Chapter Twelve
“You seem distracted this evening, Jocelyn.” Rupert Bingham took a careful sip of water, then with equal care set the stemmed crystal glass back in its proper place. It was always a shock to see Chadwick’s father, with his bent-over frame and gaunt form a marked contrast to the vigorous man Jocelyn remembered. “Did you and Mr. MacKenzie have a lover’s spat?”
Both cousins snickered. As usual, Jocelyn ignored them.
“Mr. Bingham, must you speak so crudely, especially at the dinner table and in front of the servants?” Portia dabbed her lips with the napkin. “I hardly think they would engage in something so personal as a quarrel, especially at this early stage of their courtship.”
“Since when does length of time have to do with affairs of the heart?” Virgil said. Like his mother, he was golden haired and blue eyed. Katya had overheard gossip between household servants that Virgil was considered a prize matrimonial catch. But his clean-shaven face at twenty-nine was already marred by deep lines on either side of his mouth and nose; most of his words were colored by a pettish contempt, though Jocelyn knew he tried to moderate his tone in front of his mother. He turned sideways now, studying Jocelyn. “On the other hand, she certainly doesn’t need to waste time, if she’s hoping to snare herself another husband. Pushing thirty, aren’t you, darling?”
“Time…” Mr. Bingham mused, as though Virgil hadn’t spoken, his brown eyes assuming their now-familiar faraway cast. “How does one measure time? Your aunt and I wed after only a six-month courtship.”
“Oh, do stop being such a sentimentalist,” Portia snapped. “It was an arranged marriage, and your bride spent the week before your wedding in tears.”
“My dear, it would be a kindness if you allowed poor Rupert to remember his wife as he wishes.” Augustus speared a piece of pot roast, then gestured with his fork while chewing the morsel. “Let’s hear what Jocelyn has to say for herself, hmm? Come now, child, ignore your cousins and your aunt. Tell us about your outing with Mr. MacKenzie today.”
Micah had warned her that every step she took would be monitored, every word weighed, every sentence picked apart and analyzed. Because she wanted to remain open-minded—or stubborn—Jocelyn chose to attribute the solicitousness to the Brocks’ earnest desire to atone for their repudiation of her after Chadwick’s death. Portia reminded her of an overzealous governess offering instruction on everything—Jocelyn’s day, her attire, the endless lament about her hair. Even her penmanship had been scrutinized and remarked upon.
Augustus summoned her almost every evening after dinner to pontificate on the benefits of her moving permanently to New York, in between counseling her on her finances and encouraging her to ask Virgil for funds when she ran short of pin money. She never did, of course, yet until a few weeks ago Virgil insisted on giving her money anyway, telling her his father didn’t want her to feel “like a poor relation.” Jocelyn found childish delight in giving the money to ragged street beggars, emaciated urchins and astonished cab drivers.
A week earlier, however, Virgil had surprised her with a wrapped box one afternoon. Inside, nestled in powder-blue satin, she found a stiletto.
“You don’t want to venture anywhere on your own, you know,” Virgil said, rocking back and forth on his heels while he watched her. “The streets are dangerous, full of footpads and muggers and thieves.” He lifted the vicious-looking object with its thick blade and short handle. “If you tried to scream, they’d slit your throat with this.”
“Are you trying to scare me, or brag about your own nocturnal proclivities?” Jocelyn had responded. Hiding her distaste, she snatched the stiletto from her cousin, dropped it and the box onto the Turkish rug, then sauntered from the room. “Your gifts are almost as sharp-edged as you are, cousin.”
Since then, Virgil no longer tossed “gifts” of money her way, or even engaged her in conversation other than a verbal jab or two over meals.
Rupert, on the other hand, tagged after Jocelyn like a lost soul, quietly pleading with his eyes for her to tell him about her life, though—unlike the Brocks—he never insisted. Instead of returning to his cottage on Long Island, Rupert had settled into another of the guest suites. Daily he murmured that he must return home, though after a month he still remained at the Brocks’.
On several occasions Jocelyn tried to convince Micah that Rupert couldn’t possibly be the vicious ringleader of a network of counterfeiters. Micah, polite but obdurate, requested that she not exclude anyone from the list of suspects, including a man who behaved as though he had lost his will to live.
“Come now, don’t be shy, child,” Augustus insisted now with an avuncular smile. “Mr. MacKenzie’s a good man, with an astute grasp of financial matters. I’ve told him he would have made an excellent banker.”
“How preposterous.” Portia irritably waved a hovering serving maid away. “Mr. Brock, do try not to bore the man to death.”
“My dear, you are mistaken about Mr. MacKenzie’s interest. He has confided to me that he’s entered the contract stage with several local shippers, including Janssen’s. They’re one of our best customers. I’ve suggested to Mr. MacKenzie that a local bank would better facilitate these transactions, even offered to oversee the financial details myself.”
“Mr. Brock, I don’t think—”
“Some of my friends are going to Coney Island this evening,” Julius interrupted his mother. At twenty-three he was already given to pudginess that, unless he curbed his appetite, would in a few more years turn to fat. “I promised I’d meet them.”
He rose clumsily, and his sleeve caught on the cutlery, sending knife and fork clattering to the floor. Red-faced, he plodded from the room, his back hunched defensively. It had been Julius who had spat on Jocelyn at Chadwick’s funeral, but she felt sorry for him now.
“One of these years,” Virgil observed after his brother was gone, “you’re going to have to find a job for the poor clod-hopper.”
“Perhaps,” Jocelyn put in unwisely, “he can have yours, Virgil.”
“What is this? My cousin showing some claws? Feeling pretty feisty, are you? Most women do, once a man comes sniffing around.”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Virgil, there is a…person…at the kitchen door who insists upon seeing you. He refuses to leave. I’ve taken the liberty of placing him in the service hall, Mrs. Brock, to avoid gossip among the staff.”
“Thank you, Palmer.” Portia stroked her chin, idly fiddled with the ropes of pearls around her neck. “Shall I come with you, Virgil?”
“I think I’m capable of handling the man, whoever he is and whatever he wants.” Virgil rose and strode from the room.
“Well, Rupert, now that it’s just the two of us, shall we retire to the study?” Augustus inquired loudly.
Rupert blinked, then nodded. His gnarled, blue-veined hands neatly folded his napkin and he rose, thanking the servant who handed him his cane. “I could use a glass of port. These bones of mine are protesting the coming winter, I’m afraid.” He paused by Jocelyn’s chair; for a brief second he hovered, lost in thought, a frown deepening between his eyes. “Your Mr. MacKenzie—did he know your people, child?”
Caught off guard, Jocelyn thought rapidly. “Not as well as he would have liked to. The distance between the families…” Always tell the truth if possible, without revealing more than is absolutely necessary.
Mr. Bingham sighed, his gaze once again drifting. “I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy,” he murmured, and for a second his hand rested with surprising strength on her shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Jocelyn. I wish…”
“Mr. Brock, take him to the study before he turns maudlin,” Portia said. After the two men were gone she expelled a sigh of relief. “Now, Jocelyn, the two of us can finally enjoy a cozy chat. Tell me, when do you plan to see Mr. MacKenzie next? There. I see the rebellious flash in those eyes. You misunderstand—people do, you know.” She paused, then finished, “I wouldn’t dream of pry
ing into your personal affairs, child. I—all of us—desire only your happiness. Virgil has confided to me how several of his friends think you’re perhaps a trifle too aloof. Widowed so young, under ghastly circumstances, with no mother to guide you. I was hoping—”
“I believe I’m of an age—as Virgil pointed out—where I’m confident in my own counsel.” Jocelyn pushed her chair back and rose. “I did not come to New York with the intention of either finding myself another husband, or allowing you and your family to procure one for me. My feelings for Mr. MacKenzie—” She faltered, struggling with the torrent of rage that had spewed up without warning, a rage that fisted her hands because she wanted to sweep the Wedgwood china and Austrian crystal off the Brocks’ twenty-foot dining room table and onto their inlaid parquet floor. Rage against her life and the unfairness of it, rage against the God Who had pushed Micah MacKenzie into her arms. Rage against the God Who had made her fall in love with this man…
The thought slapped her, and she all but staggered back, away from the table.
Portia’s eyes were slits of glittering sapphire. “Your feelings for Mr. MacKenzie?” she repeated, the light nasal voice sharp as jagged crystal.
“Are…complicated.” What an insipid word. “I’ve never met a man like Micah MacKenzie.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve not met any men to speak of at all these past five years. Naturally, the first halfway presentable gentleman who finally attracts your attention is going to give your heart flutters. It’s only the two of us here, child. We can speak plainly, woman to woman.” She rose, as well, stunningly beautiful in her velvet and moiré dinner gown. “Mr. MacKenzie is an attractive man, a wealthy man. An ambitious man. When he chooses a wife, he’ll choose carefully. He’ll need a woman with family connections, but he’ll also need a woman who can take her place in society.”
“Are you suggesting that I could never be that woman?”
“Oh, my dear, no! I’m actually suggesting that you let me help you become that woman. Instead of your maid, allow me to introduce you to someone who can work with your hair. Short is all the rage now, you know. By cutting yours we can minimize the vulgarity of the color. Cosmetics to disguise freckles, gowns from Paris. I’ll persuade dear Rupert to give you my sister-in-law’s jewelry. She has some stunning pieces.” Smiling all the while, Portia reached Jocelyn’s side. “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? That will never do. A man wants to know he’s embracing a woman.” She laughed, showing her small, perfectly even white teeth. “There now, I’ve shocked you, haven’t I? I’m sorry. With your looks, I keep forgetting how much of a proper Southern lady still lurks inside.”
“Mother.” They both turned toward Virgil, who was standing just inside the pocket doors of the dining room. “I hate to interrupt whatever female wiles you’re weaving, but I need to speak with you. It’s an urgent matter that can’t wait.”
“It’s quite all right.” Jocelyn spoke quickly. “We were through.”
She strolled with cool dignity from the room while inside, rage consumed her.
Hours later, still unable to sleep, Jocelyn slipped from her bed, a massive medieval four-poster that made her feel as though she were submerged in a dark cave. For a while she gazed down into the dark gardens, lit in bright patches by an opalescent harvest moon. Abruptly, she snatched up her wrapper, along with a shawl, and tiptoed outside into the dark hallway, not wanting to rouse her faithful guardian of a maid.
It was disheartening how easily she slipped back into the habit of drifting through houses like a forlorn shadow.
Swallowing hard, she descended to the main level. At this hour even the servants should be asleep, but she avoided the patches of moonlight nonetheless. Silently she made her way to the vast solarium at the back of the house, where a pair of French doors opened onto an acre of profusely landscaped gardens. The Brock grounds were known throughout the city, supposedly having been designed and landscaped by the great Downing himself. An eight-foot serpentine brick wall kept prying eyes out, and muffled the endless din of traffic from the street. Many times over the last month Jocelyn had found solace here; tonight she longed only to feel safe, instead of trapped.
Near the back, an alcove had been created inside one of the wall’s curves, where a cast-stone bench nestled beneath a climbing rose arbor, now pruned back for winter. Jocelyn hugged the cashmere shawl close and sat unmoving on the edge of the bench, indifferent to its chilly surface. Stillness was a discipline long ingrained, though tonight her mind churned madly, like crazed rats gnawing inside her head.
How could she continue this disastrous sham courtship after this afternoon? She’d wanted to explain her feelings to Micah, but the words tumbled over themselves in a nonsensical mess—they were pretending that their courtship was only a pretense. She no longer knew the truth, only that she was afraid to believe Micah even when he was the only person to whom she could turn to find a way through the maze. Micah somehow always read her thoughts, as though he could climb inside her mind as one might climb a tree.
So…had he kissed her because he sensed how badly she wanted him to, or had he kissed her because he was supposed to deepen the pretense…or had he been telling her the truth and had he kissed her because he really wanted to?
The kisses.
Even now, her heart twisted with longing, her breathing was reduced to shallow sighs. She felt like a chowderhead. The tangled mental musings were less alarming than this surplus of feeling, which she didn’t know how to contain or express, much less control.
A cloud drifted across the moon. Darkness shrouded her, and the chilly November night slithered beneath the shawl as well as the wrapper. Shivering, Jocelyn bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. If she thought anyone would hear, she would have prayed, begging God to show her the way, to comfort her, to fill her heart with something—anything but this impenetrable thorn-infested thicket. From the ends of the earth I cry unto you, when my heart is overwhelmed, the psalmist had written.
A soft, dry sob escaped, the sound jarring in the tomblike silence of the Brocks’ garden. Unnerved, Jocelyn froze. Nothing happened, no heavenly visions or even another chilly breeze brushing her face; wearily she rose and started back for the house.
Halfway along the brick path her ears caught the faint sound of voices, her nose the faint whiff of tobacco. Horrified, Jocelyn weighed her options. The only way back into the house was through the solarium, where she would probably encounter whoever was enjoying a smoke. One or more of the servants, or someone in the family? Regardless, Jocelyn abruptly decided that her best defense lay in the presumption of innocence.
She couldn’t sleep; she’d come outside for a breath of fresh air.
That was the truth, after all.
The shawl covered her almost to her knees; her night robe lent her sufficient modesty. Perhaps she’d challenge their rationale for lurking about the garden at two o’clock in the morning. Mind set, she made her way back up the path, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering.
The cloud passed, and a dozen paces from the French doors Jocelyn was able to pick out the dark silhouettes of two men. Something about their posture, or perhaps their very presence, sent a shiver unrelated to the cold down her spine, and she ducked behind some sculptured boxwood shrubbery. Confrontation might not prove to be a wise option after all. Call her a coward, but eavesdropping struck her as safer.
Except when the men resumed talking, she was too far away to hear more than a few words.
“…not much longer…”
“…careful…don’t want the…to suspect…”
“…my cut…”
A malevolent laugh, then silence. Then came the sound of footsteps scraping softly over the bricks, headed not toward Jocelyn, but in the opposite direction.
Their words, their secrecy—meeting in the middle of the night—indicated far more than insomnia. Her personal misery was forgotten in a leap of excitement over the possibility that she might be in
ches away from learning the identities of at least two of the counterfeiters. Determination swept away caution. Since she hadn’t been able to identify their voices, she would have to identify them visually. Jocelyn stepped back onto the path and sauntered toward the French doors as though she were returning from an evening stroll about the grounds. She caught sight of only one of the two men, who for some reason was making his way toward the back of the garden.
Jocelyn wouldn’t risk following him, but if she hurried she might catch enough of a glimpse to recognize the man who had gone back into the house. But as she darted across to the French doors, the man who had headed into the garden stopped, half turning around. Moonlight streaked across his face.
It was Benny Foggarty.
Chapter Thirteen
“And I don’t know whether or not he saw me,” Jocelyn finished.
For several moments Micah didn’t respond. Instead, troubled and silent, he watched Jocelyn sip the mug of cider he’d ordered for her in this streetside café, praying the shock of her news hadn’t shown on his face.
Their day’s excursion was to have been a pleasant drive in the Brocks’ victoria, via the ferry to Staten Island for a picnic. By the time they neared Fulton Street, however, a bitter northeastern wind had sent the temperature plummeting into the forties, turning the sky a bleak metallic gray. Since the light phaeton wasn’t equipped for inclement weather, after a final glance at Jocelyn’s cold-tipped ears, Micah leaned forward to instruct the driver to return to the Brocks’. As he started to speak, a folded piece of paper was pressed urgently into his palm; after reading the note, without altering his tone Micah instructed Jones to drop them off at St. Paul’s Chapel.
Moments after the victoria disappeared into the tangle of traffic, he whisked Jocelyn and himself through the chapel and along to the busy intersection at Park Row, a terminus for horsecars as well as streetcars. They climbed aboard a crowded streetcar, and several tense moments later he tugged her off, then ushered her onto the Third Avenue El. Not until they reached the Bowery did Micah allow himself to relax, convinced he’d shaken off the two men who had shadowed his and Jocelyn’s every move for weeks.
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