A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “I’m not sure what I know. You keep so much to yourself.”

  He sighed. “Please believe I take no pleasure in that. I’m only trying to protect you. And, if I am honest, myself. There is little to be gained by airing matters that will only bring us grief.”

  It took a moment for those words to sink in. “You know how I feel,” I said softly. “Don’t you?”

  Of course he did. What I really wanted to ask was, How long have you known?

  Thomas hesitated, as though searching for the best way to frame his answer. “I know how I feel, Rose.”

  There was a beat of silence. It felt like falling.

  “But it’s not that simple. Romantic involvement between us would be complicated enough if we weren’t partners. As matters stand…” He shook his head. “Whatever my feelings, I can’t let them take hold of me. I might never regain control, and the consequences—”

  In two swift strides, I closed the distance between us and pulled his head down into a kiss.

  He stiffened, but he didn’t resist. He stood frozen, his hand suspended over my shoulder as though he wasn’t sure whether to draw me in or push me away.

  After a moment I drew back, gazing up into those pale eyes searchingly.

  “We’re partners,” he murmured.

  “Yes, we are. But for once, right now, can we just be us?”

  I saw it the moment he broke, his restraint shattering into a thousand splinters, and before I could even take a breath, his mouth was on mine, his arms gathering me close. A wave of heat swept through me, and I let it take me. My fingers twined in his hair, raked at his back, things I’d dreamed of doing for so long that my body moved as if to a familiar dance. I kissed him in a way I’d never kissed anyone before, a way that would have made Mam blush, three years of pent-up desire breaking free at last. And Thomas? He finally showed me what lay behind that gentlemanly veneer, and it was more passionate than I could have imagined.

  And then, abruptly, it was over. Thomas broke off, though he didn’t pull back right away. He rested his forehead against mine, and for a moment he just stood there, hands framing my face, his breath still fast and shallow. His lips brushed mine once more. He kissed my eyes, first one, then the other. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. “Good night, Rose,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

  I reached a trembling hand for my sherry. Took a long, deep sip.

  No, I wouldn’t be sleeping a wink tonight.

  * * *

  The steam yacht Aphrodite was not, we were assured, especially large. At a dainty 127 feet, she was the smaller of Mr. Burrows’s two yachts (the more impressive Venetia being anchored at Newport). Yet humble as she was, she cut a lovely figure, with her long, elegant prow, mahogany deck, and steadying sails. She glided across the water with a grace unrivaled by any mode of transport I’d ever used, so I was willing to overlook the fact that her deck saloon was merely twice the size of Mam’s flat.

  Her captain cut a lovely figure, too, his golden hair tousled playfully in the wind as he dropped anchor amid the throng of tugs and ferries and pleasure craft gathered off Bedloe’s Island to witness the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. On this occasion, Mr. Burrows had decided, somewhat scandalously, to forgo a hat, since the sun was nowhere to be seen and the customary captain’s cap looked, in his words, utterly ridiculous. It was his boat, after all, and besides, I’d learned long ago that Jonathan Burrows did exactly as he pleased, whatever people might think. One of the many advantages of being rich as a Rockefeller, I suppose.

  “Here we are, then,” he said, joining the rest of us in the deck saloon. “Who’s for champagne?”

  I myself would have preferred tea, what with the bone-chilling fog drifting over the water, but I settled for cognac.

  We were five in the yacht: Thomas and me, Edith and Mr. Burrows, and the decidedly glum figure of Nikola Tesla, whom Mr. Burrows had fetched from the island early this morning after he’d finished taking down the illicit transmitter. I’d related the unfortunate fate of his spectacles more than an hour ago, but the news still hovered over him like a rain cloud. He’d cocooned himself in a blanket on his wicker chaise, emerging only for the occasional forlorn bite of caviar.

  “I really am so sorry, Mr. Tesla,” I said for the umpteenth time.

  The inventor smiled ruefully. “Please, Miss Gallagher, there is no need. Your actions averted an unthinkable tragedy, and I am happy my spectacles played a part in that. Still…” He sighed. “It is very disappointing. I don’t suppose I shall ever get my hands on another sample of copper vanadate.”

  “I can’t pretend to regret that,” Mr. Burrows said. “It was a wonderful invention, but having one’s luck exposed for all to see … Who knows what uses such knowledge might be put to?”

  “That is the nature of science,” Mr. Tesla said, helping himself to another serving of caviar. “Every advancement brings with it potential dangers.”

  “Not this one, surely.” Edith gestured at the statue looming out of the mist, smoothly changing the subject. “She really is remarkable, isn’t she?”

  “Well done getting the antenna down in time, Tesla,” Thomas said. “You must have been up all night.”

  “Indeed. In fact…” The inventor paused, frowning critically at the little mound of caviar on his toast. Taking up the spoon once more, he removed a single tiny pearl, at which point his brow cleared in visible relief. “In fact, I wasn’t able to completely finish the job, but I made sure to remove the noticeable parts. Even then, I would not have managed it had the workmen not offered to help me this morning.”

  Mr. Burrows laughed. “They had little choice, unless they wanted to explain to the president of the United States why the old girl wasn’t ready for the dedication.”

  “I’m just sorry you had to miss the parade,” I said. “It was quite something, in spite of the weather.”

  The inventor gave a little shiver. “I am not much for crowds.”

  “Listen.” Edith cupped her ear. “The band has stopped playing. It must be nearly time.”

  As we gazed across the water at Lady Liberty, her face veiled in the tricolor of France, I imagined the grand speeches being made at her feet. The papers would print them tomorrow, no doubt. I’d read them aloud to Mam; the schoolteacher in her took great pleasure in a well-turned phrase. For now, I could feast my eyes on the flags and bunting and gaily colored streamers and think my own suitably patriotic thoughts.

  “We’d best be ready,” Mr. Burrows said, pouring out five glasses of champagne. “This is a momentous occasion. I daresay that statue will outlast mankind itself.”

  Thomas handed me a glass, and our eyes met briefly. He’d been quiet all morning, and of course we hadn’t discussed what happened last night. We’d have to eventually, but for now, we were both … processing. In the meantime, a moment’s eye contact was enough to bring a flash of heat to my cheeks. I could only hope nobody noticed.

  “To Liberty,” Mr. Burrows said, hoisting his glass.

  “And the future,” Edith added.

  As we drank, the veil dropped from the statue, and Liberty’s green-eyed gaze looked out over the water at last. A chorus of cheers went up from the boats; they rang their bells and blew their horns and fired their cannons, and a moment later the sound was echoed from the riverbanks of Manhattan. Smoke and steam mingled with the fog, rising into the sky and obscuring the great lady’s face.

  “The future,” I murmured, taking another sip of champagne. I wondered what it would look like.

  * * *

  After the ceremony, I paid a visit at Mam’s. I’d offered to take her to the parade, but like Mr. Tesla, she had an aversion to crowds, and the morning’s foul weather had settled it. She’d stay indoors, thank you very much, where it was peaceful and warm. I couldn’t blame her; even after my second cup of tea in her little kitchen, my bones refused to give up their chill.

  “Still, Mam, it was quite a sight. You ought to have gone do
wn to the Battery, at least. It was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.”

  Mam made a dismissive gesture. “That’s what they said about the Brooklyn Bridge, and St. Patrick’s before that. New York has a once-in-a-lifetime moment every other year.”

  It was hard to argue with that.

  “Besides,” Pietro put in, “you couldn’t see nothing from the Battery. Too much fog.” He leaned against the stove, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He’d been pleasant enough, but that was for Mam’s benefit. He’d wait until she headed off for her nap, I figured, and then he’d let me have it.

  “Couldn’t see anything, Peter,” Mam corrected. “Anyway, I can’t say I’m all that bothered about some French statue. I’m just happy to be back in my own home.” Frowning, she cast an eye about the flat. “Though what was in such dire need of fixing that they had to cast us out in the first place, I couldn’t tell you. Why, I can’t even see that they’ve done anything.”

  “I told you, Mama, there were rats living in the walls.” Pietro shrugged. “Probably the hole is behind the stove, that’s all.”

  “There have been rats in this flat since we moved in. Don’t see why they’d start caring now.” Mam continued muttering as she gathered up the teacups, but she didn’t seem genuinely bothered, so I left it alone.

  “I’ll get out of your hair, Mam, so you can sleep. I’ll come by tomorrow, if you like, and we can read the papers.”

  “Tomorrow? But don’t you have work?”

  “Mr. Wiltshire’s given me a few days off, since I’ve been putting in so much extra time lately.”

  “He’s such a gentleman,” Mam said.

  You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the way he kissed me last night, I thought, and tried very hard not to blush.

  Cutting an awkward glance at Pietro, I said, “Walk me out?”

  “Yes, sure. Let me get my coat.”

  I waited until we were in the street, just to make sure Mam didn’t overhear anything through those thin walls. “Thank you for what you did, taking Mam to the hotel like that. I had no right to ask it of you, but I didn’t have much choice. I know you did it for her and not for me, and I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Pietro sighed. “That’s not true, Fiora. I mean, the first part is true, but the second part … I did it for you also. I might be angry with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not your friend anymore.”

  Tears pricked behind my eyes, and I had to swallow a lump in my throat. “Thank you. That means more to me than you know.”

  “Are you all right?” His dark eyes scanned me. “This thing with the men who were shooting at you—it’s over now?”

  I nodded. “We caught them. The ones who were left, anyway. It’s over.”

  “Thanks God.”

  “What about you? How are things with…” I trailed off, unsure how to finish.

  “With Augusto?” He shrugged. “Better, for now. Since the shooting, the merchants have all paid up. Maybe they are more afraid of him now. Or maybe they think he really does protect the neighborhood. Who knows, but Augusto says he doesn’t need my help with collections anymore.” Smiling faintly, he added, “So maybe I should thank you, too, eh?”

  I didn’t much want to be thanked for my role in the deaths of two men, but I kept that to myself. The words were a sort of peace offering, and that was more than I’d expected. More than I deserved, maybe. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Pietro.”

  He glanced away. “I haven’t been telling all the truth either. I should have told you what was happening with Augusto, but…” He hesitated. “But I was ashamed.”

  “I know the feeling. I’m not ashamed of my work with the Pinkerton Agency, but I was so afraid of what you’d think. Not that I blame you. I felt the same at first.”

  “What made you change your mind? Was it him?”

  There was something in the way he asked the question that made me wonder if Augusto had decided to reveal my supposed betrayal after all, telling Pietro that his “sweetheart” was in love with Thomas Wiltshire. But now was not the time for that conversation. We had enough to sort out as it was.

  “Mostly, it was the work,” I said. “The sorts of cases I’m involved in … it’s nothing to do with union-busting or anything like that. It’s about helping people, just like it used to be when the Pinkerton Agency was new.”

  I’m not sure if he believed me, but he accepted the explanation without comment. “And what about your mama? Will you tell her the truth?”

  “Someday, maybe, if she keeps getting stronger. But right now…”

  “It would only upset her, and maybe she gets worse again.” He nodded. “I understand.”

  I smiled, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Sticking out a hand, I said, “Friends?”

  “Friends,” he said, shaking it. “And please let’s promise, Fiora, no more lies. There are not a lot of people I trust in this place. I trust you, and I hope you trust me.”

  “I do, but…” I paused, biting my lip. “There are some things you might be better off not knowing.” In the back of my mind, I was hearing Thomas’s voice from nearly a year ago. The world is a great deal more complicated than most people realize, Rose. There are things we can’t explain, things we’re told we shouldn’t believe in … “I’ll tell you everything if that’s what you really want, but be careful what you wish for.”

  Pietro considered that. “these things I might be better off not knowing … they’re dangerous?”

  “They can be, yes.”

  He nodded slowly. “On my side, too. Maybe we should think about this some more before we decide.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Then, impulsively, I threw my arms around him.

  He laughed. “I told you, Fiora, you can’t go around hugging stray Italian boys.”

  “Oh, you know me. I never do what I’m supposed to.”

  “Amen to that,” he said, and headed back to the flat.

  CHAPTER 34

  DEFEATS AND VICTORIES—UNSPOKEN—WESTWARD HO

  “Honestly, I’m surprised,” Thomas said, setting the Tribune aside with a sigh. “I truly believed Roosevelt would win.”

  “You weren’t the only one,” I said. “The papers made it sound as if it were all but guaranteed.” Why, The New-York Times had been referring to Mr. Roosevelt as the future mayor for days, and the Tribune had pronounced his election certain.

  Our breakfast guest took a different view. “I’m disappointed,” Mr. Burrows said, “but not at all surprised. Nor would you be, Wiltshire, if you’d seen the mood at the club these past few days. Some of the staunchest Republicans of my acquaintance admitted they would be casting their votes for the Democrats this time around. The prospect of a Labor administration was simply too terrifying.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Still, I feel awful for the old boy. Must be deucedly hard to hold your head high after a drubbing like that.”

  I tsked. “It was hardly a drubbing. Sixty thousand votes is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “He came in third in a contest of three,” Mr. Burrows said. “In the world of politics, that’s a drubbing.”

  “Well, I agree with the Times,” I said irritably. “Mr. Roosevelt was badly used by his party. It’s nothing but rank disloyalty, the way so many Republicans deserted him at the last minute.”

  To my great annoyance, Mr. Burrows just laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  “Nothing at all. I’ll say this for Roosevelt, he has a bright future in politics if he can command such admiration from someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” I leveled a cool look at him. “A working-class woman, you mean?”

  “A working-class woman of surpassing good sense.”

  “Good enough to see through you, anyway,” I muttered, which of course just made him laugh harder.

  “At least we can be reasonably confident that Roosevelt will be safe now,” Thomas said. “As for the mayoralty, I’m sure Hewitt w
ill perform admirably. In truth, all three were excellent candidates.”

  “That is as it should be,” Mr. Burrows said. “A city as fair as New York deserves only the finest suitors. And now if you’ll excuse me…” Taking a final sip of coffee, he pushed his chair back. “Shall I expect you at the club later, Wiltshire, or will you be otherwise engaged? It looks as though you have rather a lot of correspondence to get through.”

  “Indeed,” Thomas said, eying the stack of morning mail with a frown. “I don’t know how it piles up so quickly.”

  I took my time finishing with the newspapers, stealing a glance across the table every now and then as Thomas went on sorting the mail. We still hadn’t talked about what happened the other day, and though things between us weren’t strained, exactly, they weren’t quite right either.

  “This one’s for you,” he said, handing me an envelope from the Pinkerton Agency.

  I took it with a sigh of relief. My paycheck should have come last week, and I’d started to worry about the delay. I opened it and set it aside, barely glancing at the familiar figures …

  “Wait.” I snatched it back up, blinking a few times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. “Thomas.”

  He glanced up. “Is there a problem?”

  “My paycheck. It’s … they’ve made a mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s twice what it should be.”

  Thomas snorted quietly and resumed opening his mail. “No, it’s precisely what it ought to have been all along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The special branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency has apparently been operating on the belief that female agents ought to be paid less than half of what their male counterparts earn. That day at the hotel, when you told me your salary…” He shook his head. “I do apologize, Rose. If I’d known, I’d have dealt with the matter sooner.”

  “Dealt with the matter?”