon and severely beaten last evening,” Rothchild said, looking at her over his wineglass as he took a sip. He sat the glass down and picked up his knife and fork, poised to cut the braised beef on his plate, but stopped and looked at Jennifer again. “Not your concern, my dear, as it is already being said that she was not a well-bred woman. Perhaps she taunted one of her lovers too far.”
Jennifer’s fork clattered to her plate. She was staring at Rothchild with a dawning recognition for what he implied—that her friend was somehow to blame for her beating.
“Mr. Rothchild,” Jolene said. “The O’Briens have been with us for decades, and Miss O’Brien was educated at one of the better schools in the city. I will not have you cast aspersions upon her name; I’m sure you are well ready to apologize to me and to my sister Jennifer. Perhaps you do not understand the nature of the relationship between the O’Briens and the Crawfords.”
Rothchild laid his silverware down neatly on either side of his plate. Zeb could see Jolene’s face, stern with one raised brow, and he recognized the haughty tone of her voice. It served him well as Zeb was inclined to pick Rothchild up by the throat and send him flying through
one of the long windows. The father, though, was finally paying attention.
“Apologize to whom?” Jane Crawford said. “The girl is beneath our notice. Why shouldn’t Jeffrey believe what is being said about her? She is a servant and always acted as if she were more than she was, more than just the daughter of a man who mucks out our stalls. The lower classes are noticeably without morals. You will have nothing more to do with her, Jennifer.”
Tears were running down Jennifer’s face when she stood and threw her napkin down on the table. “That is enough, Mother. More than enough. I cannot abide your hatefulness,” she said, and hurried to the door.
The dining room was silent for a moment until Zeb heard the scrape of Rothchild’s chair and watched him hurry to the door of the room, but not before stopping to bend over Jane’s hand. “I will go and speak to your daughter, Mrs. Crawford. She certainly misinterpreted what I said and was disrespectful to you. I can’t imagine what has caused this overemotional response during polite dinner conversation.”
Rothchild turned from Jane to find Zeb standing in the doorway. It was clear that he thought Zeb would step out of the way, with one intimidating glance. “Perhaps Miss Crawford would like some quiet time,” Zeb said.
“This is no concern of yours,” Rothchild said and shot his cuffs. “She is my concern and my fiancée.”
“Really? Is she your fiancée?” Zeb asked quietly, meeting Rothchild’s glare with one of his own.
“Mr. Rothchild? Please come back to the table,” Jolene said. “Your meal is becoming cold. Would you like me to have it warmed?”
Rothchild turned to look at Jolene, glanced back at Zeb, and returned to his seat. He turned to Jane.
“I have a surprise for you Mrs. Crawford,” he said. “I have obtained tickets to Sir Benedict Fitzhugh’s talk and was hoping you would accompany me as we both have an interest in science.”
Jane leaned forward in her seat. “Fitzhugh? You have attained tickets for Fitzhugh? How wonderful! After our discussion last week I am very interested to hear the man speak!”
“Fitzhugh?” William Crawford said as he sliced another piece of meat. “Don’t remember hearing about him. What particular discipline does he discuss?”
“It is all very exciting—” Jane began but was cut off by Rothchild.
“He studies the stars. Really remarkable man, educated at Oxford. Your wife has shown an interest in such matters, and I thought I’d return your frequent hospitality to me by escorting her to hear this lecture,” Rothchild said, and smiled cordially at William.
William waved his fork. “By all means. I’m in your debt for seeing to Mrs. Crawford’s entertainment.”
Chapter Nine
Jennifer stood staring at herself in the long mirror in the ladies’ retiring room in the Randolph mansion. She had wondered all week why she was as weak-willed as she was. Why what she convinced herself she would do, she didn’t do when the time for a decision arrived. She did not wish to go anywhere with Jeffrey or even speak to him, but here she was arriving at the Randolphs’ dinner party with him. Jolene had insisted on riding with her in Jeffrey’s carriage, much to Mother’s dismay. Jeffrey was openly hostile to Jolene, who responded as if he had not been rude to her in the least. Mother was furious, of course, with everyone but Jeffrey.
Jennifer straightened her gown a final time and opened the door.
“I thought perhaps you had become ill, Jennifer,” Jeffrey said as she opened the door, and he shrugged away from the wall.
“Perhaps I am ill,” she said, suddenly furiously angry at herself for not going directly to the police with her suspicions about Jeffrey and O’Brien’s attackers. She started down the hall without stopping to wait for him. “Perhaps I am sick of you.”
He grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. “What did you say?”
“I said I am sick of you. What will you do, Jeffrey? Will you hit me again? Perhaps blacken my eye in a crowded ballroom?” Jennifer whispered.
Other guests turned the corner at the end of the hall and Jeffrey attempted to pull her close as if they were lovers in an embrace. Jennifer stepped out of his reach.
“I am going to find my father and sister,” she said.
Jeffrey followed her until they joined her parents and Jolene. He quickly turned to her mother. “Mrs. Crawford, won’t you please allow me to introduce you to some young men and women of good families that I am acquainted with? The young ladies especially are very excited to meet you.”
“How lovely! Of course I will meet your friends,” Jane said, and patted her elaborate hairstyle. “Young people do gravitate to me, you know.”
Father smiled and nodded while Jolene pulled a face. “How ridiculous she sounds when she speaks to him,” she whispered to Jennifer as she looked around the room. “Ah. There is someone I was hoping to meet again.”
Jennifer looked through the throng of faces. “Who would that be, Jolene?”
“Lenora Gladfoote,” Jolene said. “I am a happy and contented woman, but who wouldn’t take the opportunity to share her husband’s recent senatorial election and business fortunes with an old nemesis. And how fortuitous that I am wearing the large and rather gaudy diamond ring that Maximillian insisted I have when I announced I was expecting. I shall wave it in full view.”
Jennifer watched as Jolene raised her hand and called to her old friend. “Why Lenora! How marvelous to see you!” Jolene was quickly gathered into a tight crowd of beautiful, well-coifed women and the men at their elbows.
Jennifer smiled and accepted the glass of wine that her father brought her. The crowd parted, and she had a clear view of her mother surrounded by people her and Jeffrey’s age. Did none of them think it strange that he was introducing her mother rather than her to his friends, although she herself had no interest in meeting any of them? But then she noticed several of the young women catching each other’s eyes as if privy to a private joke. Jeffrey was standing beside Mother, but slightly behind her, too, and Jennifer was certain her mother could not see the faces he was making, the raised eyebrows and wry smiles that he was sharing with the other young men.
“You do not know your science very well, young lady,” Jane Crawford said loudly enough that heads turned.
Jennifer made her way to the crowd but other young people were gathering around after hearing the tittering and giggles, and she could not get close. But she could hear.
“Sir Benedict is a brilliant man, I’ll have you know. I was fortunate enough to hear him speak recently on the subject. His credentials are impeccable! I was even able to speak to him briefly, was I not, Mr. Rothchild?” Jane said and looked over her shoulder.
An appropriately serious Jeffrey nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Crawford. You were indeed fortunate to meet such a . . . brilliant person and have his undivided attention.”
“He was very attentive,” Jane said, and winked at one of the young women. “He referred to me as ‘the queen of Boston society.’ What fine manners he has for an academic. He’ll be speaking in New York within the month at one of their leading universities.”
“What a ninnyhammer,” whispered a young woman to her friend, both standing just in front of Jennifer.
“Who is this Fitzhugh fellow who is so enamored of her?” the friend whispered back, and giggled at her own joke.
Jennifer wondered the same but did not have to wait long for the answer as a young, dark-haired man, full of himself, smiling at her mother and winking at Jeffrey, asked a question. “What of his ‘moon creatures,’ then? Has he seen any recently?”
“Well,” her mother replied, “he has not had any recent sightings using his telescope at the Vienna Observatory; however, others here in the States have invited him to use their observation equipment and confirm their findings.”
“Really?” the dark-haired man said. “How remarkable! So others are seeing the creatures as well?”
“Yes!” Jane replied enthusiastically. “And some have even spoken to them.”<
br />
The crowd erupted in jeers and laughter. Jennifer pushed her way through the throng, pardoning and shoving her way until she was beside her mother.
“Come along, Mother,” she said and took hold of her elbow. “Father is wondering where you are.”
“I’m speaking to Jeffrey’s friends. As you should be doing as his fiancée,” she replied, and shrugged off Jennifer’s hand.
“Rothchild’s fiancée?” the dark-haired man asked. “Why has there been no announcement? No engagement soiree for the happy couple?”
“I am not . . .” Jennifer began until she looked at her mother’s furious, red face. She looked up at Jeffrey, at his smug smile, and realized that much of this was by design, to humiliate her mother and to publically announce their engagement, making it much more difficult to refute in the future. But any denial now might prompt her mother to make more of an embarrassing scene than had already been accomplished.
“Perhaps one of Fitzhugh’s ‘moon creatures’ can conduct the ceremony, eh, Mrs. Crawford?”
“How ridiculous,” her mother replied. “They are not here. They are on the moon.”
“Maybe Fitzhugh will fly his space carriage up there and bring one down!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
“Perhaps he will!” she said in retort. “He confided to me that he is building one!”
Jennifer took her mother’s arm again. “Mr. and Mrs. Randolph are looking for you, Mother. Let us go and find them.”
But Jane stood immobile suddenly, her face white, and her hand trembling in Jennifer’s. She clutched her stomach, closed her eyes, and doubled over.
