Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  But she’d surprised him several times already, and she might again. The lady was damned clever.

  An image flashed through his mind of a frail woman dressed all in black from her heavy mourning veil to her dark shoes, making halting progress across the Fifth Avenue lobby. But instead of the plain half boots favored by most elderly women, she wore stylish black slippers with low heels. And her progress might have been slow, but her spine had been straight and her shoulders level, despite the weight of the valise she carried.

  He had seen all that in a glance but had discounted it without a thought; he had been looking for a bride, not a widow. And a few minutes later, when he’d walked outside and had seen her look back at him through the rear window as the hansom cab had rolled away, that sudden shock of . . . something he couldn’t define . . . had halted him in his tracks. But even then, it still hadn’t registered that she might have been Margaret.

  Then they’d found her wedding dress. And the ring. And as his mind had scanned back through all the events of that afternoon, the image of that darkly clad woman with her stylish shoes and youthful posture and firm grip on a vaguely familiar valise had come back to plague him.

  He knew that slim figure. It had haunted his thoughts for a year.

  But why would she do this? Had it all been a ruse? An elaborate scheme to steal a valise full of railroad shares she couldn’t even sell?

  And yet she was gone, along with her jewelry and the stock certificates.

  He still didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t like the idea of being so easily fooled by a pretty face. There was a mystery beneath that careful smile, and harsh experience behind those watchful green eyes, and that presented a challenge he couldn’t resist. He would find out the truth about the elusive Margaret Hamilton. He would track her down and learn all her secrets, then he would return her to her lawful husband. And finally, maybe he would be able to forget her.

  But first, he had to find her.

  Beyond the window, the scattered farms and towns of central New Jersey rolled by, dotted here and there with hardwoods and a few stands of pine. Far to the northwest, the shadowed silhouette of the Allegheny range of the northern Appalachians left a smudge across the horizon, while to the southeast, the distant horizon sank into the Atlantic Ocean.

  He remembered this place.

  Even though the towns had grown, and the fields were now bisected by new fences and roads, there was a familiar feel to the humid air and the faint salty tang in the breeze. Almost seven years ago, he had marched through here on his way to meet Lee’s army at Gettysburg—an untested, twenty-seven-year-old who thought being a lawyer also made him wise. Fueled by patriotism, dazzled by idealism, and blinded by the certainty of youth, he had rushed headlong into the fray, only to stagger back out three days later, bloodied, horrified, and changed forever. Ironically, a day after victory, having survived the deadliest battle of the Civil War, he might have died anyway, if not for Doyle Kerrigan.

  He wondered how much longer he would have to pay on that debt.

  With a weary sigh, he tipped back his head and closed his eyes.

  This was it, he decided. Once he returned Doyle’s errant wife to him, he would put an end to this partnership that grew more burdensome every day.

  But first, he had to find her. Hopefully, in Philadelphia he would, because if she made it to Columbus, Ohio, he could lose her for good. That was where she would either go up to Chicago or west to St. Louis, and if he guessed wrong, he might never find her again. He would definitely have to be more careful this time, he reminded himself. She had already thrown him off track more than once.

  He smiled, admiring her ingenuity despite the trouble she had caused him. But once he’d realized she was using the disguise of an elderly widow lady, it had simply been a case of staying on her trail.

  He had finally picked it up late last night when he’d questioned the coachmen still on duty outside the Fifth Avenue Hotel. After learning one of them had taken an old lady to Cortland Street earlier in the evening, Tait had hired him to return to the exact spot where he had left her.

  An odd place to stop, he’d thought as the cab drove away. No houses, or hotels, or eateries. Why here? To visit the printer’s shop? That haberdashery across the street? As he’d puzzled over that, a cough had drawn his attention, and he’d looked over to see a one-legged man in a tattered Confederate uniform slouched in the recessed entry of a closed shop.

  “Spare a coin?” the man asked.

  Tait reached into his pocket and pulled out several. Hunkering before the old soldier, he handed one over. “I’m looking for a woman,” he said. “An old widow lady wearing all black and carrying a valise.”

  “Younger one would be livelier.” Pleased with his quip, the Reb snickered, then doubled over with a wheezy cough.

  Tait waited for the spasm to end, then continued. “Came by hansom cab several hours ago. You notice anyone like that?”

  “Widow lady? Carrying a traveling bag? Around dusk? Yep.”

  “You see where she went?”

  “Hmm . . . let me think.”

  Tait held out another coin.

  Dirty fingers snatched it from his grip and pointed down the street. “That a way.”

  Tait gave him two more coins, then headed in the direction the Reb had indicated, checking each doorway as he walked past. It was night, so none of the shops and office buildings were open. Nor, he realized, would any have been open earlier when Margaret had come by. Confused, he stopped and looked around, wondering again why she would come here if everything was closed for the night.

  Then he saw the rails in the street and nodded in grudging respect.

  Clever lady. Trying to throw him off her trail by switching from hansom cab to horsecar. Walking briskly, he followed the rails to the next stop at the Regal Hotel. Pushing open the door, he went inside.

  The Regal wasn’t as fancy as the Fifth Avenue with its twenty-four-hour concierge, but it did have a desk clerk napping in his chair. Tait thumped the counter to wake him, then made his inquiries.

  “No, no widows have checked in,” the old man said around a yawn as he ran a gnarly finger down the short list of guests that had arrived since six o’clock the previous evening. “Did someone let her off here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you check with the coachmen out front?”

  “Didn’t see any.”

  “They should be coming back on duty soon. Best ask them.”

  Tait did, got the information he sought, and an hour later, just as the first rays of dawn cast an orange sheen across the sluggish waters of the Hudson River, he was steaming toward Paulus Hook, New Jersey, on the first crossing of the day. He figured he was less than ten hours behind his quarry.

  From the ferry dock it was only a short walk to the Pennsylvania Railroad station. Hoping Doyle was right about where his wife might be headed, Tait purchased a seat on the next train to Philadelphia, departing in twenty-three minutes and arriving at two seventeen at the Thirtieth Street Station—“give or take an hour.” Then he queried the stationmaster and ticket agents about his “widowed aunt” who might have taken the westbound late yesterday.

  The stationmaster had been at dinner during the time in question, and neither of the two agents had been working the late shift the previous evening.

  “Normally, that last train departs at six forty-five, give or take,” a talkative fellow in a Pennsy cap told him. “But yesterday it was running late. She might have made it. If so, she should be arriving in Philadelphia at about nine this morning. Give or take an hour or so.”

  “And from there to Pittsburgh?” Assuming she continued west, that would be her next major stop.

  There were two daily; one leaving Philadelphia at eight in the morning—which she would miss because of the dela
y—and the evening run at six.

  That was the one.

  Feeling like he was finally closing in on her, Tait thanked the agent and settled on a bench in the lobby to await the boarding call for the seven twenty-eight to Philadelphia. Give or take.

  That was five hours ago. And here he sat with two more hours to go—low on money, hungry, unshaven, wearing the same clothes he’d put on after hurriedly changing out of his wedding garb hours ago, and so tired he could hardly think.

  All because of a woman who was married to another man.

  He had to be the stupidest man alive.

  * * *

  Margaret had decided to maintain her widow’s disguise until after she finished at the Girard Bank. It would add a bit of urgency to her request and hopefully create sympathy. She would have to use her real name, of course, just as it appeared on the certificates. But once the transaction was completed, she could discard the dress and nasty fur, and become herself again. But with a new name.

  The Girard Bank of Philadelphia was an imposing structure with an elaborate marble façade that sported six huge fluted columns and a tall arched doorway. She had heard Doyle mention this bank in his business discussions with Rylander, and hoped to make use of that connection. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she walked stiffly up the seven steps to the marble-framed doorway.

  As she neared the entrance, a uniformed man pulled the door open from inside. “Good morning, ma’am. How may I direct you?” he asked with a half bow.

  “The bank manager, please.”

  “Mr. Bigelow is not in today, ma’am. May I direct you to someone else?”

  “Oh, dear. He specifically said to come by on Monday. When will he return?”

  “Today is Tuesday, ma’am. And he’ll be away for the rest of the week.”

  “He’s out of town? Oh, dear. He didn’t go to New York, did he?”

  “Baltimore. I’m sorry you missed him. Perhaps you would care to set up another appointment with his secretary?” He pointed a white-gloved finger toward the back, where a bespectacled man not much older than she sat at a desk positioned between two closed doors.

  “Yes, thank you. You’ve been most helpful. I shall commend you to Mr. Bigelow when next I see him.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. May I help you with your bag?”

  “Heavens, no. My husband said it wasn’t to leave my hand until it was in the vault.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Her footfalls echoed up to the high ceilings as she crossed the buffed marble floor toward the secretary’s desk. There was a feeling of reverence in the hushed voices of the tellers, and the tang of floor polish and furniture wax hung in the still air. She could almost hear the clink of coin and smell the money shuffling through the teller’s hands. Ignoring the racing of her pulse, she kept her head high and her steps unhurried, as if she had every right to be in this grand place.

  “Is he in?” she asked, stopping before the desk, the valise clasped in both hands against the front of her skirts.

  The man looked up, his brown eyes barely discernible behind the smudged lenses. “What?”

  “Mr. Bigelow. Is he in? It’s imperative that I see him straight away.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Bigelow will be away for the rest of the week.”

  “Oh, dear. He hasn’t left for Baltimore already, has he? This is most vexing.” Margaret sniffed, made a show of looking around, then said with strained patience, “The assistant manager, then. Is he available?”

  “Mr. Lufkin?”

  “Of course, Mr. Lufkin.”

  “May I ask why you wish to see him?”

  “I have need of the vault.” She nodded down at the valise. “And to establish a line of credit. Tell him Mrs. Kerrigan is here to see him. From New York. Manhattan, to be precise.”

  More blinking.

  “Honestly, must I find another bank to take my money?”

  That brought him to life. “I’ll tell Mr. Lufkin you’re here.” He disappeared into the right-hand office, the door of which bore the nameplate HORACE LUFKIN. A minute later, he emerged, a nervous smile on his face, and ushered her into a darkly paneled room with a tall window on one wall, bookcases on another, and a huge walnut desk facing the door. Behind it sat another bespectacled man. This one was middle-aged, better dressed, and—judging from the way he looked down his long nose at her—very proud of his position.

  Rising from his leather chair, he indicated the wooden chair beside his desk. “Please . . . Mrs. Kerrigan, is it?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Doyle Kerrigan. Of Manhattan.”

  The banker showed no recognition of the name. A bit of a setback, but she couldn’t falter now.

  While Margaret took her seat, the valise tucked beside her leg, Lufkin returned to his chair. Leaning back, he propped his elbows on the armrests and regarded her over his steepled fingers. “How may I help you, Mrs. Kerrigan?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Bigelow explained the purpose of my visit.”

  “I’m afraid he didn’t, madam. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  “Oh? Well, I suppose Doyle asked for discretion. He’s like that, you know.”

  As she spoke, Margaret pushed aside the fur wrap so that it hung over the back of her chair, allowing him a fine view of the diamond and amethyst necklace and the rounded bosom on which it lay. Then lifting her arms, she pushed the heavy black veil over the top of her hat and gave him a broad smile—the one that best showed off her straight white teeth and the dimple in her left cheek.

  It was obvious by his expression that he had expected a much older woman to be hiding beneath the widow’s hat.

  “I was supposed to meet with Mr. Bigelow on Monday,” she went on, “but I got my days all mixed up. You know how it is when one is traveling. And with my recent loss . . .” She paused to press splayed fingers against her bodice just above her bejeweled breasts. “It’s been most difficult.”

  Lufkin stared at her hand. “My condolences, madam.”

  “And secretive,” she added in a breathy voice.

  When she said no more, he pulled his gaze up to meet hers. “Secretive?”

  “Mr. Kerrigan. Something about railroad shares and such like. And then there’s our recent wedding, and now my father’s death, and . . . oh, it’s just so involved.” She sighed and plucked at the top button of her dress, drawing his attention back to her bosom. It was one of her best features, judging by the attention Doyle gave it. And Rylander, too, when he thought she didn’t notice. “Are you hot? I am. It gets so stuffy under that heavy veil.” She made a fluttery motion just over her right breast. The bigger of the two, but not by enough that one would notice.

  Lufkin cleared his throat. Balling his steepled fingers into fists, he lowered his hands to his lap. “Perhaps a glass of water?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  There must have been a bell button beneath his desk, because within moments the door opened and the secretary whisked inside.

  “Water,” Lufkin barked in a strained voice.

  “Of course.”

  Margaret fluttered and fanned until the secretary returned to set a tray with a pitcher and two glasses on the edge of the desk. He poured, passed a glass to Margaret, then hastily retreated.

  Margaret drank slowly, then carefully licked the last droplets from her lips, all under Mr. Lufkin’s rapt gaze. Setting the glass back onto the tray, she sighed wearily. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. The railroad shares.” Reaching down, she pulled the folder of certificates from the valise and set it on the desk. “My husband was most specific that I not sell them . . . something to do with retaining ownership for a shareholder vote, I think.” She paused to shoot him another dimpled smile. “Such business matters are far over my head, I fear. But I understand he had instructed Mr. Bigelow to
set up a line of credit, whatever that is, using these shares as collateral. Does that make sense?”

  “It does. May I?” Lufkin motioned to the folder.

  “Of course.” Margaret pushed it across the desk and sat back as he thumbed through the certificates.

  “These represent quite a substantial sum,” he said after a moment. “Did you intend to put all of them up as surety?”

  “Heavens, no. Certainly no more than four or five. Hopefully that should be enough.”

  “Enough for what, if I may ask?”

  Margaret pulled a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “This is so embarrassing. But what else can I do, Mr. Lufkin? He was my father, after all. It’s only right that I honor his debts, don’t you think?”

  “Your father?”

  “Died. Three days ago. He didn’t even make it to the wedding. It was so sad.” She took a moment to regain her composure before continuing. “And now my husband wants to set up offices here and has sent me ahead to find a suitable dwelling for us, and settle my father’s debts, and hire servants, and who knows what all.” Reaching across the desk, she rested a hand on the banker’s arm. “If it weren’t for the kindness of men like you, Mr. Lufkin, I don’t know how I would manage.” A gentle squeeze, a quivering smile, then she sat back. “Which would be a suitable neighborhood, do you think? I’m thinking something moderate that would require no more than a couple dozen servants. And a garden. I find gardens so restful, don’t you?”

  “That would be expensive.”

  “Oh, my husband is most generous. He has extensive investments—railroads, iron works, foundries—he and Jay are always into something.”

  “Jay? Jay Gould?” His small blue eyes lit up like twin flames. To be privy to the inside investments of a financial mogul like Jay Gould could be worth a fortune to a discerning investor. Margaret was banking on Mr. Lufkin recognizing the opportunity. Judging by his expression, he did.