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Copyright © 2017 by Cuyler Overholt
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by The Book Designers
Cover images © Lava4images/Thinkstock, pterwort/Shutterstock, Serg Zastavkin/Shutterstock, TopGear/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Overholt, Cuyler, author.
Title: A promise of ruin / Cuyler Overholt.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017001926 | (paperback : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3615.V465 P76 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001926
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Chance and Tucker, two of the good ones.
“The test of civilization is the estimate of woman.”
—George William Curtis
Prologue
On the last day of life as she knew it, Teresa Casoria stood at the rail of the steamship Madonna and watched the sun rise over America.
They had dropped anchor in the middle of the night, too late to see anything but twinkling lights to the east and west. Unable to sleep, she’d packed her one valise and brought it up to the deck at the crack of dawn. Now, she watched the pink light of morning move like a magician’s hand over the entrance to New York Harbor, revealing tidy houses and colorful gardens and an old stone fortress along the shoreline.
Other passenger ships were anchored nearby in the quarantine grounds, also awaiting inspection. Although their upper decks were nearly empty, Teresa could see clusters of steerage passengers pressing against the lower rails, as eager as she was to see their new home. She felt a twinge of regret, wishing, not for the first time, that she had traveled in steerage herself. Her second-class shipmates seemed to have known that she wasn’t really one of them—never treating her rudely, exactly, but simply looking right through her, as if she weren’t even there. In steerage, she needn’t have worried about having only two shirtwaists to wear, or which fork to use, or whether to give the steward money for bringing her a deck rug. She might have made some friends to share her hopes and fears with, and perhaps even practiced her English.
But these were ungrateful thoughts, and she quickly banished them from her mind. It had been extremely generous of Antonio to send her a second-class ticket. True, she’d thought him extravagant when she first received it, believing they should use the money for other, more important things after they were married, but when she saw the steerage passengers leaving the disinfection station in Naples with their heads shorn and their bags soggy from fumigation, she was thankful for his consideration. Now, with the dreaded Ellis Island immigration station looming up ahead, she was doubly thankful, for according to the Italian waitress in the single ladies’ lounge, anyone rich enough to afford a first- or second-class ticket was presumed to be of sound mind, body, and character and therefore subjected to only the most cursory examination on board.
Even knowing this, she felt a stab of anxiety when she saw the cutter with the yellow flag bouncing toward the Madonna over the choppy water. If they sent her back now, away from Antonio, what would she have to live for? She groped for the cross that hung from her neck, forcing herself to stand up straight. She wouldn’t give into fear now. If she’d listened to fear, she would have married doting but simpleminded Ciro. She would have accepted that her poor quarter of Naples was the only world she’d ever know and that dreams were for other, more important people. Instead, she had found real love and followed it to America, where everything she’d dared to dream was about to come true.
To her relief, the onboard inspection was as cursory as the waitress had predicted, and within thirty minutes, the passengers had been released and were preparing to disembark. Teresa returned to the rail as the ship steamed into the upper bay, watching with her heart in her mouth as the fabled lady of liberty rose up on the horizon, lifting her torch toward Teresa in welcome as if she’d been waiting only for her. Just as Teresa was thinking she’d never seen anything more beautiful, the ship turned on its course, and New York City came into view, shimmering like a mirage in the distance. She gripped the rail and drank in the sight, determined to fix it in her mind forever.
As they steamed closer, the solid city facade broke into separate, pastel-colored skyscrapers standing shoulder to shoulder along the shore. Light glinted off the buildings’ windows and flashed on their copper turrets, giving the scene an otherworldly glow. She was suddenly overcome with gratitude for the events that had led her to this moment. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such good fortune, but she promised God then and there that she’d do everything in her power to be worthy of it.
The blast of a whistle made her jump, breaking into her thoughts. Looking down, she saw a tiny tugboat darting straight across the bow of the enormous Madonna. A laugh of delight escaped her. Truly, I am in America, she thought, where the small and the humble bow to no one.
A few minutes later, they were moving up a river along the west side of the island, and she was looking into the beating heart of the city. My city now, she thought, her own heart beating faster in response. From
every pier came the whir of hoists and the roar of donkey engines and the shouts of brawny longshoremen at work. Peering between the giant steamers and sailing ships that filled the slips, she saw a stone-paved street teeming with tangled carriages and clanging streetcars and overloaded wagons. On and on they steamed, past one battered pile dock after another, until she was beginning to think the city would go on forever.
At last, the ship slowed and started turning toward an empty slip. A boisterous crowd was waiting at the end of the pier, waving hands and handkerchiefs and shouting up to the passengers. Teresa searched their faces but didn’t see Antonio among them. He must be waiting inside the shed, she decided. She grabbed her valise and hurried down to the lower deck—only to wait, quivering with nervous excitement, while the Madonna slowly warped in.
Finally, with tugs pushing, windlasses pulling, and deckhands shouting back and forth, the ship was secured, and the gangplank was dropped into place. Teresa rode a wave of passengers into the crowded pier shed, pushing through hordes of railroad and livery and boardinghouse agents as she searched right and left for Antonio. An official waved her toward the customs desk, where she handed over her landing card and the letter Antonio had sent her for this purpose, stating his occupation and address and confirming that Teresa was to be his wife.
“Is your fiancé here?” the man behind the desk asked her in Italian.
She looked once more around the crowded shed. “I don’t see him, but he is coming,” she answered in her best English, proud of how much she’d learned during her months working in Mrs. Hancock’s kitchen, where only her employer’s native language was allowed to be spoken.
Instructing her not to leave the shed until Antonio arrived to collect her, the man gave Teresa back the letter and sent her on to the inspection table, where her bag was opened and sorted through. And then finally, after all the months of waiting, it was over. She had made it, to America and Antonio.
But…where was her beloved? She continued to the door of the shed to look for him on the street outside, longing for the sight of his face and eager to see the look in his eyes when they fell on her. But he wasn’t out there either. She stepped aside to let other passengers exit the shed, listening wistfully to their shouts of greeting and trying not to feel abandoned as they disappeared into the waiting conveyances. The Madonna was supposed to have arrived the day before, she reminded herself, but had been delayed and forced to remain in quarantine overnight. Antonio might have had important business to attend to this morning that had kept him from returning on time. No doubt he would come as soon as he was able.
The sun was now high in the sky, making the shed uncomfortably warm. She loosened her shawl and plucked at her damp shirtwaist, trying not to let her shoulders slump so that Antonio’s first glimpse of her would be a good one. Gradually, the stream of departing cabin-class passengers slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether. The steerage passengers came next, herded through the shed onto barges bound for Ellis Island. She watched them shuffle across the floor, their arms overflowing with baskets and bundles and swaddled infants, their faces reflecting equal parts hope and fear. And then, even they were gone.
As the last barge pulled away, her courage faltered, and her face grew hot with shame. She lowered her valise to the ground. Could he have forgotten? Or—God forbid—changed his mind? But no, that wasn’t possible; Antonio loved her more than the stars and the moon. He had told her so, and she believed him. She could feel the customs official’s gaze upon her, making perspiration bead along her forehead. How long would they let her wait here? If he didn’t come soon, would they force her to go to the detention room on Ellis Island—the room where people could disappear for months, or even years—while they decided what to do with her? What if they took her there and Antonio couldn’t find her? What if they sent her back home?
She pulled Antonio’s letter from her pocket and peered at the return address. Maybe she could find her way to him. But where was this 109th Street? She wished she had brought a map of the city with her. How could she have been so stupid, to come without a map? Hot tears sprang to her eyes. The fear was back, stronger and more insistent than ever. She fumbled for her handkerchief as the tears brimmed over.
And then, someone called her name. She lifted her head. Through the blur of her tears, she saw a man stepping out of a carriage at the end of the pier. He called to her again, opening his arms in greeting. Teresa’s breath left her in a rush of relief. Shoving the handkerchief into her pocket, she scooped up her valise and, with a happy wave to the customs official, ran down the dock toward the carriage.
Chapter One
I raised the gun, training my gaze on the two boats that were moving shoulder to shoulder up the East River. Unlike the sleek college shells that regularly plied this northern end of the river, these were weathered four-oared barges, with wide beams and fixed seats and oarlocks attached directly to the gunwales. Their occupants were similarly unrefined—husky, broad-shouldered boys in mismatched sleeveless jerseys, who chopped unevenly at the water with their oars as they struggled to keep the boats abreast. I held my breath and readied my finger on the trigger.
“Now!” Finn shouted beside me.
I squeezed. A wave of wild cheering nearly knocked me off my feet as the boats crossed the invisible starting line at the foot of the pier and surged up the course, leaving churning pools in their wake. Handing Finn the starting gun, I grabbed the field glasses that hung from my neck and lifted them to my eyes. My sights landed first on the flotilla of bobbing watercraft that had come out to watch the Independence Day race, some decked out in green in support of Simon Shaw’s Wieran Club, others waving the yellow flag of Dan Oakley’s club from the adjoining assembly district. I aimed a little lower, sweeping across a peeling tugboat and a stretch of open, roiling water, until a magnified Simon suddenly popped into view. I jumped—and then, with a twinge of voyeuristic guilt, adjusted the knob to bring his features into clearer focus.
Simon was sitting in the stroke seat, setting the pace for the lads behind him. I could clearly see the determination on his sun-bronzed face, and the contraction of his muscles with each pull of his oar. The team had been practicing for several weeks, and Simon’s already well-tempered physique had only improved with use. I dipped the glasses slightly to follow the sculpted lines of his shoulders and biceps, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The sight sent a familiar flutter through my belly that I, in what seemed to have become a regular practice, tried vainly to ignore.
I dropped the glasses to my chest. Barely a day went by that I didn’t think of the kiss I’d shared with Simon the previous winter, after he helped absolve my patient of murder. To tell the truth, I’d been more or less waiting since then for him to take things up where we’d left off. But over the past six months, he hadn’t so much as pecked me on the cheek. At first, I’d assumed he was just being discreet. After that memorable kiss, we’d agreed to continue exploring our feelings for each other despite the difference in our stations, trusting that, with time, we could overcome the prejudices against us. But we’d never articulated a strategy for accomplishing this feat, or discussed what our individual expectations might be. I knew that Simon, who’d once been my family’s stable boy, was acutely conscious of the differences in our upbringings, and had concluded that he was avoiding public displays of affection out of respect for what he believed was my own sense of decorum.
When he proved equally chaste during our few private moments together, I’d decided instead that he was being chivalrous, remembering how I’d thrown myself at him in the stable all those years ago and not trusting me now to know my own mind or body. Embarrassing as this possibility was, I preferred it to believing he wasn’t attracted to me. But as months continued to roll past without the smallest amorous advance, this explanation too was growing thin.
A drunken shout brought me back to the present. I raised the field glasses and scanned the flor
id faces of the spectators along the riverbank, trying to gauge the general level of inebriation and the corresponding likelihood that my services would be required. Although my interest and advanced training were in neurology and mental therapy, this wasn’t the first time Simon had recruited me to tend to the bodily injuries of his constituents. As a Tammany captain responsible for delivering votes to his party’s candidates, Simon was a sort of perpetual Santa Claus to the residents of his election district, providing them with whatever assistance they needed. I’d resisted his requests for medical help at first, thinking a general practitioner would be more qualified for the job. But as doctors had turned out to be scarcer than fur coats in the local immigrant neighborhoods, I’d become unexpectedly adept at stitching bashed skulls and bandaging bleeding knuckles. Today, my medical bag was stuffed with arnica and alum powder and catgut, just in case.
“Come on, Doc,” urged Finn, grabbing my elbow. The spectators were streaming up the bank away from the pier, cutting through the adjacent stone yard and the produce stands of the Harlem Market to follow the boats upriver. Finn, who as the eldest of the Wieran Club boys had been saddled with my care by Simon, was clearly eager to be among them.
I picked up my bag and we joined the moving throng, staying as close to the bank as possible to keep the race in view. I watched with a shudder as a trio of half-naked boys jumped off the sewer pipe at 102nd Street and swam toward the boats with gurgling whoops of excitement, undeterred by either the clumps of sewage or the giant water rats that bobbed along beside them. The Oakley boat reached them first, rowing at a higher cadence than the Wieran boat, which was almost two seats behind. I heard unhappy muttering from a group of men sporting green Wieran flags and hoped there wouldn’t be trouble. The rivalry between the two clubs had a long and contentious history. The day before, one of Simon’s rowers had injured his hand at the bottling factory where he worked, causing some Wieran supporters to question why his machine had just happened to break after he took over another worker’s shift. Luckily, the boy’s injury hadn’t prevented him from taking part in the race, which kept the grumbling from erupting into something ugly. Knowing how many bets had been laid, however, and how much beer was flowing along the twenty-block stretch of the course, I didn’t trust the peace to last.
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