by Jen Turano
“We also need to find a nanny as well,” Ian said, a pronouncement that left Isadora rolling her eyes and Beatrix speechless for all of a second.
Pulling Isadora into a hug, Beatrix gave her a squeeze. “You should have written me a letter about that significant circumstance. How lovely to learn you’re expecting.”
“I thought it would be best to deliver the news in person,” Isadora said before she stepped back and smiled. “Do know that if we hadn’t decided to come to Chicago, I was going to come visit you in New York for the holidays. I assume your mother, even with her being somewhat annoyed with you, will want you home for Christmas.”
Beatrix winced. “I’m not sure about that. What with all the shenanigans I got up to in New York, and—”
“On my word, but this is beyond the pale,” she heard a lady shriek behind her. “I’m speaking to you, girl, and your blatant rudeness in not even bothering to turn around to acknowledge me certainly proves to everyone in attendance that you, a disgraced employee from Marshall Field & Company, do not belong at this ball.”
“Is that lady talking to you?” Isadora asked as Beatrix turned around and found none other than Mrs. Sturgis, the woman responsible for one of her demotions, standing a few feet away.
That Mrs. Sturgis was furious was not in question.
Her face was an unusual shade of purple, and her jowls, all three of them, were quivering in clear indignation.
Beatrix glanced around and found the guests surrounding Mrs. Sturgis directing their attention her way, their gazes ripe with anticipation.
“Did she say something about you working at Marshall Field & Company?” Ian asked, his brow furrowed.
“She did. I was a salesgirl, until I got demoted to the coat check, and then—”
“I got her dismissed from the coat check for being overly cheeky with me.”
Isadora arched a brow at Mrs. Sturgis before she returned her attention to Beatrix and grinned. “We obviously have much to catch up on, but why am I not surprised you took up a position at a store or that you were being overly cheeky with a customer?”
Beatrix returned the grin, ignoring that Mrs. Sturgis had begun sputtering in outrage. “It was Aunt Gladys’s idea for me to take up a position, but as for me being cheeky, I wasn’t at fault in the least. I merely pointed out to Mrs. Sturgis, after she threw her wrap at me and her brooch gouged my head in the process, that she should show more care in the future.” She leveled an eye on Mrs. Sturgis as she pushed aside a curl that Mamie had carefully arranged over the small scab on her forehead. “And you should show more care in the future as well as resist running off to management to complain about what was your unacceptable behavior, not mine. You cost me fifty cents a week in my pay, and I received another demotion because I got sent to the Bargain Basement after you complained.”
Mrs. Sturgis’s eyes flashed. “I was under the impression you’d be dismissed on the spot.”
“You’ll need to take that particular grievance up with the store, but you’ll be pleased to learn that I have been dismissed—just not because of you.”
Mrs. Sturgis glanced around the crowd. “This girl’s very presence here is an outrage, and I’m appalled she was somehow able to get through the front door in the first place.”
“She came as my guest.”
Beatrix glanced past Mrs. Sturgis and found Norman fighting his way through the crowd, seemingly unconcerned when he shoved aside a gentleman and sent him stumbling. Taking hold of her arm, he sent her a smile, then turned to Mrs. Sturgis.
“I believe you owe Miss Waterbury an apology,” he said pleasantly, his tone at direct odds with the temper in his eyes.
“I think not,” Mrs. Sturgis returned right as an older gentleman joined her, his face wreathed in a smile as he nodded to Ian.
“Ah, Mr. MacKenzie. I was hoping I’d get an opportunity to speak with you this evening after I learned how well your meeting went today with the union men who represent my meat-packing factory.” He turned his smile on Mrs. Sturgis. “How wonderful, dear, that you’ve apparently already met the oh-so-lovely Mrs. Ian MacKenzie, the lady I spoke to you about earlier, the one who”—he lowered his voice—“is a member of the New York Four Hundred, and the one you wanted to be introduced to.”
Some of the color leaked out of Mrs. Sturgis’s face. “I . . . I’ve not had the pleasure of an introduction as of yet.”
“Can’t have that,” the man said, taking hold of Mrs. Sturgis’s arm and pulling her forward. “Mr. MacKenzie, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Sturgis. Marilyn, this is Mr. Ian MacKenzie and his lovely wife, Mrs. MacKenzie.”
After stumbling through the pleasantries, a now-pale Mrs. Sturgis looked at Beatrix, then Isadora, and then to Ian before she returned her attention to Beatrix. “I don’t understand how a salesgirl is acquainted with a member of the New York Four Hundred.”
Before Beatrix could answer, Isadora sent her a slightly bewildered look, one Beatrix responded to with a quirk of a brow and a shrug. Isadora’s lips curved just the slightest bit before she nodded, squared her shoulders, and turned her attention back to Mrs. Sturgis. “Beatrix and I grew up together. And then we made our debuts together.”
Mrs. Sturgis turned paler still. “Your . . . debuts?”
Isadora nodded. “Indeed, as in debuts to New York society, but . . . were you unaware that Beatrix is a member of the New York Four Hundred as well?”
Beatrix felt Norman stiffen beside her, but before she had a chance to explain, his mother, Mary, stepped around Mrs. Sturgis. Stopping directly in front of Beatrix, she narrowed her eyes. But then, instead of saying a single word to Beatrix, she glanced around at a crowd that was beginning to press closer, then nodded to Norman. “We should take this somewhere private.”
“Indeed,” Norman said, taking Beatrix’s arm and tugging her along in the wake of his mother, who was already sailing her way through the crowd and toward an exit.
“Would you like me to come with you?” Isadora asked, Ian by her side as they fell into step beside Beatrix.
“I would, but I believe this is going to be uncomfortable enough as it is. I’ll find you after I’m done speaking with Norman and his mother.”
“Do not do anything to upset Beatrix,” Isadora said to Norman, who slowed his pace but didn’t stop.
“I’m fairly certain she’s the one who is about to upset me,” he returned right as Ian drew himself up and took on a rather menacing air. “Interesting friends you have,” Norman muttered as they left Isadora and Ian behind, walking through the doorway of the ballroom and finding Mary waiting for them.
“I’ve been friends with Isadora since we were in short dresses, although I’ve only become friends with Ian over the past year, after Isadora ran off from New York to escape a most dastardly duke who was determined to marry her.”
Norman came to an abrupt stop and arched a brow. “She ran away because of a dastardly duke?”
Before she could answer, Mary marched up to join them. “This is no time for chitchat. We have important, and need I add, disturbing matters to discuss. Follow me.”
It took all of five minutes to wind their way through the hotel, retrieve their wraps, and then walk outside, Mary not stopping until she’d traveled well away from any lingering guests who might care to hear whatever it was she was about to say. Moving to stand by the corner of the Palmer House, she whipped around and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Did I hear correctly that you’re a member of New York high society?” was the first question out of her mouth.
Seeing no reason to deny it, Beatrix nodded. “I am, although why that appears to upset you is rather confusing. One would think my being a member of high society would alleviate some of the concerns you’ve had about my involvement with your son, since clearly I’m not after his money.”
“You have money?” Norman asked.
Beatrix nodded. “I do. My father, Mr. Arthur Waterbury, has been rather successful with
increasing the family fortunes over the years, and he’s set aside a portion of that fortune for my personal use.”
Norman’s brows drew together as he took to regarding her far too intently, while Mary looked absolutely furious.
“Your father is Arthur Waterbury?” she demanded.
Having no idea why Mary would be mad about the fact that her father was Arthur Waterbury, Beatrix nodded. “He is.”
Mary narrowed her eyes and looked more furious than ever. “Then I was justified in believing you were up to no good as it pertains to my son.”
“I have no idea what you could possibly mean by that,” Beatrix said slowly.
Mary moved to Norman and took hold of his hand. “I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of what I’m sure you’re going to find distressing news, my dear, but you see, I was only recently given a new Pinkerton report. The agents were able to track down the apartment for one of the men, a James something or other. And while that man was long gone, he left behind some incriminating evidence.”
Mary sent Beatrix another scowl before she returned her attention to her son. “There was a letter written to James by none other than the mastermind behind the attempts to steal your research papers—a letter that was signed by one Mr. Arthur Waterbury. He stated in that letter that final payment would be made to this James person just as soon as the authentic research papers were delivered to him.”
“What?” Beatrix demanded, taking a step toward Mary, which earned her a glare before she looked back to her son.
“So you see, I was right about Miss Waterbury after all, because while she apparently didn’t set her sights on you because of your wealth, she did set her sights on you to secure your research papers for her father.”
“That’s . . . preposterous,” Beatrix all but sputtered
Mary shook her head. “It’s not preposterous in the least, especially when it’s now becoming clear to me exactly who you are—you’re a spy for your father, sent to Chicago to ingratiate yourself with Norman. I’m now quite convinced that if the men your father hired were unsuccessful, your next order of business would have been to take it upon yourself to use those feminine wiles of yours to secure Norman’s research for your father once and for all.”
Chapter 33
Different thoughts swirled through Norman’s mind, each one more disturbing than the next, until he felt as if his head might explode right there in front of the Palmer House, leaving bits of his unusual mind scattered about the sidewalk.
It was almost too much to take in—this notion that Beatrix had purposefully sought him out in order to secure his research, but why else would she have neglected to disclose to him at some point who she really was, and why had she taken up a position as a salesgirl if she was an American heiress?
“Did you begin working at Marshall Field & Company in order to illicit sympathy from me?” he asked, drawing Beatrix’s attention as well as her temper, given the way her eyes gleamed.
“Don’t be an idiot. Of course I didn’t. If you’ll recall, you and I parted ways and had no intention of ever seeing each other again before I took on my position at Marshall Field & Company.”
“Surely you’re not going to believe her, are you, dear?” his mother asked him, earning a snort from Beatrix in return.
“If I were trying to pull the wool over Norman’s eyes,” Beatrix began, “I assure you, I wouldn’t try to do so by crafting such an unusual tale. Nor would I have subjected myself to the ridicule and condescending behavior I experienced every day at the hands of far-too-many snobbish customers in order to garner Norman’s sympathy so that he’d . . . what? . . . hand over his research papers to me?” She turned to him. “Surely you must see that this whole conversation is ludicrous, as is the idea that I’m some sort of spy.”
Doubt began worming its way through him until a completely valid thought sprang to mind. “But why didn’t you tell me you were an heiress?”
She heaved a sigh. “I should have told you at some point, but after you came and saw me at the store, I was just becoming acclimated to my new situation—or perhaps I should call it an experiment, since you’re rather familiar with those. If word had gotten out that I was this grand heiress, I wouldn’t have been treated as merely a salesgirl. Instead, I would have been viewed as an outsider, rendering my experience at the store useless.”
The doubt wormed its way forward again. “But you’ve had ample time to tell me since you first started working at the store.”
“True, and I don’t really have a good reason for why I didn’t tell you, although there might have been a part of me that was hoping you, what with that unusual mind of yours, were figuring out on your own that I was a woman of some means.”
“How could I have figured that out?”
“You told me numerous times that you’re very observant, so you must have noticed how I wasn’t overly concerned about losing my position, which I would have been if I needed funds. Last week, I thought you might question how I had enough money to post bail for all those women. And then, of course, there’s the dress I’m wearing.” Beatrix gestured to her gown. “How else would I have been able to afford to wear a gown from Worth?”
“You’re wearing Worth?” Mary asked, stepping all of an inch forward.
“I am,” Beatrix said.
Norman tilted his head. “I didn’t even consider at first how you came to possess that gown, probably because the sight of you rendered me all but speechless.”
“And that is exactly why Miss Waterbury should be ashamed of herself,” Mary said firmly, advancing closer to Beatrix until only a foot separated them. “I’ve sheltered Norman from vixens like you his entire life, and that I was not there when you convinced him you were some type of damsel in distress leaves me quite furious.”
Beatrix’s lips, oddly enough, began to curve. “I know I should be gravely insulted about being called a vixen, but I find the thought of myself cast in that particular role rather amusing.”
Norman was not encouraged when his mother drew herself up and opened her mouth, then closed it again, apparently uncertain how to respond to that. Knowing it was past time he took control of the situation before it deteriorated further, Norman nodded to his mother. “I need to speak with Beatrix alone.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m afraid I must insist on that.” Taking Beatrix’s arm, he told his mother he’d catch up with her later, then hustled Beatrix down the sidewalk, not stopping until they reached the line of parked carriages. Glancing over them, Norman spotted his carriage and headed for it, not really surprised when Beatrix tugged her arm away from his.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Away from here,” he said as they reached the carriage and he told the driver to take them for a ride through the city.
After a groomsman hurried to open the door for them, Norman followed Beatrix into the carriage. Settling into the seat opposite her, he nodded as the carriage lurched into motion. “I believe I deserve some answers.”
“I’m not a spy, if that’s an answer you’re looking for.”
“Then why did you withhold your true identity from me?”
Her lips thinned. “Did I, or did I not, introduce myself as Beatrix Waterbury when we first met?”
“You did.”
“Well, there you have it. I didn’t withhold my identity from you. I simply didn’t tell you that I am also an heiress.”
“You’ve yet to sufficiently explain your reasons for that. All you’ve said is that you withheld it to aid your acceptance into the working world.”
She frowned and tilted her head. “I suppose I withheld that information from you at first because I found you so annoying. You were quick to make assumptions about me—one of the most annoying being your assumption that I was a spinster because of my opinionated nature.” She sent him a smile that was hardly amused. “I found it oddly satisfying to allow you to continue on with your less-than-accurate assumptions.”
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br /> Norman winced. “I imagine I might have come across as rather condescending at the time.”
“Indeed. But I found it amusing, that amusement lending me the forbearance I desperately needed to refrain from shooting you again.”
He felt his lips give a surprising twitch. “I appreciate that, but why didn’t you mention you’re Arthur Waterbury’s daughter when I brought his name up at the train station?”
“When did you bring my father’s name up at the train station?”
“When I was giving those men a list of possible suspects. I listed your father among them because he attended that meeting I was at in New York.”
Beatrix released a snort. “You gave those men over one hundred names, Norman. Even the men who were writing all those names down were having a hard time keeping up with you. And while I’m sure I must have heard a handful of the names you rattled off, I stopped listening for a while after someone brought me a much-needed cup of tea.”
The doubt was back in a flash. “You did have tea.”
“I did, but to be clear about my father, he often attends scientific meetings in New York. But he has no need to steal your research papers. He’s known to be a generous man with funding research projects, so there are more than enough men willing to hand over their research papers in the hopes of securing funding. Father has no reason to resort to theft for any research idea that may appeal to him.”
Norman frowned. “But if you are a spy for your father, it would explain why you decided to spend time with me, even though you just admitted you found me very annoying when we first met.”
Beatrix settled back against the seat. “You must realize that’s ridiculous.”
Norman looked out the carriage window, wondering how his evening, as well as his life, had turned so dramatic.
He’d always been a man who maintained a life devoid of drama, and yet it seemed to have become his constant companion ever since he’d met Beatrix.
Turning from the scenery, he shrugged. “It’s not ridiculous, although I have to wonder if you’ve been growing concerned about my, well, increased interest in you.”
