Dawn of the Golden Promise (21 page)

He could not have been more shocked. He had known that little Amanda supposedly had an uncle somewhere on the Continent, but after months of unsuccessful attempts to contact him, the attorneys in the States and in England had given the go-ahead to initiate adoption proceedings.

From the moment they took her into their home the previous winter, little Amanda had stolen both Jess's heart and Kerry's. Within days after the death of the child's mother, they began to discuss the possibility of adoption.

Nicholas Grafton had written numerous letters to Amanda's grandfather in England, but it seemed that Edward Winston's rejection of his daughter and her family was irrevocable. Every attempt to contact him was met by absolute silence.

As it happened, Lawrence Hancock, the attorney Jess had retained, eventually learned that Amanda's grandfather was dead. Moreover, the child's uncle—and her only living relative—had also been estranged from his elderly father for years. Colin Winston's whereabouts were unknown.

Until now.

“Jess?”

Nicholas Grafton's voice snapped Jess back to the present.

“You know that Mr. Winston is…Amanda's uncle.”

“Yes,” Jess said faintly, unable to venture more.

“He has come—” the doctor's voice faltered for an instant. “For Amanda. To take her…back to England with him.”

Jess thought he would choke on the pain that knifed through him. “I see” was all he could manage. Abruptly he turned his back on both men.

His first thought was of Kerry—this would surely devastate her. Amanda had been like her own little girl from the first time she held her. Her delight in the child grew with every day that passed, and the bond between them was beautiful to behold.

His next thought was of himself, for he also adored the sunny little girl. He had come to call her his “curly-top,” and he delighted in having a small daughter who seemed to consider him quite a prize. When she ran to him in the evening and stretched her arms up to be lifted onto his shoulder, no matter how difficult his day had been, he was suddenly renewed.

He could not imagine coming home to a house without Amanda.

Woodenly, he walked back to his desk and dropped into the chair. Lacing his fingers together, he sat staring at his hands for a long time. When he finally looked up, Nicholas was watching him with a look of undisguised sympathy, Colin Winston with an expression that appeared openly hostile.

“I plan to sail just as soon as I can make the arrangements,” Winston said, his voice curt. “You'll prepare the child, I presume?”

Jess stared at the man. He suddenly felt very cold. Cold and weary and bereft, as if the sun had just gone down on his spirit.

Patrick Walsh drained still another cup of coffee. His nerves were already jangled, his mood vile, and he knew the coffee was a bad idea. But he was in no frame of mind to deny himself.

Hunched over his desk, he stared at the front page of the paper, which trumpeted yet another “achievement” on the part of the subcommission headed by Lewis Farmington. In particular, the article lauded Farmington's son-in-law, Captain Michael Burke, for his “vigilance and tenacity in bringing to justice those perpetrators of villainy against the innocent and unsuspecting.”

The glowing article went on to explain that most recently Captain Burke had been instrumental in exposing the abuses of the Chatham Charity Women's Shelter. Its director, Ethelda Crane, was presently under investigation for misuse of both private and state funds—among other criminal charges. In the meantime, the shelter had been closed and its residents moved to other facilities.

Related to the same case was the opening of yet another investigation that involved a religious organization under the direction of one William Butterby—known by members of the sect as “Brother Will.” A number of alleged offenses on the part of Butterby, including improper advances to female parishioners, had come under the scrutiny of the courts. Butterby was also suspected of some form of collusion with the aforementioned Ethelda Crane.

Patrick Walsh had no interest in the Chatham Women's Shelter, nor in the careless dolts who had managed to get themselves entangled by their own stupidity. But he was sick to death of reading about the accomplishments of the emigrant subcommission—and in particular the heroic exploits of
Captain Michael Burke.

He should have followed his original instincts and had Burke finished off long before now. That thick-necked cop had been like a buzzard on his back for years. In the past few months the bad blood between them had finally reached a boiling point. Burke didn't even try to dissemble about his intentions: he was out to destroy Patrick Walsh by any means.

So far the bulldog policeman had managed to accomplish little more than to put a couple of Patrick's men in jail—where they had been summarily murdered before they could talk. But Burke had recently brought closure to two lucrative operations, including a highly profitable slave auction—and in the process stirred up speculation about the Walsh “enterprises.” As a result, some of the Tammany bosses had begun to make disgruntled noises.

Patrick knew that real power—the kind of power he aspired to—lay not in financial control alone, but in political influence
coupled
with great wealth.

He was already a rich man; his prosperity continued to increase despite the paltry efforts of boorish policemen like Burke. But his larger ambition was to expand his rackets empire, while at the same time marshaling the even greater power to be found within the political arena.

Not for a moment did he intend to let an inconsequential police captain stop him.

He crumpled the front page, then tossed the rest of the newspaper to the floor. Something had to be done about Burke. It was nothing but foolishness to risk the man's further interference.

Patrick began to fantasize about what sort of torment he might inflict upon his nemesis before actually putting an end to him. On impulse he unlocked the middle drawer on the right side of his desk and sat staring at the pistol he carried back and forth between his home and the office every day.

After a moment he pushed the drawer shut and locked it. It would be foolhardy to deal with Burke himself, he acknowledged reluctantly. Far safer to leave the job to those he paid for risking their necks.

For a long time he sat tapping his fingers on the desk, thinking. Taking his pipe from its stand, he filled it, then lighted it. He wanted something special, something particularly nasty for Burke. He would send for Spicer Blaize. There was none better when it came to killing, and the man could be surprisingly inventive about his methods.

When a light knock sounded at his office door, Patrick frowned, annoyed. The door opened, and Glenn Stockton, his new assistant, stepped hesitantly inside.

“I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Walsh, but there's ah…someone here to see you.”

Patrick's frown deepened. “I thought I had no appointments scheduled till three.”

The pinch-nosed Stockton nodded. “Yes…well, the thing is, she doesn't
have
an appointment. But she insists—”

“She?” Patrick looked past the narrow-shouldered Stockton but saw no one behind him.

“Yes, sir. A young lady.” Stockton's pale eyes took on a sly glint. “A most
attractive
lady.” His studying look was unusually bold, even conspiratorial.

Even more irritated, but curious as well, Patrick gestured curtly that Stockton should send the woman in.

With his pipe in his mouth, he leaned over to retrieve the newspaper from the floor. When he straightened, Ruth Marriott was standing across from his desk.

14

Let each person judge his own luck,
good or bad.

IRISH PROVERB

Q
uinn O'Shea made a halfhearted attempt to pick up some of the children's toys off the front porch of Whittaker House. The sun was scorching down like a furnace blast, and she had just decided to go back inside, where the high ceilings and draped windows offered at least some respite from the heat, when she saw Sergeant Denny Price round the corner of Elizabeth Street.

Quinn hesitated. The policeman called out, and at the sound of his Donegal brogue tripping over her name, she waited. The realization that she was actually glad to see the man set off an alarm in her.

Deliberately she chilled her greeting, offering only one curt word. “Sergeant.”

He surprised her by not coming back with his usual impudent grin and cheerful salute. Curious, Quinn saw that he was wearing an uncommonly stern frown, and in one large hand clutched what appeared to be a book.

Taking the steps two at a time, he snapped out his only acknowledgment of her presence. “I need to see Mr. Whittaker right away. Is he in?”

His tone was abrupt, the words clipped. This, too, was a departure from the stream of Irish blarney she had come to expect from him.

“He is,” she replied, studying him as he slowed his approach only slightly. “He's upstairs with the older boys, painting the hallway.”

With a nod he marched by her and went inside. Quinn turned to watch, pushing back a faint stab of disappointment at his brusqueness. What was it to her, after all, if the man had other things on his mind today besides making a nuisance of himself? At least he wouldn't be trying to coax her out, for a change.

And didn't she have other fish to fry as well? Daniel Kavanagh was taking a rare afternoon for himself, coming home early to help the others with the painting. First, though, he had offered to help her with her grammar lesson.

Quinn had finally managed to swallow her pride and ask the Kavanagh lad to teach her how to speak correctly. She was a good reader, with a firm understanding of most of what she read. But when it came to conversation, her efforts were often awkward, if not altogether faulty.

Ever since coming to work for the Whittakers, she had been taken by the fine manners and proper ways of the family—especially Mr. Whittaker and Daniel. Mrs. Whittaker still carried a great deal of the old sod about her, most noticeable in her West of Ireland speech. But both Daniel and his stepfather were gentlemen, and their gentility was reflected in the way they used the language.

Part of Quinn's agenda on the way to becoming a lady—an
American
lady—was to learn to speak properly. But there was much she simply didn't understand about how to say things in an acceptable way. And Daniel Kavanagh seemed more than willing to teach her.

Mr. Whittaker would have been the ideal tutor, of course, for clearly he possessed a fine education. But the man's time was taken up from dawn to dark with his work; when he wasn't tending to the boyos or seeing to his own family, he would toil at the hulking piano in the dayroom, writing his music. Certainly he had no time left over for anything else.

Once in a while Quinn would sit in on the children's lessons, but for the most part their instruction was too basic to be of any real help to her.

Even before approaching Daniel Kavanagh with her request for help, she had known he wouldn't refuse. The lad could not quite manage to conceal his infatuation with her.

Now and again Quinn felt a nagging guilt that she might be taking advantage, but she did her best to ignore it. She had learned that opportunity was not a frequent visitor, and it was wise not to be too slow about opening the door when it arrived.