Circled Heart (7 page)

“The woman was Katherine Davis, my brother’s one true love.”

Yours, too, I thought, catching something in his tone that made me believe both Gallagher brothers might have been smitten. I wondered if she had been the reason for their acrimonious parting.

Somehow reading my mind, he said, “I admired Katherine a great deal,” stressing the verb. “She was an intelligent, confident, strong-minded woman, but my brother loved her and for completely different reasons.”

“What happened?”

He opened his hand to look once more at the ring and the pin, then carefully set them, one piece at a time, on the side table.

“It didn’t work out. My brother’s demons got in the way.”

“Demons?”

“All the Gallagher men have them,” he responded lightly, rising. “It’s a family trait.” Taking my cue from him, I rose, too. The shawl slid from my shoulders.

“I see the rain has stopped so I must be going. Thank you for letting me dry out in your library.” He held my coat for me and I slid my arms into it, then turned to take my still damp hat from his hands. He hesitated before handing it to me.

“I don’t think you can salvage it, and I wouldn’t if I were you.” Gallagher made one last dispassionate examination of my face. “This advice is unsolicited and you may ignore it completely, but I wouldn’t wear a hat at all if I were you. Not with that face.” I flushed despite myself, not expecting such a rude and insensitive comment.

“Surely I can find a chapeau somewhere that would suit this plain face,” I retorted sharply.

“Is that what you think I meant?” When I didn’t answer, he shook his head. “Miss Swan, you have a remarkable face, transparent and uncluttered. There’s nothing plain about it.”

“You needn’t try to placate me, Mr. Gallagher. I’ve known all my life that I’m not in the least pretty.”

“That much is true, but I never said you were pretty. I said remarkable. There is a difference and you’ve got the better end of it. Keep your hair short exactly as it is and stop trying to keep up with fashion. Anything that hides all your soft black curls and those fine eyes is not right for you, regardless of the fashion magazines.” This time, at my look, he had the grace to flush. “I told you I was offering unsolicited advice, Miss Swan, but I suppose I should have added presumptuous as well. Forgive me if I offended you.”

I took the hat from him but made no move to put it on. “You didn’t offend me. I’ve been told I have no sense of style, and that’s absolutely true. I have stopped trying to keep up with fashion, in fact, not because I’m above it but because it’s so incomprehensible to me. Why should what we wear matter at all when we have so many more important issues to deal with?” I smiled to show I held no hard feelings.

“Why indeed?” he responded with a reciprocal smile, then asked abruptly. “Do you have far to go? I could arrange a ride for you. My brother’s auto and Fritz, his driver, are out back somewhere.”

“Only to Hill Street and I’d rather take the train, thank you.” I glanced past him to the jewelry on the table. Despite the fact that I had carried out Douglas Gallagher’s expressed wishes, it was hard to part with the items I had physically and emotionally carried for so many weeks. Andrew Gallagher followed my gaze and then looked back to me with comprehension in his expression.

“Thank you for your kindness to my brother. Those items mean something to you, don’t they?”

I tried to find the words. “Yes, but I can’t explain why. I keep seeing him standing at the railing, taking out a cigarette and looking out over the water, nothing but a man taking a stroll on the deck before bed. He was trying to appear valiant, but he seemed so sad to me. I thought he was the loneliest man I’d ever seen. I suppose my keeping his personal items safe and close was my way of telling him he wasn’t alone after all. Maybe that’s why it was hard to give them up.”

After a long pause, Andrew Gallagher smiled. “You are a kind and perceptive woman, Miss Swan. Are you sure I can’t arrange for you to be driven home?” The companionable moment was obviously past.

“No, I’m quite serious about taking the train, but thank you.”

He walked me to the front door and opened it for me. Outside the rain had stopped and the clouds had almost all blown off, showing clear blue patches of sky. Although cool, the walk back to the station was exactly what I needed following the unexpected intimacy of my shared confidence about Douglas Gallagher. I put out a hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Gallagher.”

He took my hand in his own. “Good-bye, Miss Swan. Thank you for caring about my brother. He made it difficult for people to do that while he was alive, so I’m glad you were there with him that night. Whether I like it or not, I have inherited the power of Gallagher Enterprises now and if you ever need anything, if there’s anything I can ever do for you, will you promise to track me down and ask?”

“I can’t imagine that would ever occur,” I replied, thinking about my own inheritance and financial independence.

“Yes, but if there ever is, promise me you’ll find me and ask me about it,” he persisted, still holding my hand.

“I promise that if I’m ever in need of your aid, I won’t hesitate a minute asking for it.” My words seemed to satisfy him and he let go of my hand.

“I appreciate the concession and I’ll hold you to it. You’ll be safe enough going home, won’t you?” He laughed at my expression. “Sorry. It was a momentary lapse. I can see you don’t want or need to be coddled.” At the bottom of the front walk, I turned briefly to give a small wave at his figure, which still stood in the open doorway. Then I picked up my pace and—hatless all the way—made it to the station in time to catch the train home.

That night out of habit I lifted the lid of my jewelry box and feeling strangely bereft, stared at the place where Douglas Gallagher’s jewelry had lain for several weeks. After a moment I raised my head and purposefully stared at my reflection in the bureau mirror. Looking back at me was a thin face with too-prominent cheekbones, a straight nose sprinkled with freckles that showed up against tan skin, a mouth too full for fashionable beauty, and plain brown eyes, all surrounded by short black curls that I now decided made me look half my age. I had cut my hair because I found trying to subdue my unruly curls too frustrating and time consuming. Now, seeing myself objectively, I decided I should have grown my hair even longer. At least I wouldn’t look thirteen. How Drew Gallagher could see anything remarkable in such a face was a mystery to me. I thought he’d been sincere at the time but had also been placating me with his undeniable charm. Like undoubtedly any number of women before me, I had chosen to believe his words because of the man’s appeal, not because the comments held expertise. I was only human and no more immune to the attraction of the opposite sex than any other female.

In the following week I began several classes for the inhabitants of the Anchorage: new baby care for all the women in that situation, a class to teach typewriter skills useful in the burgeoning Chicago business environment, an English language class, and a very basic class on reading and writing for both Kipsy and Yvesta, who could do neither in English or any other language.

Flora scorned all our efforts, content to sit and stare out the window and wish the child in her womb somewhere else. She spoke of the baby’s father once, defiantly.

“He was handsome and he made me laugh. He never promised me anything but a good time, and I don’t hold this against him. I didn’t want to be tied to one person any more than he did.” She glanced down at her waistline. “And I still don’t.”

For no obvious reason her words made me think of Drew Gallagher, who was certainly handsome and able to make a young girl laugh and, if what Hilda Cartwright had heard was true, was also not one to promise a woman anything besides a good time. I didn’t want to think of him enticing a young woman like Flora to behavior that she would pay for her whole life and then abandoning her. He might enjoy the company of women, but I thought I detected in him some shred of an intelligent conscience. He had readily admitted that the Gallagher men had their demons, however, so I was presumptuous to assume anything about him from the little time we had spent together.

That Friday afternoon, from my little office I heard a pounding on the front door and waited long enough to realize Eulalie was not available to answer it. Because Hilda was out, I went to the door myself and opened it to face a scowling, shaggy-browed man with his hand raised for another knock. He was only my height but barrel-chested with brawny arms and hands and very dark eyes and wore the pervasive smell of alcohol.

“May I help you?” I asked, standing squarely in the doorway. The man’s open hostility, more than his smell and rough appearance, made me certain I did not want him on the premises or crossing the threshold of the Anchorage.

“I’ve come for my wife and children,” he told me and moved to push past me. He looked surprised when I held my ground, but I am stronger than I look and certainly more stubborn.

“This isn’t a prison. Our residents are here of their own free will. What’s your name? I’ll pass the word along and if your wife wants to talk to you, she’ll contact you later,” which obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He pressed closer, one shoulder at an angle against mine prepared to push me out of the way.

“I’ll take them with me now.”

Still not retreating, in fact, pushing back with my own shoulder, I spoke right into his face. “No, sir, you will not. You’re trespassing.” I turned my head as if someone stood behind me and added, “Eulalie, send someone for the officer on the beat. This man is threatening me.” When I turned back to him, I added calmly. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not welcome here. I suggest you leave before the police arrive because I will certainly lodge charges against you.”

Clearly he was unaccustomed to a woman speaking back to him and his face grew darker. He put both hands on my shoulders to shove me aside.

Despite the panic and fear roiling in my stomach, I warned in an even tone, “Be careful. If you manhandle me, I guarantee you’ll spend time in prison. Is that what you want?” Something in my unhurried, rational manner penetrated his alcohol-saturated state. He was still furious, but he brought his hands down to his side and stepped back from me.

“My family’s what I want. They belong to me.”

“They’re not property, sir. They’re people. If they want to talk to you, I’ll assist them in sending you a message. What is your name?”

From behind me Crea called, “Right this way, Officer. There’s a man bothering Miss Swan at the front door.”

The swarthy man stepped back another step and growled, “I won’t forget this.”

“I won’t either. If you cause any more trouble, I’ll find out who you are and arrange to have you arrested. Don’t think I’m above having you put in prison for a long time. Doing so wouldn’t bother me in the least.” He shot me another dark look and stepped off the porch, took a few quick steps, then broke into a run down the street. If I had to guess if we’d see him again, I would have said no. Closing the door, I leaned back against it, wiped suddenly damp palms on my skirt, and took a deep, still shaky breath.

Crea approached from the end of the hallway and I said, “You can send the officer away, Crea. The man’s gone.”

“I didn’t have time to find a policeman, Johanna.”

After a pause, I smiled faintly and responded, “Then it’s a good thing he didn’t call our bluff, isn’t it?”

From the top of the stairs young Kipsy called, “You’d have handled him, Johanna. He wouldn’t a stood a chance.” A murmur of assent made me look up to see all the boarders standing at the top of the steps, eyeing me as if I’d just sprouted wings—or horns.

“I’ll give you credit,” Betsy remarked. “You never backed down. He was scared of you, plain and simple.”

“More scared of the officer he thought was coming down the hall,” I retorted. Looking past her, I caught an expression that combined fear and panic on Yvesta’s face, poor woman, who must have felt that man’s fist more than once in a life I could not imagine. I had known from his first words that she was the one he wanted. No one else at the Anchorage had children with her.

Later she sought me out, her two little girls clinging to her skirts. “I should go with him,” she told me. “He is my husband.”

“Would you and the children be safe?” I asked bluntly. “He seemed very angry.”

“He is my husband. How else can I live? I can’t stay here forever.” She wore the same expression of mute fear and helplessness I had seen on her face earlier.

“We’ll find a job for you, Yvesta, so you don’t need to be dependent on him.”

“What do I do with the children then?”

“There’s a place on Halsted Street called Hull House. Have you heard of it?” At her blank look, I explained, “It’s a clean and safe place run by a woman named Jane Addams that offers nursery and kindergarten care for neighborhood children. You can leave your children there for the day while you work.”

“But who would give me work and what kind of work could I do?”

“What about something in an office?” Even as I said it, I knew that was a foolish idea for a woman who could not read and write. She knew it, too.

“That is not for a woman like me. All I can do is clean and cook and sew and who would pay for that?”

I knew there were manufacturers that paid women to sew, but last year’s horrible story of the scores of women who plunged to their deaths in New York City’s Triangle Shirtwaist Fire had reached the London papers, and I couldn’t send Yvesta off to such a place. She had the skills—I had seen her tiny stitches and straight seams—but I would need to be sure she was safe and treated fairly. Out of nowhere I heard Drew Gallagher’s voice saying, “I have inherited the power of Gallagher Enterprises,” and I suddenly had an idea.

With my hand on her shoulder, I encouraged, “Don’t despair, Yvesta, and don’t go rushing back to the life you left. Think of your daughters and what that would mean for them. I may have an answer to your question about who would hire you.”

When I inquired from Hilda Cartwright, she responded, “Gallagher Enterprises? I don’t know much about it. I’ve heard they deal in textiles and meat and own some banks on both coasts.”