Heiress (40 page)

She drew in a breath. Were those blessings? She didn’t know anymore. She once believed that she had deserved them. Now, they seemed to clog her throat, suffocate her. Oh, to be like Esme, to have run away, found herself on the other side of the world.

No, she wasn’t rich. In fact, she just might be poorer than the servants who slept in the attic, or the shirtwaist seamstresses in the factories.

At least they could look at themselves in the mirror without wanting to flinch. Oh, God, what had she done? She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes on Jack, suddenly hearing then the rest of the priest’s Sunday reading.
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be
of a contrite spirit.

She didn’t deserve God to listen to her…but what if He still would? What if He’d hear the weeping of her heart?

She turned back to the window, staring out at the stars, so carelessly flung through the sky. Or deliberately placed?

She’d created a life she thought she wanted. But perhaps that had been the problem. Maybe blessing had nothing to do with wealth, but knowing that God ordained it, provided, protected.

Forgave.

Perhaps it was better to be poor—because then, if she were rescued, she’d know she hadn’t done it herself. Indeed, if she’d allowed God to choose her life, she might truly know that she hadn’t created it, but that God loved her. Wasn’t that the essence of being blessed?

Jack moved away from her. “I hope Uncle Bennett hangs.”

His tone caught her breath. “No, Jack. That’s not right. He didn’t kill Foster.”

“Then who did? I knew you couldn’t have—although you had every right to.” His eyes grew dark. “They accused me of it, and truthfully, I sat there in the station, knowing I’d harbored that thought in my heart. I heard the shot, but I was putting the motorcar away after bringing Rosie home from the Fishes’. It wasn’t until I heard Amelia’s scream that I ran through the garden and saw you, there, with Uncle Bennett.” He didn’t look at her then.

“You did think I did it.”

He ran the heel of his hand across his cheek. “I hated him for what he did to you.”

The words shook through her.
Hated him.
And then he turned, his eyes gentle. “I did wonder. But then I saw your face, saw your horror. No, you didn’t do it.”

But she wanted to, and that truth only added to the weight in her chest.

“Uncle Bennett didn’t shoot him either.”

“Then who did, Mother? He confessed. He’s being arraigned tomorrow. The police have their murderer.”

“No, they don’t!”

Jack looked as if she’d slapped him. “Then what was Uncle Bennett doing here, in our house? He never comes here—and Father hated him.”

“Your father’s words about his brother were lies. Your Uncle Bennett is an honorable man.” Her voice betrayed her, however, the tremor in it. “I know he didn’t kill your father.”

Jack just stared at her.

She turned away from the window, pressing her cold palm against the warmth of her other.

“What are you not telling me, Mother?”

She shook her head.

He reached for her hand, but she brushed him aside. “Go to bed, Jack. Please, just go to bed.”

“You can’t fix this, Mother. No amount of money will buy Uncle Bennett’s innocence. He’s going to pay for his crime.”

She turned at the coldness in his voice, shaken. He stood there, bathed in the moonlight, anger flushing out of him. Oh, to be so young, to think you know so much. Her voice gentled. “You are a good boy—no, man, Jack. You deserved better than Foster as your father.”

Then she turned and she walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Her hands shook.

She made her way down the hall, down the stairs, out onto the terrace. The springtime air still carried the bite of winter, raising gooseflesh under her silk wrap. The tulips and iris had just begun to peek from the earth, silvery under the moon.

You can’t fix this, Mother.

No. But maybe God could. Maybe—maybe He would listen to a bereft and parched soul.

She raised her eyes, debating. What, really, did she have to lose? So this was then, what it meant to be poor, to have nothing, to have to reach out for help. “Oh God, I know I got myself into this mess…but I’m not leaving until you bless me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivered. “Because the truth is, I need help. Your help.” She ground her teeth then, letting her tears sting, relishing them as they broke her free, rattled her teeth, sent her to her knees before the wrought-iron chairs in her garden. “Please, God. Please forgive me.”

She felt it then, the smallest niggle of heat inside. Whether produced from hope, or just her words flung out among the stars, or whether it might be something greater, for the first time she considered that riches might come from the inside.

* * * * *

“Esme, are you kidding me?”

Esme hated that she’d expected a warmer reception from Oliver.

She pressed the receiver to her ear to hear over the scratch of the phone line. As she sat in the booth in the darkness, across from the theater, the wind scooted old paper down the muddy road. “I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t need you, believe me. Flora knows something, I feel it inside, but she won’t talk to me unless she believes I’m truly a reporter from the
Chronicle.”

“Which you’re not.”

“Oliver, be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious, Esme. You are not employed by this paper—”

“I could own the paper!”

“But you don’t. Yet. Maybe never. And until then—”

“Oliver.” It was the way she said it—it surprised her too—an emotion in her voice that bespoke their past, the pieces of her heart she’d long ago given him that must have made him pause.

“Esme, I’m just putting tonight’s edition to bed.”

“Hold the press for me, Oliver. Bennett Worth has confessed to a crime he didn’t commit. Wouldn’t that make front page news?”

He said nothing.

She leaned her head against the phone box. Across the street, light streamed out of the open door where the guard waited for her return.

“Where are you exactly?”

“At the New Amsterdam Theater.”

“Just stay put. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you—” But he’d already hung up.

She stood on the sidewalk, her wrap tight around her, shivering, waiting for the lights of his cab. The night he’d saved her from the bum in Hell’s Kitchen revived inside her. He’d been her hero then, her young heart so easily wooed.

But he hadn’t loved her enough to send her a telegram. To tell her he was alive. She needed to keep that centered in her brain.

Oliver didn’t love her. Anymore. Perhaps, ever, really.

Besides, she knew what love was, what it felt like. Thank you, Daughtry.

A Studebaker sedan pulled up to the curb and Oliver climbed out the driver’s side.

“Is this your car?”

“It helps to have my own transportation,” he said. He’d been working—she saw it in the way his hair was mussed under his fedora, the fact that he fixed his tie as he walked toward her. His eyes caught her, ran over her in her dress.

“You don’t look much like a reporter.”

“I’m in disguise.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Undercover, huh? Like Nellie Bly?”

Was that a smile? “Thank you for coming.”

“Let’s get this lie over with.” He held out his elbow, however, and she took it as they walked down 42
^nd
and into the side entrance.

Oliver presented his card—the guard looked it over, allowed them entrance. She had to smile at the way he tucked it back into his jacket, not looking at her.

They found the chorus girls mostly dressed—in chiffon dressing gowns, some with trench coats and day suits, on their way home. Flora sat in the corner, changed and in a low-waisted dress, wearing a turban and a boa. She smoked a cigarette, staring at her flowers.

“Flora, this is Oliver Stewart. He’s the Managing Editor of the
New York
Chronicle.”
Esme liked how his introduction rolled off her lips, a strange swell of pride at all Oliver had accomplished. She looked at him and smiled, letting it show in her eyes.

He glanced at her then shook Flora’s hand. He handed her his card. “My reporter here said that you had a story to tell us about Foster Worth?”

“Uh-huh.” She blew out a stream of smoke. “I’m going to make the front pages, right?”

“We’ll see.” Oliver folded his arms. “Do you know who killed Foster Worth?”

“Naw.” She picked up a flower. “I dunno.”

Esme stilled. “You said—”

“Yeah. Well, maybe I got an idea.” The rose had wilted, but she held it to her nose.

“Who are the flowers from, Flora?”

She sighed. “My secret admirer. He sends me flowers, sometimes, after the shows, so that I’ll know he was in the audience. They still smell, even for a few days after they die.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“He never signs it.”

“You’ve never met him?”

She let a harsh laugh escape. “Why would I? I had Foster.” But her voice dipped on the last word.

“You’re lying, Flora. Who is this guy?” Oliver’s voice dropped, and the danger in it made Esme glance at him.

Flora pursed her lips then shook her head. “I can’t say. He’s a dangerous man. Even more than Foster, maybe. He worked for him.”

Esme glanced at Oliver. “How?”

“You know.” She dropped the flower in the trash bin. “Did his dirty work. The kind that made people fear Foster. The kind that breaks strikes and makes people pay on time.” She picked up the entire vase, dropped it in the trash. “The kind that settles scores.”

“Did Foster know about your affair?” Esme asked.

“Maybe. Foster came by one night, after the show, and saw the flowers.” She looked away. “He got real mad.” She gave a wry smile. “That’s how I knew he loved me, you know. He’d get mad and he’d—well, it weren’t no big thing, and he was always so sorry and sweet afterward. I knew he’d never get so mad at me if he didn’t care.”

And Jinx had spent her life with this man. Esme wanted to weep. No wonder her sister appeared skittish, wounded.

“Did your admirer know about Foster? Did he know that Foster hurt you?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah. He got real mad too. But not at me.”

“Do you love him, this admirer?”

“How could I ever love him? He’s not in my set.” But the way she said it, a lilt in all the wrong places, it felt like a lie. Like something Esme might have said about Oliver. She didn’t look at him.

“But maybe he thought you did?” Oliver said, his voice strange.

Flora lifted a shoulder. “I dunno. I got these flowers the day after Foster was murdered.”

“Did you know that Foster was planning on running away with you?”

She looked up at Esme, studied her, her eyes slowly filling. She ran her hand across her cheek. “Naw, he didn’t tell me that. But sometimes he talked about leaving his wife. Said he’d been tricked into marrying her. Said that she’d cheated on him, that his son wasn’t his.”

Esme kept her eyes on her page. “People will say anything to justify their actions.”

“We saw his brother at the theater, though, and he acted real strange. Foster said that he was going to make them pay for what they’d done. I didn’t know who he was talking about. I asked him but…” She curled her hand around her arm. “He didn’t like me asking questions about his life.”

Make who pay?

Bennett?

Jinx?

She glanced at Oliver.

“When does your show open, Flora? I’ll be sure to send a photographer, see if we can’t put your picture in the paper.”

“Really?” She looked up at Oliver, her eyes bright. “We open June 12.”

“Thank you.” He reached down, took her hand. “You’ve been ever so helpful.”

She blushed at his attention, and well, Esme would have also.

The night air scurried under her wrap, sent a shiver through her as they stepped out into the alley.

“Are you cold?”

She shrugged. “I’m still trying to put together her story. What if Bennett is telling the truth about Foster planning on leaving Jinx? And what if this secret admirer heard him, decided to stop him? The card did indicate that they would spend the rest of their lives together.”

“But what about Foster’s threat? Do you think he might have been waiting for Bennett with those dueling pistols, maybe for an old-fashioned duel?” Oliver reached down and took her hand as they reached the street. The moon shone upon it now, turning it to platinum.

His hand warmed hers, and more. Something so protective, so sweet about it, made her mind do loops.

“Or, what if Jack did hear them arguing? What if Foster turned on Jack—”

“Or Jack turned on him? You never can tell what a man will do when he finds out he’s been lied to.” Oliver glanced at her, and she drew in her breath.

They reached the car. “Can I give you a lift home?”

She wanted to reach up, run her thumb across his face, to ease the hurt from it. “If I had known you were alive, I would have never left,” she said softly. “I never stopped missing you, even when the grieving wore off.”

He drew in an unsteady breath, considering her a long moment. And then something dropped away from his face, his emotions suddenly in his eyes, his voice. “I came back to New York because I hoped that someday you would too.”

Oh. She swallowed, her throat tight. Oh, Oliver.

But he’d already stepped close, already drew his hand to her face. “Esme, I’ve missed you so much. I couldn’t believe you’d left me—it felt as if your father had won. And worse, as if my heart had been torn from my chest. I walked around with a gaping hole inside me.” His voice fell, his eyes in hers. “It’s never been healed.”

And then—perhaps she asked, perhaps she mumbled his name, for sure she raised herself up on her toes as he bent to kiss her. Not a gentle, exploring kiss either, but a kiss abated for twenty years, something of urgency and hunger, longing and hope. A kiss that he deepened as he wound his hand around her neck, as she dug hers into the lapels of his jacket, then inside, to palm his chest. His arms went around her and she molded to him, relishing the taste of him. He had matured, no longer the tentative, shy boy. Oliver had become a man, confident, possessive, even bold. He kissed like that man she knew—no, hoped—he would become.