by Jen Turano
“You’ve been doing research all week?”
Norman nodded. “Of course we have. Why else do you think we never got around to stopping in to see you to tell you that the Pinkerton man didn’t come up with much about the accident?”
“Well, other than that he discovered that the man who ran into Norman had a horse saddled and waiting for him, suggesting he wanted to be prepared for a quick getaway,” Theodosia added.
Beatrix opened her mouth to ask more questions but closed it a second later when a lady strolled up to the coat check. Sending Norman a pointed look, she breathed a sigh of relief when he strolled away with Theodosia on his arm, leaving her to get back to her job.
The next fifteen minutes passed with no unexpected surprises, until she returned to the counter after retrieving Mrs. Blossom’s ermine wrap and watched that lady sail off without a word of thanks. That’s when she discovered Norman wandering ever so casually back and forth a few feet in front of the coat check, sporting a Prince Albert jacket done up in a fine gray wool.
“What do you think?” he mouthed, striking a pose before he began wandering again.
“Nice,” she mouthed back, earning a smile from him before he wandered out of sight.
He was back twenty minutes later, wearing a green jacket, and then twenty minutes after that wearing a plaid one.
“Definitely not,” she said, earning a scandalized look from Mrs. Randolph, to whom she’d just given a claim ticket. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Randolph. I was not speaking to you, but to . . .”
The rest of her apology died straightaway because Mrs. Randolph was already stomping away, aggravation evident in her every stomp.
“That lady should avail herself of an etiquette book. She was exhibiting very rude behavior,” Theodosia said, popping up beside the counter so suddenly that Beatrix jumped.
“You just scared me half to death,” Beatrix said, smoothing back a curl that was escaping its pins.
“Sorry about that,” Theodosia said. “But speaking of being scared, thank goodness you dissuaded Norman from that plaid suit. It was dreadful, but he wasn’t taking my word for it.”
“There aren’t many gentlemen who can wear that type of plaid,” Beatrix said right as Norman strolled up to join them, still wearing the plaid in question.
“I don’t know why the two of you don’t care for this jacket,” he began. “I find it to be smashingly fashionable.”
“Plaid may occasionally be considered fashionable, but that’s a really bold pattern and not one you should wear.”
“I don’t look dashing in it?”
“Dashing is not the word that springs to mind, although—”
“I would think Mr. Marshall Field is opposed to his coat check girls flirting with the customers, especially since your flirting is apparently the reason behind you neglecting to realize you have customers waiting to check their wraps.”
Norman and Theodosia turned as one to the gentleman who’d just spoken.
“Mr. Cabot,” Theodosia exclaimed as the man released the arm of a lady dressed in a lovely blue walking gown. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Mr. Cabot, a rather handsome man, if one enjoyed the overly fastidious type, what with how his dark hair was expertly styled and his clothing looked as if it came straight out of a fashion magazine, stepped forward and presented Theodosia with a bow. “Miss Robinson, isn’t this a delightful surprise? Your father didn’t mention a word about you shopping at Marshall Field & Company when I stopped by to see him earlier today.” He snagged hold of Theodosia’s hand, raising it to his lips and placing a kiss on a glove Beatrix had only recently sold her.
“My father and I rarely exchange our plans for the day with each other,” Theodosia said as she withdrew her hand and turned her attention to the lady accompanying Mr. Cabot. “Miss Burden” was all she said before she began to fiddle with one of the flowers, which started to shed its petals as soon as she touched it.
“Miss Robinson,” Miss Burden returned with an inclination of her head. “On my word but you’re looking rather interesting today. Are those fresh flowers attached to your . . . is that a walking dress?”
Theodosia looked down at her gown. “I imagine it might be a walking dress, although I’m not certain about that. I only found this dress the other day when I was searching through old trunks in my attic.”
“And how delighted you must have been to find that frock,” Miss Burden chirped, taking a step closer to Theodosia. “May I assume you’ll be wearing something just as delightful to the Palmer ball?” She nodded to Mr. Cabot. “Mr. Cabot is quite pleased you agreed to attend the ball with him, and I do hope you’ll be just as pleased to learn that the two of you will be joined by me and my escort for the evening, Mr. Clement Moore.” She tilted her head. “Are you familiar with Mr. Moore?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“He’s most sought-after within Chicago society,” Miss Burden continued. “I’m sure the two of you will become fast friends before the night is through.”
Beatrix glanced at Norman, who was frowning as he looked to Mr. Cabot, then to Miss Burden, then to Theodosia, then back to Mr. Cabot. He was obviously trying to puzzle something out in that extraordinary brain of his, but his silence wasn’t exactly helping Theodosia deal with a most unusual situation.
“May I take your wrap, Miss Burden, and your jacket, Mr. Cabot?” Beatrix asked pleasantly, drawing their attention.
Mr. Cabot nodded before he helped Miss Burden out of her wrap and tossed it at Beatrix before he shrugged out of his jacket and threw that at her as well, his hat following a second later.
Annoyance was swift and only increased when Miss Burden smoothed a hand down the front of her walking dress before she turned a smile on Theodosia.
“Do you like my dress, Miss Robinson?” Miss Burden all but purred. “I recently had it made for me after seeing a fashion plate in a magazine.”
“I think I saw that plate,” Theodosia said as she eyed Miss Burden’s gown. “And I do like it. You look very charming.” She turned to Beatrix. “Doesn’t she look charming, Miss Waterbury?”
Before Beatrix could do more than nod, Miss Burden was drawing herself up, looking scandalized. “Miss Robinson, surely you must know that it’s not quite the thing to draw a salesgirl into a conversation. I couldn’t care less what—Miss Waterbury, did you call her?—thinks about my appearance.”
“Where are my manners?” Norman said pleasantly, although a vein had begun throbbing on a forehead that was no longer covered with hair. “I’ve completely neglected to introduce all of you. Miss Waterbury, this is Miss Amelia Burden and Mr. Harvey Cabot. Miss Burden, Mr. Cabot, this is Miss Beatrix Waterbury, newly arrived from New York.”
For a second, Beatrix was certain Miss Burden was going to ignore the introduction, but then she gave a short bob of her head toward Beatrix as Mr. Cabot did the same. She then held out her hand. “Our tickets if you please, Miss Waterbury.”
Less than thirty seconds later, Miss Burden and Mr. Cabot were strolling away, tickets safely stowed in Mr. Cabot’s pocket.
“Was it only me, or was that a most uncomfortable encounter?” Theodosia asked, her gaze lingering on Mr. Cabot and Miss Burden.
“I’ve always found Miss Burden to be an unpleasant lady,” Norman said with a frown before he smiled at Theodosia. “Which is exactly why he wanted to escort you to the ball. You’re a very pleasant sort, and Mr. Cabot has evidently realized that, which is why he certainly invited you to attend the Palmer affair instead of Miss Burden.”
To say Norman’s declaration took Beatrix by complete surprise was an understatement.
She’d realized almost straightaway that Mr. Cabot had not been expecting to see Theodosia at the store, given the expression on his face and the way he’d immediately released Miss Burden’s arm. Norman had apparently noticed that as well, but had obviously been trying to reassure Theodosia about Mr. Cabot’s interest in her, something that was so kind,
and yet so unexpected, that Beatrix found herself feeling somewhat tingly all over.
“Mr. Cabot seemed twitchy,” Theodosia said, looking to Beatrix. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Beatrix could respond, Mrs. Goodman appeared again, sending Beatrix a telling look, which had her encouraging Norman and Theodosia to return to Men’s Clothing.
Thankfully, they didn’t argue with her, leaving Beatrix free to get back to her job.
Glancing at a clock twenty minutes later, she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized she was almost done with her shift for the day. Relishing the idea of soon being able to kick off shoes that were pinching her toes, Beatrix moved to the counter right as a well-dressed lady stopped in front of it.
Before Beatrix could do more than nod, the lady flung her wrap Beatrix’s way, the heavy brooch that was attached to the wrap smacking her in the head.
A sharp pain immediately followed, and after grabbing hold of the wrap, Beatrix held it away from her, not wanting the blood dribbling from her hairline to stain the garment.
“You might want to show greater care the next time you check your wrap, madam,” she heard come out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
The lady drew herself up, not even flinching when her gaze settled on the blood. “What did you say to me?”
The condescension in the lady’s tone had Beatrix drawing herself up as well. Laying aside the wrap, the heavy brooch making a thud against the counter, she pulled out her handkerchief and began dabbing at the blood. “I said you should have a care with how you fling your things at people because, if you’ve neglected to notice, your brooch cut me.”
It really came as no surprise when, less than ten minutes later, Mrs. Goodman was standing in front of the coat check counter, informing her that, while Mr. Selfridge was away in New York, Mr. Bailer, the man who’d hired Beatrix, wanted to see her without delay.
Chapter 21
“Ah, Norman, there you are, darling. Had a nice run, did you?”
Norman used the tail of his shirt to blot his dripping face, turning to find his mother advancing toward the carriage house, determination in her every step, something that had him shuddering ever so slightly. Forcing a smile, he nodded. “It was a nice run, Mother, although it wasn’t as peaceful as I would have liked, not with Agent Cochran wheezing so much as he ran beside me.”
Mary drew to a stop beside Norman, looked around, then frowned. “Where is Agent Cochran?”
“I left him by the front fountain. He was in desperate need of a rest, so last I saw of him, he was sticking his bare feet in the water, looking quite as if he was about ready to toss up his accounts.”
“I do hope he doesn’t toss up those accounts directly into the fountain. That would be most unpleasant.”
“Indeed, although he wouldn’t be in that danger if he’d taken my suggestion of changing out of his clothes and making use of the running attire I offered to lend him after he insisted on accompanying me on my morning run. What I offered is much cooler than what he was wearing and more appropriate to run in.”
“You’re not wearing running attire, dear.” Mary gestured to his clothing. “You’re wearing what’s known as bathing attire, complete with a striped sleeveless shirt, which one normally expects to see a gentleman wearing when he’s at the beach, not running down Prairie Avenue.”
“True, but bathing attire is far more comfortable than the trousers and tight shirts some gentlemen wear when they participate in strenuous activity. And even bathing attire isn’t as comfortable as the short pants I tried out, something you insisted I abandon before I made it past the main house.”
“Those short trousers showed entirely too much of you.”
“So you said, and quite adamantly. That is exactly why I abandoned them, not wanting you to suffer a fit of the vapors every morning when you glimpsed me running—well, that and I didn’t care to suffer through lectures from you over breakfast.”
“I rarely lecture you.”
“You do, as can be proven by how often you bring up the need for a Pinkerton man to dog my every step, even though I’ve stated time and time again that I don’t need one. It’s not as if the culprit behind the theft of my research papers has had enough time to figure out he’s in possession of faulty information, nor do I expect him to come to that realization for months.”
“You were accosted on the street only a few days ago.”
“Perhaps, although I’m convinced I was simply the target of an inept pickpocket.” He dashed a hand over a forehead that was still perspiring. “However, because I know you’ll fret if I insist on getting rid of the Pinkerton men, I’ll let them continue following me for now, even if I do feel it’s a waste of their time and your money.”
“That’s surprisingly thoughtful of you dear.”
Norman frowned. “Why is it surprising?”
Mary returned the frown. “Why would I not be surprised? You’ve never been one to concern yourself with how much I fret about you.”
“Of course I have.”
“No, you haven’t, but your surprising thoughtfulness aside, I do have a reason for seeking you out.”
Refusing a groan, Norman pulled out his pocket watch, took note of the time, and tried not to smile. Returning the watch to his pocket, he nodded to his mother. “And while I would love nothing more than to engage in a discussion with you, Theo will be here within the next ten minutes to pick me up. We’re going to the factory to fetch some steel to begin building that peddle-boat for Gemma and Oscar. Can’t very well show up at one of our factories in bathing attire, can I?”
“We can hold our discussion while you’re getting changed.”
Realizing there was no sense arguing because his mother was clearly not going to be put off, Norman blew out a breath before he took his mother’s arm, walking with her through his workshop, then up the steps to his apartment. Opening the door, he gestured her inside. Mary settled her attention on him the moment they reached his sitting room.
“I recently had a lovely chat with Mrs. Martin Tripp” was how she started their discussion.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Tripp, one of the ladies with whom I play whist every Thursday. She has a daughter who made her debut last year, a lovely young lady by the name of Blossom, and, as it turns out, Blossom is in need of an escort to the Palmer Ball.”
“I’m already escorting someone to the ball, Mother, as you very well know.”
Mary waved that aside. “A girl from Marshall Field & Company is not an appropriate guest.”
“Beatrix is completely appropriate, and besides, it would hardly be acceptable for me to renege on my promise to escort her.” He smiled. “You did insist I take all those decorum lessons in my youth, and I well remember the rule that states ‘gentlemen shall not beg off a planned engagement unless a death has occurred.’”
“But Blossom is a most lovely girl.”
“So is Beatrix.”
Mary’s gaze sharpened on Norman’s face. “You believe this Beatrix is lovely?”
“I think it’s time I get changed before Theo shows up.”
“Fine” was all his mother said to that as she spun on her heel. “I’ll just occupy myself by tidying up this place until you’re done. I thought you said you’d already put your sitting room to rights after the disaster it was when you had all those clothes strewn about, but evidently I misheard you.”
Norman cast a quick look around the room, the hair standing up on the back of his neck when his gaze settled on Theo’s fashion magazines, ones he’d stacked on a table but were now scattered about, a few of them having fallen to the floor.
He didn’t hesitate to take a firm grip of his mother’s arm before he hustled her toward the door.
“What are you doing?” Mary demanded.
He didn’t slow his pace. “Someone’s been in here, Mother, because this room was perfectly tidy when I left for my run. That means there is some skullduggery afoot, and I may h
ave use of those Pinkerton men after all.”
Three hours after learning someone had snuck into his rooms—in broad daylight no less—tossed his belongings about, and then managed to escape undetected, Norman still couldn’t seem to puzzle out the incident to satisfaction.
Yes, there were many men he’d met while in New York who’d been overtly interested in his research and had wanted to either work with him or buy his research outright, but not one of them had seemed to possess the intellect needed to have been able to realize so quickly that he’d altered the research he’d left behind after the train heist.
That whoever responsible was willing to resort to breaking into his home lent the whole affair a rather desperate air.
The only consolation he had was that Agent Cochran was convinced the person was no longer on his mother’s property, having discovered horse tracks some distance away from Norman’s workshop. Those tracks suggested the would-be thief had left a horse hidden behind some bushes and had used that horse to make a stealthy departure before Norman returned from his run.
Clearly, that person had been keeping a close eye on Norman, which meant Norman was going to have to make an effort to deviate from his normal schedule in the hopes of thwarting any new plans the potential thieves had in mind.
Using a wrench to twist a bolt into place, he crawled out from underneath a generator at the Nesbit Steel Factory, realizing his attempt at distracting himself from the troubling situation at hand had not been as successful as he’d hoped, not with how furious he still was.
His mother could have happened upon the criminal, or criminals, at any time, or . . . Gemma and Oscar could have happened upon them while scavenging about in his workshop, a thought that had his fury level rising exponentially.
Because whoever had tried to locate that research had been unsuccessful that morning, as his papers were still safely stowed away in a safe he’d created to look like an abandoned washing machine, that meant there would certainly be additional attempts to locate his papers. His mother had grasped that point immediately, which was why she’d already hired more Pinkerton men to guard not only him, but also to guard her property.
