It was strange to see her looking so radiant while he was so furious. “I did all of this for you,” he said, wadding up a napkin and throwing it on the table. “And now you tell me you don’t want to be there? You have to go.”
Her smile was serene as she stood. “No, I don’t. And Colin . . . you don’t have to marry for money. Don’t let Whitefriars drag you down and turn your life into something you never wanted. You deserve better.”
It was unbelievable, but she turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving him standing like a poleaxed fool.
Colin fumed the entire train ride to Albany. Maybe it was the three days of sleep deprivation putting him in a surly mood, but it certainly seemed like Lucy had abandoned the war right before the final battle.
She had a lot of gall to suggest a parallel between Whitefriars and her revolting family drama. Caring for Whitefriars and the people who made a living on the estate was an honor, a privilege. Whitefriars came with responsibilities, and at least he understood that and wouldn’t abandon them at a critical moment to go bird-watching or whatever else Lucy suddenly thought was so vital to her well-being.
It was a little after three o’clock by the time he arrived at the Albany Sporting Club. Set on the outskirts of town amidst miles of rolling countryside, the sprawling clubhouse looked like a hunting lodge from the Scottish Highlands. The periodic crack of a rifle blast indicated the trap contest was well under way. He clenched his teeth. Thanks to Lucy, he was going to have to endure an afternoon of shooting, his least favorite activity on earth.
The club was crowded with people celebrating the Fourth of July festivities. American flags snapped in the breeze, and a band played somewhere in the distance. Hundreds of spectators sat on the bleachers to watch the men on the shooting range. He scanned the audience until he spotted two Secret Service agents in the crowd. He blocked any hint of recognition or triumph from his face, but it looked as if everything was proceeding according to plan.
The back patio of the clubhouse was crowded with staff putting the finishing touches on a feast that would linger long into the evening. Bottles of sparkling wine cooled in tubs of ice, and tables were laden with platters of roast duckling, sirloin of beef, and baked haddock. A dessert table sported towering meringue cakes, chocolate tortes, and peaches drenched in raspberry wine.
He made his way to the spectator gallery, where people dressed in summer whites and wide-brimmed hats had gathered ostensibly to watch the shooting, but mostly to mingle with the elite of New York society. Clusters of people meandered along the lawn, drinking from flutes of champagne and socializing with abandon. The finest families of America were here, but beyond the carefully manicured grounds, others longed for a glimpse. Factory boys standing atop the nearby sugar mill cheered the shooters from afar. American society was not as stratified as England, but even here, there was an invisible line to keep the riffraff at bay.
Maybe someday that would change. After all, hadn’t Frank Wooten and Jacob Drake climbed out of relative obscurity to amass a fortune?
Colin spotted Margaret and Thomas Drake crossing the lawn. Margaret’s white straw hat was as wide as a wagon wheel and featured real orange blossoms encircling the crown. He wandered over, determined to present a charming façade and put them both at ease.
“Your hat is spectacular enough to call the angels down from the sky in admiration.”
“Sir Beckwith,” she murmured, caution rampant in her face as she glanced around to see who might be witnessing the encounter. He couldn’t blame her for being nervous. The last time they’d seen each other, he abandoned her dinner party during the first course, and shots had been fired.
He laid on the charm with a trowel. “I saw the feast being set out behind the clubhouse. Complete pig swill compared to the delicacies your cook serves at Oakmonte.”
She smiled prettily. “We are indeed fortunate. Have you come alone today?”
He dialed his smile back to present the perfect degree of chagrin and self-deprecating wit. “I’ve been thrown over in rather dramatic fashion. And for a Polish count, no less.”
Margaret set her hand on his arm. “Then Miss Wooten is a fool. Perhaps you should visit Oakmonte again and renew your acquaintance with the oldest McNally girl. What a lovely lady. And if you struck up a friendship, we would get to see more of you. Wouldn’t that be splendid, Thomas?”
“Splendid,” her husband agreed, although he seemed far more guarded than Margaret, who continued to prattle as though there’d been no hint of raised voices, murdered homing pigeons, or threats of incarceration during his last visit to Oakmonte. He suspected that Thomas and Margaret were completely unaware of their son’s machinations regarding the Panama Canal and the assassination plot, but he couldn’t be certain.
“Tom won the matched pairs this morning, did you hear?” she asked.
“You must be very proud.”
“Oh, we are. Did you know he has Olympic ambitions?”
“I think he may have mentioned it during my last visit.” He glanced over the crowd, spotting Sergeant Palmer sitting in the bleachers, pretending to watch the last of the trap shooters through a pair of field glasses. To the casual observer, this looked like any other elegant summer gathering, but scattered amidst the high society guests, the place crawled with law enforcement.
Margaret caught his arm again. “Why, here’s Tom now,” she said, gesturing madly to catch her son’s attention. A sneer of contempt flashed across Tom’s face, but he quickly masked it and strolled their way.
“Did you see the matched pair set?” he asked. “I won, but it was surprisingly close. Captain Bischoff from the army is a crack shot, but I’m younger, better, and faster. It all worked out in the end. I’ve got an hour before the pistol competition. Bischoff isn’t competing, and I don’t see any other worthy challengers today. That means I’ll win the Galliard Cup. Again.”
After four individual contests, the Galliard Cup went to the participant with the best overall score. It would be awarded just before the feasting. The Drakes didn’t know it yet, but Colin had been tapped to present the award, and he dearly hoped Tom was right in his prediction. The Secret Service were ready to arrest him tonight no matter the outcome, but it would be so much sweeter if it happened on the award podium.
Lucy should be here to witness it.
He swallowed back his annoyance. He had his own scores to settle with Tom Jr. and wouldn’t let Lucy’s irrational mood interfere with that.
Margaret steered the conversation back to the best way to herd Colin back into the Oakmonte ring. “Colin has come on his own today,” she said to Tom. “Perhaps you can show him around the club and introduce him to a few of your friends.”
Colin would rather submit to dental surgery than spend the afternoon with this preening child, but it was important to set the Drakes at ease by making them assume all was forgiven. Tom gestured to the refreshment stand, and Colin obligingly followed. Tom had no compulsion to nurture the relationship but was smart enough to wait until he was out of his parents’ hearing to begin slinging the insults.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Tom began. “Maybe I shouldn’t be. I gather the only way a man like you can pay his bills is to cozy up to real men like my father.”
Barbs that hit close to home were always the most hurtful, but Colin didn’t let it show. “As ever, your discernment is the envy of all,” he said. In a few hours, Tom would learn exactly the sort of man he was, and he was cool enough to be patient.
“Too bad about Amelia Wooten giving you the heave-ho,” Tom continued. “Anyone can understand that losing a prize like Amelia would be a disappointment, but what germ of insanity convinced you to join forces with Lucy Drake?” He snorted. “I shouldn’t say anything bad about my own cousin, but the girl is completely insane, and there are papers to prove it. But I suspect you’ve already heard about that.” The smirk on his face was maddening.
“Insane? I’ll own that she has made some pre
tty wild accusations, but I am not entirely convinced they are off base.”
Tom reached the front of the line and scooped up two glasses of iced lemonade, a fiendish smile on his face as he passed one to Colin.
“The problem with telegraph messages is that they disappear into thin air so easily,” he said in mock dismay. “They are no more than a series of electronic blips that spark across the wires, and then, poof! Lost to eternity for all time, with no documentation whatsoever. Tragic, really. Someday when the great events of history are written, those bits of electronic flashes could be worth something. As it is, there is no evidence they ever existed at all.”
Tom’s perception of his role in history continued to defy gravity. No matter how tempting, the real confrontation with Tom had to wait until this evening. Tom had never learned to rein in his impulses, whereas Colin had been doing it since infancy. He let the taunting words wash over him as though they were a cool summer breeze. Stiff upper lip and all that.
Tom knocked back his lemonade, passed the glass to a waiter, and straightened his lapels. “Time for me to go show the competition how to shoot.”
Colin gave Tom his best smile. “Good luck,” he said. “I expect it shall be fascinating.”
As predicted, Tom Jr. won the pistol competition, which meant he had the best overall score of the day and had won the Galliard Cup. A hearty cheer went up from the crowd when it was announced that the awarding of the trophies would take place immediately. It was the final event before the lavish dinner would begin, which Colin suspected was the real cause for the enthusiastic applause.
Little did the crowd know that they were about to witness a most unusual award ceremony. Everything was in place. Colin stood next to the trophy table, but directly behind him were three Secret Service agents wearing sporting club jackets, and the front row of the audience was dominated by New York City police officers in street clothes. He suppressed a smile of satisfaction when he spotted a photographer and a pair of journalists from Reuters. He’d sent a tip to the local correspondents that this would be a newsworthy event, and he was pleased Reuters would get the scoop.
The president of the club awarded the second- and third-place trophies. Both men graciously accepted the small plaques, but the real prize was the Galliard Cup, a silver trophy with scrolled handles that gleamed on the table. At last it was time for Tom to receive his award, and it was going to be Colin’s pleasure to present it to him. The president of the club introduced him.
“On this most patriotic of American holidays, the Albany Sporting Club has invited an aristocrat from the old country to present the honors. It is a mark of how far our countries have come that our one-time enemy is now our closest national ally and friend. We are honored to welcome Sir Colin Beckwith to award today’s Galliard Cup.”
He shook hands with the club’s president before stepping up to the podium. The smattering of applause lasted long enough for him to scan the crowd, spotting Felix Moreno sitting unwittingly between the two undercover police officers who would be arresting him momentarily.
“Am I the only one who can smell the roasted duck and potatoes? I think I’d better get moving quickly before I lose my audience,” Colin said to a little good-natured laughter. “I’ve had the unique experience of shooting alongside Tom Drake, and it is one I shall never forget. But before we officially hand over the Galliard Cup, a special visitor from Washington has requested the pleasure of Tom’s company for a stint. Agent Wilkes?”
Tom looked at Colin quizzically, for events had just strayed from the script. Three men stood in tandem and began striding toward the podium, a pair of handcuffs dangling from Agent Wilkes’ hand. Tom tried to step off the riser, but the agent blocked him, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the bleachers to hear.
“Thomas Andrew Drake, you are under arrest for conspiracy to bribe elected officials and for plotting the assassination of President Roosevelt.”
“Are you mad?” Tom demanded. “You can’t tell me you believe the ravings of that insane girl. She’s been institutionalized.”
Agent Wilkes had better things to do than get drawn into a verbal battle with a criminal. He grabbed Tom by both shoulders, spun him around, and forced him facedown on the podium. Another agent grabbed Tom’s wrists and dragged them behind his back.
Colin took the handcuffs from Agent Wilkes. This was the only request he’d made in recognition of his service in exposing the conspiracy. He placed the first cuff around Tom’s wrist, then leaned in close to speak softly into his ear.
“This is for Beatrice,” he said as he heard the satisfying click of the cuff closing. “And this is for Bianca.”
Click.
Tom was hauled away.
Chapter
Twenty-four
It was early in the evening on the Fourth of July when Lucy set off to the Western Union building to witness the debut message sent across the transpacific cable. Traffic was heavy on the streetcars as revelers made their way to the city’s parks for the celebration. After her third failed attempt to cram herself aboard an overflowing streetcar, she gave up and walked the final two miles to the office, where she would listen to President Roosevelt send the very first message across the new cable. If there was time afterward, she would go to Battery Park to watch the fireworks.
It was a new beginning. She was ready to enjoy the rest of her life.
She hadn’t expected so many people to forgo the Fourth of July celebration to listen to a cable transmission, but thirty of her coworkers had gathered in the office, plus another dozen people from Reuters who invited themselves downstairs to witness the historic event. Bottles of champagne had been opened, and plenty of people were already toasting the event, even though President Roosevelt was not scheduled to send the initial message for another hour.
Anticipation hummed in the air, and she realized she was happy. This was what it felt like to break free of her inherited burdens and enjoy the present. She savored the sense of camaraderie as everyone in the room celebrated the culmination of the huge project.
She wandered to her desk, eyeing the secret wire tucked amidst the cluster of other cables. She had been a slave to that wire and never realized it before now. Leaning forward, she unscrewed the lightbulb, tugged at the illegal wire, and disconnected it from the switch. She was free.
Roy Collingsworth approached her, already flushed from the celebrations. “You look very pretty tonight,” he said. She and Roy had been working ten feet from one another for six years, but he’d never hinted at such a thing in the past.
“I think that must be the champagne talking.”
He grinned a little wider, but his eyes were speculative as he scrutinized her. “I’m nowhere close to being tipsy. You just look different tonight, and I can’t put my finger on it. You look pretty.”
“Careful, Roy,” another man hollered from a few yards away. “You’re liable to make her faint with all that sudden flattery.”
Roy had the good grace to blush. “Heck, you’ve always been pretty, Lucy, you know that. You just look . . . different.”
Probably because she was at peace. Forty years of bitterness had been lifted from her shoulders. She was never going to see a dime of the fortune her grandfather had been swindled out of, but she had her God-given talents and the ability to carve out a splendid life on her own.
Mr. Tolland, the office’s longest-standing employee, had been selected for the honor of sitting at the telegrapher’s station as the president’s message was initiated at Oyster Bay. Ten minutes shy of the expected message, people began gathering in a large semicircle around Mr. Tolland’s station. Someone tried to push a glass of champagne into his hand, but Mr. Tolland rose from his seat and carried it to the far side of the room.
“I am about to receive a message from the President of the United States,” he said in a grave voice. “When it has been transmitted, I will raise a toast, but not a moment before.”
Lucy smiled, knowing that at this exa
ct moment, Roland Montgomery was eagerly awaiting the transmission of the same message at his post on barren Midway Island. The chance for this fleeting brush with his hero, albeit half a world away, would put wind in Roland’s sails for years to come.
At 10:50 p.m., the telegraph machine came to life. Everyone in the office stilled as the rapid-fire stream of dots and dashes pierced the air. Mr. Tolland’s face was fierce as he wrote down the words for publication in tomorrow’s newspaper:
Oyster Bay, July 4. Governor Taft: I open the American Pacific cable with greetings to you and the people of the Philippines. Theodore Roosevelt.
The wire fell silent, but nobody moved. Even now, the electronic pulses were speeding across the continent at thousands of miles per hour, and Lucy was certain hundreds of telegraphers along the line were listening in on this debut message. In her mind’s eye, she could sense it flying across the wires through the American heartland until it finally reached San Francisco. Then it would be connected to the undersea Pacific cables to Honolulu and on to Midway, where Roland would receive the message from the president he idolized. Despite Roland’s hero worship, she was confident he would maintain professional dignity as he switched the message onto the last leg of freshly laid cable, taking it to the American naval base in the Philippines.
A Dangerous Legacy Page 26
