From This Moment (10 page)

If she had any reason to doubt
Scientific World’s
prominence, the sight of its office building banished it. The managerial office took up most of the top floor, where a dozen employees busily toiled at various desks as the clattering of typewriter keys filled the air. It was a splendid space, with tall ceilings, a wall of Palladian windows, and the most spectacular parquet floor she had ever seen. She couldn’t resist kneeling down to admire it, her fingers tracing the inlaid wood.

“Can I help you?” the woman at a commanding desk in the front of the office asked. She was a willowy woman with ivory skin and dark hair artfully styled atop her head. The nameplate at the front of the desk read,
Evelyn White, Managing Editor
. Romulus’s wife? She hadn’t realized he was married, and it caused a strange catch in her throat.

She swallowed hard. She had no business indulging an
attraction to any man, not until Gwendolyn’s death was solved. “I’m looking for Romulus White. Is he available?”

Was it her imagination or did the elegant woman roll her eyes? If she did, it was quickly masked, and Mrs. White was the embodiment of refined elegance as she replied.

“It’s Tuesday morning, so that means he is boxing.”

“Boxing?” Stella asked in confusion.
Boxing
must be a publishing term she did not know. Blocking, binding, bumping . . . all these terms she knew from working in the London printing industry, but boxing?

“And . . . where does the boxing happen?” she asked.

A hint of amusement lit Mrs. White’s face. “At the Boston Athletic Club, just across the street. I only hope his face won’t be pummeled into an unrecognizable pulp, as he is scheduled to meet with the chairman of the Union Pacific Railroad this afternoon, and black eyes always raise questions.”

So
boxing
really did refer to the sport. Her heart sank, for it made Romulus even more attractive to her. She adored strong, bold men and had wondered if his fine figure might merely be an illusion created by a perfectly tailored suit. But no, only a fool would step into a boxing ring unless he was physically fit, and Romulus was no fool.

Well. She’d simply have to ignore this niggling attraction, for Romulus’s wife was still eyeing her in amusement. Stella excused herself quickly and headed back to the street. From the building’s front steps, she had a perfect view of the Boston Athletic Club directly across the street, so she’d be able to spot Romulus the moment he stepped outside. Tremont was chaotic, with hundreds of people going about their business on the tightly packed street. People moved so quickly here. Just watching them made her admire the energy that kept this city thriving, producing, and inspiring.

A few minutes later, she spotted Romulus emerging from the Athletic Club, engrossed in a conversation with a refined, silver-haired gentleman who looked like he might be the president of a bank or a university. Or perhaps France. Some men simply exuded authority, and the silver-haired man was one of them.

Romulus and the man were heading toward
Scientific World’s
building, navigating around carriages and wagons as they crossed the street. Maybe this was a mistake. It was going to be awkward to explain her unannounced presence with that distinguished man looking on.

At least the silver-haired man was dressed properly, wearing a somber charcoal-gray suit with a plain black tie. Romulus wore a silk vest of alternating cranberry and ivory stripes, accented with a sage-green tie. In her old life, she would have pestered him for where he’d found it, for it was hard not to admire his unabashed sense of style.

His brows rose in surprise as he spotted her. “Miss West,” he said. “Dare I hope you are here to discuss the possibility of designing a series of advertisements for fertilizer?”

She blanched. “You want me to advertise manure?”

“Fertilizer isn’t always manure. Sometimes it is bonemeal, blood meal, or night litter.”

“Night litter is another word for sewage,” she said, still not sure if she should be insulted or amused that the advertisements he wanted her to design were for manure.

“Yes, but
night litter
sounds nicer. Michael, may I introduce you to Stella West? Miss West is a stenographer at the Boston Transit Commission. Miss West, this is Michael Townsend, the top attorney in the entire state and my sparring companion. I quiver in fear each time we enter the ring.”

Appalled, she let her mouth drop open. “You’ve been punching an old man?”

The statement was out of her mouth before she could call it back. A hint of displeasure darkened Romulus’s face, and Mr. Townsend simply looked embarrassed. He shifted on his feet and straightened his tie.

“I can assure you, ma’am, this old man is up to the challenge,” Mr. Townsend said with remarkable recovery. “I was captain of my college boxing team in 1879.”

On closer look, Mr. Townsend must be one of those men who went prematurely gray, for his face was free of lines, and if he’d graduated from college in 1879, that meant he was in his late forties. His silver hair lent him an air of dignity and age, but he was still a handsome man with a slender, athletic build.

“I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I meant no disrespect. I was simply surprised . . .” She wished she’d inherited one-tenth of her mother’s tact. She scrambled for something else to say and turned to Romulus. “Your wife told me you were boxing, but I couldn’t quite believe it.”

Mr. Townsend looked stunned. “Did you run off and get married while no one was looking?”

“Perish the thought,” Romulus said with a mild shudder. “If I ever get married, the entire city will know it, as my mother shall hire a choir of angels to sing from the mountaintops. You probably saw Evelyn, my cousin. We share a last name, which sometimes causes confusion.”

The clock tower on the corner chimed the bottom of the hour, and time was running out if she was going to be at her desk by ten o’clock. “I need to leave for City Hall within the next fifteen minutes if I am to avoid the draconian punishments awaiting any stenographer who dares risk tardiness. Might we discuss the proposal you sent me?”

“Absolutely.” He said his farewell to Mr. Townsend, then grasped her elbow to guide her into the building.

“Since we’re short on time, I’ll take you straight up to the third-floor art department. And never fear, I shall be close at hand in case you faint at the sight of our brand-new lithographic equipment. It is a sight to make the strongest of mortals weak with amazement and envy.”

Even the elevator was finely fitted out, with an inlaid floor and elegant brass panels. The attendant latched the door closed, then cranked the lever to lift the compartment up. She grasped the railing, always a little disconcerted when she felt the floor beneath her jostle and lift.

“Was that man really the state attorney for Massachusetts?” If so, perhaps Mr. Townsend was another of Romulus’s connections she could use to her advantage.

“He really is. We’ve been boxing together for six years. I’ve found it useful to cultivate allies within the government, as they have a bird’s-eye view of civil engineering projects. Plus, it’s simply good form to be friendly with people.”

“I’ve never thought of pummeling each other into insensibility as
friendly
. Boxing is nothing but ritualized barbarity to indulge primitive masculine egos.”

He grinned. “It sounds like you’ve been listening to too many Cornell professors. Incidentally, Cornell has a terrible boxing team, so it is no wonder your professors were bitter.”

The elevator jerked to a halt before she could reply. The attendant unfastened the doors, and she gasped at the wondrous sight of the art studio that opened before her.

Soaring windows flooded the room with natural light that gleamed off the polished chrome of the electroplating machine. Artists worked at spacious tables, the scent of linseed oil and turpentine in the air. A lithography press, looking like a mighty table with its gigantic flywheels, inking beds, and rotating cylinders, graced the center of the room, and the comforting scent
of ink on rubber rollers filled the air. Stella was struck mute as she stepped into paradise.

“I warned you that fainting was a distinct possibility,” Romulus said as he guided her into the artists’ wing.

He should have warned louder. Never had she seen such a collection of shining, new, and sophisticated equipment in one studio. This was simply wonderful, but awful, too. A lump formed at the back of her throat. The last time she was in an artist’s studio, her sister had been alive. The comforting thump and roll of the electrotyping machines reminded her of days when the world was full of nothing but joy and the thrill of artistic creation. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in London, before a terrible telegram changed her world forever.

At the end of the room was an alcove where the art supplies were stored. Romulus pulled her inside, and she let her gaze wander over the familiar tubes of paint, boxes of pen nibs, and bottles of ink. The scent of linseed oil and cleaning solution enveloped her, stirring another rush of fond memories.

“Well, Miss West?” he said. “What was it you wished to discuss with me? Dare I hope you are ready to abandon a life of clerical drudgery at City Hall in exchange for all this? I can offer you a permanent position if you’ll only sign on the dotted line.”

She felt like Eve being offered the apple, but her only goal in the world right now was uncovering what happened to Gwendolyn. She turned her back on the spacious studio and looked directly at Romulus. “I’ll design your fertilizer advertisements if you can get me a personal meeting with the medical examiner. That’s all I can commit to right now.”

He raised a brow in surprise. “Is that the best you can do? I’ll offer a competitive salary for a one-year commitment, and I can also open doors for you all over the city. I am a highly sought-after member of society.”

“I don’t know if I can bring myself to work for such a shy and self-effacing man.”

He actually preened at her comment, straightening his shoulders as a hint of a smile curved his lips. “A one-year contract with
Scientific World
and I’ll ensure you have access to any official in the city.”

She shook her head. “I’m not quitting my work at the Transit Commission. Get me an appointment with the medical examiner as proof of your renowned charm, and I’ll design your fertilizer advertisements. That’s all I can promise you right now.”

“And you’ll avoid reckless attempts to threaten or sue any government authority with whom you disagree?”

Those threats wouldn’t have been necessary had Dr. Lentz simply met with her in the first place. “I’ll be a perfect lady.”

“Deal.” Excitement illuminated his face, as if a live electrical wire had flared to life inside him. It was impossible not to be flattered. He offered a handshake, and it was a firm, confident grasp. If she were a romantic sort, she would swear she’d just felt a zing of electricity charge straight through her.

“I’ll make the appointment and notify you of the details,” Romulus said. “Is your boardinghouse the best place to contact you?”

“It is,” she said, turning around to survey the magnificent sight before her once again. Being in this room was restoring a piece of her soul that had been dormant for the past four months. “Thank you for showing me your studio,” she said. “The stenotype machines won’t seem quite so dazzling after seeing all this.”

Romulus leaned down to whisper in her ear. “That was my purpose in bringing you up here.”

She felt the tingle in her ear the entire way to City Hall.

6

S
tella snapped awake in the middle of a dream. Her room was still dark, but her heart thumped, for she’d been dreaming of Gwendolyn. They had been laughing. Stella was in the archives of City Hall, going through filing cabinets to search for clues about the mysterious A.G., but Gwendolyn kept slamming the file cabinets shut, laughing and tugging Stella’s arm, trying to draw her out of the archives. Gwendolyn tugged so hard they both fell down, gales of laughter overtaking them both.

Was Gwendolyn telling her she was looking in the wrong place? In the dream, Gwendolyn kept pointing upward and laughing. The archives were in the basement, so was she gesturing to someone who worked upstairs?

The dream felt so real. Stella sat in bed, still breathless from her imaginary tussle with Gwendolyn. It was hard to believe they would never laugh together again.

She rolled out of bed, her feet hopping on the frigid floor as she dashed to the wardrobe. She wrapped up in her beloved William Morris shawl as she scanned her clothes, letting her gaze linger on her London dresses, shimmering in the early-morning
light in their shades of turquoise, saffron, and lavender. They represented a distant memory of happier days. She traced her fingertips along the sapphire-blue dress of watered-silk before reaching past it to lift out the brown frock of worsted wool. She shrugged out of her spectacular shawl and dressed in the dreary garment she was coming to despise.

Today she would cast a wider net at City Hall. Gwendolyn had said A.G. ran in the highest political circles, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a government official. He could be a rich financier or a college president. He could even be a publisher like Romulus White, for that matter!

She used her lunch break to start exploring other areas of City Hall. She’d always ignored the public gallery that showcased Boston’s impressive history, but perhaps it was worth a look. The gallery featured a Hall of Heroes with life-sized marble busts of notable Bostonians such as Paul Revere, Sam Adams, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Others were portraits of people who had died in the Civil War or the abolitionist crusade.

To her surprise, Ernest Palmer, the archivist, was in the Hall of Heroes, bent over the nameplate on one of the busts.

“Ernest? What are you doing?” she asked, her voice echoing in the nearly empty marble hallway.

He stood up, a guilty flush staining his face, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was her. “Hello, Stella. I can’t figure out the typeface on this bust. Are you familiar with it?”