These Shallow Graves (27 page)

Jo gently smoothed a stray lock of hair from Eddie's forehead and stood up quietly. Eddie was exhausted from his ordeal. He'd probably be hungry, too, when he woke. He didn't have any food here, and it would be hours before Oscar came back with his supper. She meant to make sure he had everything he needed.

A floorboard squeaked as she crossed the room. Eddie stirred. “Don't go,” he murmured.

“I'm just going out to fetch a few groceries,” Jo answered. “I'll be right back.”

Jo rolled her sleeves down, put her jacket on, and, for the first time in her life, went shopping for household things. It was a daunting prospect, dealing with tradesman, but exhilarating, too. Out on Reade Street, she found a chemist's and bought a cake of soap, bandages and iodine, and a bottle of laudanum.

Fruit was bought from an Italian pushcart man, as was a willow basket to carry her purchases. Something called a delicatessen, run by Germans, provided her with bread, cheese, sausages, coffee, a bottle of milk, chicken soup in a tin pail—which she'd had to promise to return—and a thick slab of butter cake.

When she returned to Eddie's room, he was still asleep. She tiptoed around, putting the soup on the hearth so it would stay warm; the bread, coffee, and cake on the table; and the perishables on the cool windowsill. When she was done, she realized that she was exhausted, too. Distress over what had happened to Eddie had wiped her out.

I'll just rest for a moment,
she thought,
and then I must go home before I'm missed.

The only problem was there was nowhere to lay her head—only the bed, which was occupied by Eddie, or the hard table in the center of the room. There was a cushion propped against the footboard. She decided to rest there.

She curled up at the end of the bed, careful not to disturb Eddie, and nestled into the pillow. As she relaxed, she looked around the little room—at Eddie's coat hanging on the back of the door, his fishing rod, typewriter, and books.

What is his life like, lived here in this small room?
she wondered.
What would mine be like, living here with him?

Precarious, exciting, frugal, bohemian
—all these words flashed through her mind, but one flashed more brightly than all the rest:
happy.

We wouldn't have much,
she thought,
but we'd have each other. He'd get the job he wanted at the
World
or the
Tribune.
I'd get a job, too. He'd never stop me from writing stories—real ones—about mill girls, or the Tailor, or Fay. We'd eat breakfast together every morning at that little table, and that would be wonderful. And we'd fall asleep in each other's arms every night in this very bed, and that would be wonderful, too,
she thought, blushing. She was certain that with Eddie it
would
be wonderful. It would be romantic and tender and nothing at
all
like Grandmama's blasted spaniels.

There
has
to be a way. If Mama would only consent to meet him, she would see what a good, honest, hardworking man he is. If she would only give him a chance. But she never will,
Jo thought.

Nor would her uncle. They wanted Bram for her. She realized she would have to choose between Eddie and her family. And that choosing one would mean losing the other, and either way, she'd break her own heart.

“It
is
impossible. It's a fantasy,” she whispered. “One I should never have allowed myself to indulge in. And it's time to give it up.”

She looked longingly at the man sleeping next to her, then closed her eyes.

“If only I knew how.”

“You snore, Miss Montfort.”

Jo groggily opened her eyes.

“Like a dog,” Eddie said, gazing at her.

“I do
not
!” Jo retorted, mortified. She'd only meant to rest, not fall asleep.

“An old dog. With a bad cold. It's very attractive.”

Jo burst into laughter. “You're hardly one to talk about what is and isn't attractive, Mr. Gallagher. Not with blood leaking out of your nose.”

“Ugh. Really?” Eddie said. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. It came away red.

“I'll get you a handkerchief.” Jo rose, dug around in his bureau, and found one. As she handed it to him, she sat down again. “How are you feeling?”

“The laudanum helps,” he replied.

“I brought you more. Plus soup and bread and all sorts of tasty things to tide you over until Oscar gets here with your supper.”

Eddie smiled. “That was very kind of you. Thank you,” he said, then turned serious. “Speaking of Oscar … as soon as I'm able to, I'm going to nose around the city's hospitals like he suggested, to see if I can spot our man.”

“Please be careful. Promise me you will,” Jo said.

“I promise.”

“I'm going to try a new tack, too,” Jo said. “I thought about it while I was out shopping.”

“What is it?” Eddie asked.

“Ernst and Markham, Maritime Insurers. They're the firm that guarantees all of Van Houten's ships and most of the rest of the vessels that come in and out of New York. When I spoke with my uncle, he said he didn't know anything about the
Bonaventure.
He told me that Van Houten didn't own her. But I wonder if perhaps she belonged to Geert Van Houten, the man who sold the firm to my father and my uncle. He's dead, but Mr. Markham would know. I just have to come up with a good excuse for going to see him.”

“I'm sure you will,” Eddie said. “I've also been mulling a visit of my own to the Owenses' house. Maybe Eleanor didn't hide the manifests in her room. Maybe they're in the basement, or the attic.”

“And just how do you plan to get into their house?” Jo asked.

“Haven't quite figured that out yet,” Eddie admitted.

A nearby church bell tolled the hour.

“Two o'clock?”
Jo exclaimed. “Is it
that
late?” She started to get up, but Eddie caught her hand.

“Stay with me, Jo,” he said.

“I can't, Eddie. I've got to get home before I'm missed.”

“No. I meant stay with me today. And tomorrow. And every day after.” His voice was serious; his eyes were, too.

“If I did, my mother would send the police, if not the army, to fetch me home,” Jo said, trying to keep her voice light and teasing, trying to keep him from veering into dangerous territory.

“Jo, I'm not joking. I mean it. I'm in—”

“Eddie,
don't.
Please,” she said, scared that he was about to say something she desperately wanted to hear, and desperately didn't. She would have to make a choice if he pressed her, and she couldn't.

She kissed his lips, sore as they were, stopping any more words. Words would make whatever was between them real. And as soon as it was real, it was over.

“I've got to go,” she said. “I'll write you. And I'll try to get back here if I can.”

She gathered her things, kissed him one last time, then headed for the door.

“Eddie,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “You promised me you'd be careful. Don't forget that.”

“I won't.”

“The man with the scar … What if he comes after you again?”

“I'm not afraid of him.”

“After what happened, maybe you should be,” Jo warned.

Eddie shook his head ruefully. “He can only break my ribs, Jo,” he said, “not my heart.”

Letter to Mr. Reginald Markham, Ernst and Markham, Maritime Insurers, 116 Fulton Street, Brooklyn,
from Miss Josephine Montfort

November 10, 1890

Dear Mr. Markham,

Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Josephine Montfort. I am the daughter of the late Charles Montfort. I am writing to ask a favor of you. I have decided to write a history of Van Houten Shipping and wonder if I might pay a call at your premises to ask you a few questions about some of the firm's more illustrious ships.

With the recent loss of both my father and Mr. Richard Scully, I wish to preserve the story of the firm, and the contributions of its founders, for future generations. I hope you will agree with me that this is a fitting tribute to the memories of both men.

Yours sincerely,

Josephine Montfort

Invitation to Miss Josephine Montfort from
Mr. Abraham Aldrich

Mr. and Mrs. Peter Aldrich

cordially invite you to a birthday supper

in honor of Mrs. Cornelius Aldrich III

Saturday, November 15, 1890,
at seven o'clock in the evening

1 East 65th Street

November 10, 1890

My dear Jo,

Your mama's already been sent an invitation to Grandmama's party, but I'm sending one especially to you. Do come. It's only meant to be a small affair, so the etiquette police won't come after you. Ask your mother. If she says no, ask your uncle Phillip. If he says no, ask Mr. Theakston. But come.

Yours,

B.

Letter from Miss Edwina Gallagher to
Miss Josephine Montfort

November 11, 1890

Dear Jo,

I took a page from your book and flimflammed my way into the Owenses' house. Told Chuckles the butler that I was an inspector for the gas company. Searched the entire basement. Got soot in my eyes and spiders down my shirt, but I didn't get the letters. They may be safe under the heavens, but they're not in the basement.

EG

Letter to Miss Josephine Montfort,
26 Gramercy Square, New York,
from Mr. Reginald Markham

November 11, 1890

Dear Miss Montfort,

Please accept my condolences. Your father was not only my client, but also my friend, and I deeply mourn his loss.

I think a history of Van Houten is a most worthy project and would be happy to assist you in any way that I can. Would Thursday at eleven a.m. be convenient?

Cordially yours,

Reginald Markham

Brooklyn isn't very lovely,
Jo Montfort thought,
but it
is
exciting.

From her vantage point on the deck of the Fulton Street ferry, she could see scores of ship's masts poking up through smoky skies, as well as train tracks and boxcars, delivery wagons, barrels of beer, sides of beef, tea crates, fish, flowers, and furniture.

She smelled the salt of the ocean on the breeze. Black pepper wafting from a warehouse. Tar. Pickles and pretzels. Coal smoke. And the sharp scent of roasting coffee.

As the ferry nosed into its slip, her fellow passengers hurried toward the exit, eager to disembark and get to their destinations. Jo, however, lingered, not wanting her first trip across the East River to end, happy as always to be smack in the middle of all that was exciting, instead of shut away from it.

She wasn't supposed to be here. Her mother never would have allowed her to take a ferry across the East River. She was supposed to be at the Astor Library back in Manhattan. That was where she said she was going. And she
had
gone there—Dolan had driven her—but she'd left as soon as he'd departed and hailed a cab to the ferry.

That she'd gotten out of the house at all was due entirely to the plan she'd recently cooked up—that she would write a history of Van Houten Shipping. It was a brilliant idea, if she said so herself, and had been found acceptable by her mother, though she'd needed some convincing.

“A history of Van Houten?” she'd said with a frown, after Jo had broached the idea. “Why?”

Jo had explained how she wished to write down the firm's origins before all recollection of them was lost. Her father's and Mr. Scully's memories had been lost with them. She wanted to make sure their contributions were not.

“And when I'm finished with the history,” she'd said, “I intend to make a gift of it to the remaining partners and their families, but I'd first like to present it as a special gift to Uncle Phillip. He's done so much for us since we lost Papa. I don't think we can ever adequately thank him, but I hope this will be a start.”

Her mother had softened at that, as Jo had known she would. Like Jo herself, she thought the world of Phillip and was grateful to him and to Madeleine for their many kindnesses since her husband's death.

“Well, you
do
have a facility with words,” her mother allowed, “and I'm sure your uncle and the other partners would be very pleased to receive such a gift.”

Jo had been thrilled but hadn't wanted to show it in case her excitement spooked her mother and caused her to change her mind.

“Eventually, I'll interview Uncle Phillip and the other partners,” she said evenly, “but I'd like to introduce the history with some background on the rise of New York as a port city. May I go to the Astor Library to do a bit of research?”

“But that's all the way downtown. And it's Katie's day off. You'd be by yourself,” her mother protested.

“It's a library, Mama, not a saloon,” Jo pressed. “I need some work to do. I'll go mad otherwise.”

A shadow had crossed Anna's face at the word
mad.
Jo had said it on purpose, trading on the hope that Phillip's warning about morbid thoughts undoing sensitive minds had made an impression on her. Apparently it had, for she'd responded immediately.

“All right,” she'd said. “But be certain to sit in a well-lit area. I don't want you to develop a squint, Josephine; it's most unbecoming. Dolan will drive you there, and he'll fetch you back at four sharp.”

Jo was so glad she could have danced around the room. Getting out of the house, at least during the day, would be a little easier now.

Jo disembarked from the ferry and walked up bustling Fulton Street, checking the numbers on the buildings. She walked for a few minutes before spotting Ernst and Markham's premises. As she entered the building, a clerk greeted her, then told her that Mr. Reginald Markham had been called to a meeting in his partner's office but would return to his own momentarily. In the meantime, Master Clarence Markham, his grandson, would be glad to escort her upstairs.

Clarence Markham appeared then, as if on cue. He was about twenty-five, Jo guessed. Plump and blond, with a bristly mustache, he reminded her of a walrus.

“Miss Montfort, what a pleasure it is to meet you,” he said, ushering her upstairs and into his grandfather's office. “My condolences on your father's passing.”

Jo thanked him and allowed him to take her coat and hang it on a wall hook. She was shown to one of two chairs in front of the large walnut desk. Tea was brought by the clerk who'd greeted her; then Clarence sat down next to her.

“Now, Miss Montfort, tell me all about your little project,” he said. “Perhaps I can be of some help. I can explain the insurance business, if you like. It's very complicated.”

“That's very kind of you,” Jo said, endeavoring to move her chair back slightly, as their knees were almost touching. “But I was rather hoping to speak with your grandfather, as my questions pertain to the acquisition of Van Houten ships made quite a few years ago.”

Clarence leaned forward and patted her hand. “You can ask me. I work on Van Houten's policies. I'm quite familiar with their vessels.”

Jo was annoyed by the pompous Clarence, but it looked as if she was stuck with him until his grandfather arrived. She forced a smile, removed her gloves, and took a fountain pen and notepad from her bag. “If I'm not mistaken, the very first ship was the—”

“Before we begin,” he interrupted, “may I say how well your dress becomes you?” Clarence's eyes traveled over Jo's body and came to rest on her chest.

Jo blushed, embarrassed. She'd worn her best black day dress and had taken a great deal of care with her hair. Now she wished she had not. “Thank you, Mr. Markham,” she said, trying to mask her discomfort.

“One doesn't get to admire many of the fairer sex here at the docks.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. I believe the firm's first ship was called—”

“Insurance is a demanding taskmaster, Miss Montfort,” Clarence said earnestly. “My duties afford me little time to cultivate friendships with young ladies. I imagine you have just the opposite problem. A girl as pretty as you are must have many beaux. Are you engaged?”

Jo was appalled. “No, Mr. Markham, I am
not,
” she said, her blush deepening. “About Van Houten's ships—”

Clarence leaned closer. “Then may I be so bold as to hope I have a chance?”

Jo flattened herself against the back of her chair. “Mr. Markham, if we might discuss a ship. Any ship.”

“Of course, Miss Montfort,” said Clarence, with an oily smile. “How about
court
ship?”

Jo was stunned speechless. Clarence patted her hand for a second time. His palm was damp. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. His foot was touching hers. And then, to Jo's horror, he began to inch his toe up the side of her boot.

Jo didn't know what to do. Men of her world did not behave in this manner. But she wasn't in her world now. She badly wanted to call Clarence Markham a cad and take her leave, but she imagined telling Eddie she'd had the chance to learn about the
Nausett
and didn't take it because she was frightened off by an errant foot.

Two can play these games,
Jo thought. She took a deep breath, raised her own foot, and stamped it down hard on Clarence Markham's toes.

Markham yelped and shot back in his chair.

“I'm so sorry,” Jo said in a tone that indicated she was anything but. “Something ran over my boot. A rat, I think. How will I explain to my uncle that I made young Mr. Markham lame? He will ask how it happened, and I shall be so mortified to tell him.”

Markham blanched. “Oh, there's no need, Miss Montfort,” he said quickly. “Not on my account, I assure you.” He pushed his chair back a bit. “Now, about those ships …”

Jo smiled, satisfied. “Yes, Mr. Markham. About those ships.”