Honor (39 page)

Honor looked over at Catherine. “They pay a high price for loving us, too.”

Catherine’s expression clouded. “Indeed they do.”

A footman entered the dining room to remove their salad plates and to serve sliced roast duck with orange sauce and rice.

When he left, Catherine said, “How did you meet Nevada? All he said in his short, infrequent letters was that he had met a wonderful woman who brought him great happiness.”

Honor’s cheeks grew pink with pleasure. “He said that about me?”

“Oh, yes. Our friend is a man of few words, but he chooses them carefully, from the heart.”

“That is so true.” Then she proceeded to tell Catherine about Lillie Troy and how her breach of promise suit had led to Honor’s fateful meeting with Nevada.

By the time Honor finished, Catherine’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. “Poor Nevada. I’ll wager he didn’t know what hit him.”

“Then my husband, who is also a lawyer, went to work for Nevada, and we saw a great deal of each other.”

“Your husband? Nevada never mentioned that you are a widow.”

“I’m not,” Honor replied, “but I might as well be.” At Catherine’s inquisitive look, she told her how Robert had left her after Nevada caught him stealing secrets for a competitor, and just disappeared without a trace.

Catherine’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “So you and Nevada—”

“Can have no future until Robert is found. I can’t even divorce him.”

“How sad. Have you tried to find him?”

“Detectives are expensive, and I haven’t been able to afford one because I’ve been slowly building up my legal practice.”

“Perhaps Nevada could help you. He’s a very wealthy man.”

“I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

Catherine smiled. “Somehow I don’t think he’d see it as an imposition.”

“I still couldn’t ask him,” Honor replied. “We Putnam women are a proud lot.”

“I assume you’re referring to your aunt Theo in Boston. Nevada told us about visiting her for Thanksgiving and how much he likes her.” Catherine’s gaze dropped to her plate for a moment. When she looked up, she leaned forward. “Have you accepted Nevada’s violent past?”

Honor looked surprised. “Of course. Regardless of what he did years ago, he’s the kindest, gentlest man I ever met.”

A bittersweet smile touched Catherine’s mouth, and her eyes turned bright. “That’s exactly what Sybilla said when I asked her that same question.”

Honor had been waiting for Sybilla’s name to come up in conversation, and she had been dreading it. “He loved her very much, didn’t he?”

“As much as he loves you now.” Catherine placed her hand on Honor’s, regarding her with that fierce intensity. “Sybilla was my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I think Nevada is disloyal to her memory because he’s found you. I don’t.”

Honor squeezed Catherine’s hand and let out the breath she had been holding. “You don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that. I was worried that you would compare us and find me lacking.”

Catherine shook her head. “On the contrary. I want Nevada to be happy. When Sybilla was murdered and we later learned she had been carrying Nevada’s child, he—”

“Dear God!” Honor felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck her where she sat. “A child? He never told me.” Never allowed her to comfort him for his double loss.

“Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” Catherine said softly, “but I assumed he’d told you. On second thought, I’m not surprised. Nevada is a private man who tends to keep his pain buried deep.”

Still stunned, Honor picked up her fork and tried to finish her duck, but found she had lost her appetite.

What other secrets is he keeping to himself? she wondered.

Then she remembered the night they had first made love, when Nevada had revealed his Christian name.

She gave Catherine a defiant look. “Did he ever tell Sybilla his real name?”

“Never. Even Damon doesn’t know that.” Then comprehension dawned in her eyes. “But Nevada told you.”

Honor nodded, wondering why such a small matter should make her feel so triumphant. Yet to her it symbolized a profound trust that Nevada had never invested in another, even his beloved Sybilla.

“Don’t expect me to reveal it to you,” she said with a warning grin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Catherine replied. Leaving the rest of her luncheon untouched, she set her napkin beside her plate. “I have an idea. I realize you’re a busy woman, but could you possibly take the rest of the afternoon off?”

Honor considered her schedule, remembered that she had no appointments or court appearances, and said, “Yes, I could. Why?”

“I’d like to take you on a little tour.”

Honor set down her own napkin and rose. “I’d like that.”

As she followed Catherine out of the dining room, Honor could not stop thinking of the newest secret she had discovered about the man she loved. She wondered when Nevada intended to tell her that Sybilla had been carrying his child when she died.

A little boy, one huge, dark eye swollen shut into a slit and the other filled with pain and fear, clung to his frail mother in the waiting area of the Women’s Dispensary and stared at Catherine and Honor as if they were angels.

Unmindful of her long skirt, Catherine knelt down on the immaculate floor beside them and smiled as if no one else existed. She touched the boy’s threadbare sleeve gently and said, “Why, hello, little boy. My name is Catherine Delancy. What’s yours?”

The child hid his face against his mother’s shoulder.

The woman’s tired face softened as she tenderly stroked his clean, dark hair with a chapped, work-sore hand. “His name’s John, but we call him Johnny.” She said his name proudly, as if he were a king.

“Johnny…what a distinguished name.”

Standing behind Catherine, Honor glanced around the crowded waiting area, appalled by the human suffering. Among the dozen women and children seated on chairs lining the walls was a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old, listlessly nursing an infant while another child clutched her skirts in one hand and a worn rag doll in the other. A toothless, old, white-haired woman wrapped in a moth-eaten black shawl rocked back and forth and conversed with herself, while a garishly dressed young woman with hair dyed too gold and lips painted too red stared back at Honor defiantly.

This was where Honor would find the real Catherine Delancy.

Still absorbed in the little boy, Catherine said, “Will you tell me how old you are, Johnny?” When he made no response, she frowned sadly and said, “I’ll cry if you don’t tell me.”

His mother whispered, “You don’t want to make the nice lady cry, now, do you?”

Without lifting his face from his mother’s shoulder, Johnny blindly thrust out four fingers.

“Four years old?” Catherine exclaimed. “Why, you’re the same age as my own little boy.”

Honor held her breath. How could this woman even bear to look at another child, having lost her own so tragically?

Catherine rose and was about to go over to the garishly dressed young woman when a middle-aged woman with her arm in a sling came through the waiting room door, followed by one of the dispensary’s doctors.

“…and the next time your husband beats you,” the doctor said, her tone so withering it could have blistered paint, “you’ll be lucky if all he does is break your arm.”

Honor stared. Despite her own sheltered, privileged upbringing, she wasn’t unaware of violence, a lesson she had learned from Graham’s two thugs. But she would never understand how a man could beat his own wife, someone he presumably loved.

The blonde gave a derisive snort and said to everyone present, “I’d be damned if I let a man do that to me.”

The doctor glared at her and retorted, “But you let them give you a social disease, Bessie Hayward, so don’t go turning up your nose at anyone else.”

Head bowed, the woman with the broken arm quietly walked through the waiting area and disappeared out the door, no doubt returning to her abusive husband because she had nowhere else to go or was afraid of retaliation. Wealthy women like Genevra Graham obtained divorces; poor women like this one endured.

Catherine stepped forward. “Well, Hilda, I can see that you haven’t changed.”

Hilda, a Valkyrie of a woman with iron-gray eyes that matched her iron-gray hair, stared at Catherine as if she had seen a ghost. “What in the hell are you doing back here, you fool? This time they’re going to lock you up and throw away the key.”

Incensed, Honor was about to step forward and give the rude woman a piece of her mind, but Catherine just laughed and flung her arms around the Valkyrie for a crushing hug. “It’s good to see you, too. You don’t know how I’ve missed you, old fraud.”

Then she turned and said to Honor, “You must excuse my friend here. Hilda doesn’t mean half of what she says.”

“I mean every word of it,” the Valkyrie said, stepping forward and extending her hand to Honor. “Dr. Hilda Steuben, crotchety, middle-aged doctor. And you are…?”

“Honor Davis, attorney-at-law.”

Dr. Steuben’s iron-gray brows rose. “A woman lawyer… I didn’t know there were such critters.”

“There are, but very few of us. In fact, I’m the only one in this entire city.”

Dr. Steuben said, “You’re going to have to be mean and unscrupulous to get Catherine off.”

“I won’t be representing her,” Honor said. “I’m here as her friend.”

Catherine smiled. “Hilda was born with a black cloud hanging over her head. She always expects the worst to happen.”

“And when it does,” Hilda said, “I’m never surprised.” She looked at Catherine. “Have you come to work or to talk? If you’re not going to work, you can leave, because I’m short-staffed and I’ve got patients to see.”

“I’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning.”

“See that you are. I’ll put you to work.” Dr. Steuben scowled. “I thought they would’ve arrested you the minute you set foot in New York City.”

“They did, but Honor got me out on bail.”

Hilda shook her head morosely. “Enjoy your freedom while you can.”

Honor said, “Perhaps Catherine’s attorney will call you as a character witness.”

Dr. Steuben’s gray eyes sparkled with relish. “I’d like nothing better than to butt heads with Anthony Comstock, that sanctimonious old hypocrite.” Then she said, “Well, I’ve got patients to see.”

Catherine hugged her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dr. Steuben looked at the blonde. “Bessie, you’re next.”

Just as the doctor was about to stalk off to her office, Catherine said, “Hilda, Damon sends his love.”

Dr. Steuben turned around and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Tell him to go to hell,” before disappearing through the door with Bessie.

But Catherine only laughed and said, “I will.”

Puzzled, Honor whispered, “Doesn’t she like your husband?”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Hilda doesn’t have much use for men, and there was a time when my overprotective husband tried to keep me from practicing medicine. For my own good, of course,” she added. “Let’s just say that his manipulations didn’t endear him to Hilda.”

Privately, Honor thought that Hilda was far too prickly to find anyone endearing, but that apparently didn’t concern Catherine.

“Shall we go?” Catherine said. “I have much more to show you.”

On the way out, she stopped to say good-bye to Johnny. To Honor’s surprise, the little boy looked at Catherine and waved his fingers at her. A shadow of pain passed across Catherine’s face, but she hid it behind a brave smile and tousled his hair before leaving with Honor.

“This,” Catherine said, “is Mulberry Street.” She frowned as she regarded a group of skinny, ragged children playing together next to a pile of ashes on the sidewalk. “I can see it hasn’t changed.”

Honor looked around, appalled by the tenement buildings huddled together, separated by dark, narrow alleys littered with refuse, which gave off such a choking stench that she wanted to press her handkerchief to her nose and gag. She caught glimpses of women staring listlessly out of windows so grimy that their faces were as blurred and unfocused as their lives, and she tried to ignore the hostile, resentful stares of men lounging in doorways. Catherine didn’t. She looked at every one of them and nodded as if they had just been introduced at a ball.

As they walked, Catherine said, “You’ve never been to this part of the city before, have you?”

Honor shook her head.

“When I first went to work at the dispensary, Hilda brought me down here. One of the first things she did was buy a newspaper.”

Honor frowned. “A newspaper? I thought you were going to heal the sick.”

“She told me I’d need a newspaper because in the tenements, most people didn’t have beds with clean sheets. The women usually gave birth on a pile of straw, so a newspaper was necessary to absorb the blood.”

Honor turned white. “That’s disgusting.”