Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  Buffeted along like a leaf in a gale, Margaret did as she was told. “He was a runner,” she said as she slipped out of her wedding gown and into Mrs. Throckmorton’s funeral dress. “You remember I told you how they met the ships as they came in, full of promises of food and places to stay and a doctor’s care. Lies. All of it. They stole everything we had. Even Da’s tin whistle and my mother’s rosary. And Da so sick, he couldn’t even fight back.”

  She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt Mrs. Throckmorton’s thin arm slide around her shoulder. Looking into those gentle blue eyes, Margaret felt the pain of betrayal harden into a fury so profound she shook with it. “There was no doctor. No food. No place to stay. My father died in the gutter, trying to protect us from the procurers. Because of men like Doyle.”

  “How did you find out he was a runner?”

  Margaret blotted her tears but still more came. “I overheard two men talking outside the ballroom. I recognized Franklin Horne’s voice. He and Smythe were cut from the same cloth. They did things . . . terrible things.” She repressed a shudder of revulsion. “I didn’t want to believe it. But . . .” She gave her guardian an imploring look. “What if it’s just gossip? What if I’m wrong about Doyle?”

  The old woman sighed. “You’re not, dearest. I had Mr. Quincy at the bank make inquiries. The poor man has been in love with me for years, you know.”

  “Inquiries about Doyle? What did he find out?”

  “That your fiancé had a foul reputation even among the Irish. Now we know why. Quincy didn’t mention that he had been a runner, but I don’t doubt it.”

  Oh, God. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I tried. You wouldn’t listen. Now stop sniveling, we haven’t time for it. And fetch my hat. The one with the veil. You can drop your wedding dress in the waste chute on your way. That will delay them a bit.”

  Numbly Margaret followed orders. Within minutes the transformation from white to black was complete, including hat, gloves, and slippers—hers, since Mrs. Throckmorton wore a larger size. Staring through the heavy black veil into the mirror, she saw a small woman in a baggy black dress and fur wrap, wearing a droopy hat that covered her scarfed head. She hardly recognized herself. “Where will I go?”

  Mrs. Throckmorton finished packing Margaret’s valise and buckled the strap. “West. As fast and as far as you can. I’ve packed two changes of clothes, your jewelry, the stock folder, and my ready money. I wish there was more, but my income is limited to the trust allowance and we haven’t time to get an advance.”

  “The stock folder? With Doyle’s railroad shares? Why did you pack that?”

  “They’re not his shares. They’re yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “He gave them to you, didn’t he? What other source of money do you have?”

  “But . . .”

  “Just take them.” Her guardian thrust the handle of the valise into Margaret’s gloved hand. “You can decide what to do with them later. You should be able to reach Philadelphia before you have to sell anything. Once you do, don your own clothes and change your name. That should throw them off.”

  New tears flooded Margaret’s eyes. “How can I leave you?”

  “You’d rather stay with that Irish runner?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then hurry. The waste chute is just down the hall.” She pressed the wadded wedding dress into Margaret’s other hand and marched her toward the door. “Don’t try to contact me directly. Kerrigan is too devious not to find out.”

  A new fear gripped Margaret. “Will you be safe?”

  “Me?” She laughed, despite the tears glistening in her eyes. “A confused old woman who suffers fainting spells? I’ll run rings around that cad.”

  Margaret stood helplessly, her hands full, tears dropping down onto the once beautiful wedding dress crushed in her arms. “Oh, ma’am, I don’t want to leave you. What if I never see you again?”

  “Hush that foolishness. Perhaps I’ll come visit you out west once all this blows over. Meanwhile, if you need money, write to me through Cyrus Quincy at the Merchant’s Bank. I’ve left his direction in your bag. I’ll do what I can.” She poked her head out to check the hallway, then pushed Margaret through the door. “Go, dearest.”

  Margaret looked back, trying to memorize the beloved face. Unspoken words she had guarded for too many years rose in her throat. “I love you, ma’am.”

  “I love you, too, daughter. Now run. My spirit will be with you every step of the way.” Then she slammed the door in Margaret’s face.

  After stuffing her wedding attire into the refuse chute, Margaret took the screw railway down, hoping if Doyle came looking for her, he would be too impatient for its slow progress and would take the stairs, instead.

  On the second floor the car stopped and several men entered. Shuffling restlessly, they continued their descent in a tight knot—both awed and wary of Otis’s railway contraption. Margaret was perspiring under her fur wrap by the time they reached the ground floor. Exiting the car with the others, she almost collided with Mr. Rylander, who was rushing by with Mrs. Bradshaw. They both looked worried. At the far end of the hall, wedding guests milled and whispered among themselves, ignoring the footmen trying to herd them into the dining room.

  Keeping her head down, Margaret kept pace with the men until they veered off toward the smoking room, then she continued alone across the lobby. It seemed to stretch an endless distance toward the giant double front doors.

  She heard a familiar voice behind her. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she saw Rylander speaking urgently to the concierge. Battling panic, she forced herself to keep her steps measured and slow, as befitted a woman of advanced years, her entire being focused on passing through the lobby without fainting or breaking into a run.

  It seemed forever before she reached the entrance. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear nothing above the thud of it, and her grip on the valise was slippery with perspiration despite her cotton gloves.

  The liveried doorman opened the massive doors. “Good day to you, madam. May I summon transportation for you?”

  Margaret tried to answer, couldn’t, and nodded instead.

  Waving up a hansom cab from the long line of buggies parked along Fifth Avenue, he waited until it stopped at the curb, then opened the door with a flourish. “Where may I direct the coachman to take you, madam?”

  She gave an address on Cortland Street, then refusing to let him take the valise from her hand, she climbed in on wobbly legs. As she settled back, movement caught her eye.

  Rylander strode through the double doors. He stopped, coat pushed back and hands on hips as he scanned the street. His scowling gaze swept past Margaret, then jerked back.

  She froze, unable to look away, certain he recognized her even with the veil.

  The coachman snapped the whip and the cab started forward.

  As it pulled away from the hotel, she looked back through the small oval window to see Rylander still standing there, staring after her.

  Four

  “What do you mean, you can’t find her?” Doyle demanded.

  Mrs. Bradshaw clasped and unclasped her hands at her waist. She looked frightened, her dark brown eyes refusing to meet his. “She’s not in the suite, sir. Or in the staircase, or the vertical railway between floors. I-I can’t find her.”

  Doyle could see she was on the verge of tears. He had no patience for it. They had already delayed serving the first dinner course and the guests were getting restless. “Have you asked the concierge? Or Father O’Rourke? She may have come down unnoticed.”

  Tait walked up, tension evident in the stern lines around his mouth. “They haven’t seen her. I checked.”

  Damn woman. He told her they had guests waiting and not to leave. He would have to put a
stop to such disobedience. “Where the hell is she?”

  Realizing his voice had drawn the notice of several guests standing outside the dining room doorway, Doyle struggled to hide his irritation behind a bland smile. “What did the old lady say?” he asked his housekeeper.

  “I-I didn’t speak directly to her. She was resting.”

  “Faith! I’ll go talk to her myself.” He spun away.

  Tait fell in behind him, calling back orders as he followed Doyle toward the stairwell. “Mrs. Bradshaw, check the ladies’ retiring rooms and the ballroom, then serve the first course. If anyone asks, tell them Mrs. Throckmorton is unwell and Doyle and Margaret are checking on her.”

  Doyle sprinted up the stairs, Tait close behind him. “Where could she be?”

  “Calm down, Doyle. We’ll find her.”

  Doyle wasn’t convinced. He had a bad feeling about this. Margaret had been acting strange and unsettled even before her guardian took sick. Was she sick, too? Had someone said something?

  When they stepped onto the third floor, he saw the floor maid at her post in the hallway. “Come along,” he snapped, marching ahead to Mrs. Throckmorton’s suite. He knocked.

  No response.

  Whirling, he glared at the wide-eyed maid. “Have you seen anyone leave this room?”

  “N-No sir.”

  “Have you left your post in the last half hour?”

  “Only when I took fresh pillows to room three thirteen.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Open the door.”

  “But I’m not allowed—”

  “Damnu ort! Mrs. Throckmorton isn’t feeling well. Now open the door or look for another position!”

  The maid opened the door.

  Doyle pushed inside, calling for Margaret. A weak answer came from the bedroom on the right, but it wasn’t Margaret’s voice. Waving the maid forward, he instructed her to tell Mrs. Throckmorton he needed to speak with her.

  The maid slipped inside the bedroom. A moment later, she came back out. “S-She says she’s not up to visitors, sir.”

  “Jasus!” Shoving the stupid woman aside, he charged into Mrs. Throckmorton’s bedroom. “Where is she?”

  The old woman frowned up at him. She was fully dressed, stretched atop a settee beside the glowing coal stove, her legs covered by a cotton throw. The room was stifling. “Where is who?” she asked.

  “My wife!” Doyle crossed to the wardrobe, flung it open but saw no one hiding, then went to the window and swept aside the drapes. Nothing. Not that he expected it. Margaret wasn’t some cringing violet.

  Pain pounded against his temples, and he knew if he didn’t get himself in hand, he’d start yelling at the old crone. Striving for a reasonable tone, he walked back to the settee. “My wife is missing. Do you know where she is?”

  “M-Missing?” Faded blue eyes darted from Doyle to Tait, who stood at his shoulder. “Margaret is missing? What have you done to her?”

  Rankled by the accusation, Doyle stepped forward, not sure what he intended to do. Mrs. Throckmorton had been a bane to him since the first with her sly jabs and honey-coated criticisms. But now that Margaret was safely under his care, he had no intention of allowing this interfering biddy’s influence to continue. “She came up here with you but never returned. So where is she?”

  “I d-don’t know.” The old woman cringed as if he’d shouted it. “Stay away from me, you bounder! H-Help! Somebody help me.”

  Doyle blinked, confused. He glanced at Tait, saw the same bewilderment mirrored on his face. But before he could calm the crazy woman down, the maid rushed in from the sitting room.

  “Ma’am, what is it?”

  Mrs. Throckmorton lifted a fluttering hand. “H-Help me,” she quavered. “This devil is threatening me.”

  “Bi ciuin! I did no such thing!”

  “See? He’s yelling in tongues.” The old lady cowered against the cushions, her frail hand clutching at her chest. “Don’t leave me, Rachel.”

  The maid looked fearfully up at Doyle and Tait. “I won’t, ma’am.”

  Doyle wanted to hit them both.

  Tait stepped forward. Speaking in that irritatingly reasonable voice he used whenever he was trying to calm down a situation, he said, “We’re sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Throckmorton. I’m sure Mr. Kerrigan meant no harm. He’s just worried about Margaret. But the guests are waiting and we need to find her. You have no idea where she might be?”

  Ignoring Doyle, she spoke directly to Tait. “No, I don’t. She sat with me for a minute, then said she needed to freshen up before going downstairs. That’s the last I saw of her.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You don’t suppose something has happened to her, do you?”

  “Not at all. We probably crossed paths when we came up. I’m sorry we troubled you, ma’am.” He turned to the maid. “Find us if you see Mrs. Kerrigan.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grabbing Doyle’s arm, Tait marched him back out the door. As soon as they were in the hall, Doyle jerked free. “She knows something.”

  “Maybe. But yelling at her won’t get answers.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Christ.” Doyle dragged a hand through his hair. Where was his wife? What was going on? “Sure, and I’ve got a hundred people waiting to toast the bride and groom. What do I tell them?”

  “That she’s still with her guardian and will be down as soon as she can. Meanwhile, I’ll get some of the hotel staff and keep looking. We’ll find her.”

  “You’d better.” Doyle stomped down the hall. “Check every room. She’s got to be here somewhere. She can’t have just disappeared.” A terrible thought brought him to an abrupt halt. He whirled, making Tait sidestep to keep from crashing into him. “You don’t suppose someone took her, do you? Or has done her harm to get at me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then where the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find her. Just calm down.”

  “Feis ort.” Spinning on his heel, Doyle continued down the hall.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not on his wedding day. Not to him.

  * * *

  The lamplighter was starting his rounds when the cab drove off into the lowering sun, leaving Margaret standing on the walk outside a closed dress shop. She looked around, half expecting to see Rylander bearing down on her.

  But the street was empty except for the lamplighter and a dozing beggar huddled in a doorway, the yellow stripe down the empty leg of his tattered Confederate uniform barely discernible in the dwindling daylight. Resisting the urge to push back the heavy black veil so she could see better, Margaret shifted the valise to her other hand and started walking.

  She wondered if they realized yet that she was missing. Judging by Rylander’s scowl when he’d stepped out onto the walk in front of the hotel, they did. Had they approached Mrs. Throckmorton yet? Would they be rough with her? Remembering the way Doyle had treated Mrs. O’Reilly, she wasn’t reassured.

  She should go back. Face Doyle with the rumors. If they were true, she could demand that they dissolve the marriage.

  On what grounds? That he had lied to her about his past? But hadn’t she done the same thing to him? And what about the railroad shares? Even though Doyle had given them to her as a gift, what if they thought her disappearance was part of an elaborate deception to abscond with them? And if they found out she wasn’t who she and Mrs. Throckmorton and Father O’Rourke said she was, wouldn’t that open them all up to charges of fraud or theft?

  Even worse, she had seen Doyle’s temper. He was not a man who would take such a betrayal lightly.

  No, she couldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever.

  She trudged on. Dusk crept closer. After several minutes, she heard th
e clatter of hooves, and turned to see a horsecar coming down the street. After flagging the driver down, she climbed aboard, paid her coin, and took a seat, the valise clutched tightly in her lap. Two blocks farther, she exited at the Regal Hotel, where two hansom cabs stood at the curb. The coachmen were leaning against the elevated dash of the first buggy, smoking and talking. When they saw her coming down the walk, they turned to study her.

  Margaret studied them, too, wondering which might be the more trustworthy. The older one—a squat, gray-haired man with untrimmed sideburns—smiled, showing gaps in his teeth. He had kind eyes, so Margaret addressed her inquiries to him. “Are you available?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pinching off the end of his smoke, he slipped the butt into his vest pocket, then reached for her valise.

  Margaret stepped back. “I’ll take care of it.” She didn’t dare let the bag out of her hands. It contained her entire future. After setting it on the passenger seat, she climbed in after it.

  The coachman took his position in the raised driver’s box and unwound the reins from the brake lever. “Where to, ma’am?” he called back over his shoulder.

  “The Paulus Hook ferry. Have we time to make the last one?”

  “If we hurry. Hold on.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was steaming across the Hudson River toward New Jersey, the lamplights of Manhattan just beginning to show in the darkening sky behind her. If Doyle or Rylander came after her, they would either have to wait for the morning ferry or go all the way around to the bridge. That would give her somewhat of a head start. Now all she had to do was find a train leaving tonight, and she would be on her way.

  Luck continued to smile on her; the evening train to Philadelphia had been delayed and was just boarding when she arrived at the Pennsylvania Railroad terminal. She hadn’t enough money for a Pullman sleeping car but was too nervous to sleep anyway. The other travelers took no notice of her as she bought her ticket and moved at a stately pace across the platform toward the train.

  She settled in a forward-facing window seat on the depot side, the valise tucked between the back of her calves and the front of the bench seat. Hands clasped tightly in her lap, she scanned the platform as the rest of the passengers filed in and took their seats, but she saw no familiar faces.