Authors: Rachel Cartwright
She rushed by Edward at the open door. “Rebecca, is something wrong? Did Mr. DeRocha threaten you?”
Rebecca stopped and turned. “No . . . but how did you know?”
“I was watching through my study window. I won’t allow anyone to speak to you like that.” He closed the door.
Rebecca stood in the middle of marble foyer and smiled. How like Edward to want to protect her even when she could take care of herself. More of a silent protector than a friend and almost twenty years older than her, Edward had always been there, watching and waiting, like a loyal servant from years gone by. This was, of course, part of his duty as her uncle’s personal assistant, but he never hesitated to do her bidding whenever she asked. “Does my uncle wish to speak with me?”
“He asks that you see him in his study in a few minutes.” Edward glanced back at the door. “Are you certain that you were not accosted by that man?”
Edward’s attention was always fixed on her eyes, never wavering or glancing down at her bosom as most men, including Bret McGowan, were apt to do more than once during a conversation. “I’m preparing our meal and wondered if you’d like to eat with us. Or, if you like, I can bring something later to your room.”
“Thank you, Edward. That’s very kind of you. I’ve been so busy lately it seems I haven’t sat down to a proper meal in days. I’m absolutely starving.” She smiled at him and brushed back her crisp, red hair. She touched her cheek, reassuring herself of the familiar composure on her face.
“Then I’ll see you at dinner. I do my best to enjoy your uncle’s stories, but . . .” He coughed politely into his cuff. “He speaks much about your mother, his sister, Annabel, these days, and I think it better for all that we talk more of the future . . . and what it holds for all of us. Don’t you agree, Rebecca?”
She laughed. “You’re right. There’s so much more we need to talk about. I apologize for being so distant lately.”
“I look forward to that.” He stepped closed to her. Rebecca glanced away, aware of the flush rising under her skin. “Do you remember, when you were a little girl, how much we enjoyed singing together?”
She covered her laughter with her hand. “You mean our wailing and screeching while you strummed on my uncle’s broken banjo? Lord, he kept that from the war.”
Edward gazed out the window. “Three strings. The fourth broke, and I never fixed it. You said it sounded better.”
“Why not buy a new one and practice? I would so much like to sing with you again.”
He turned and smiled. “Yes, I would like that, after I finish the work your uncle has given me.”
“You could visit the shops tomorrow and stroll along the boardwalk. This is a beautiful city, and you’ve seen so little of it.” Rebecca bit her lip, feeling suddenly very forward and risqué. “Edward Wallace, how do you expect to attract a lady’s fancy if you hardly ever stray outside these impenetrable brick walls?”
Edward stepped away from her. “Paint and perfume . . . is that what you think I want?”
“I’m not suggesting you visit a brothel. The Society attracts women of only the highest social standing. Isn’t that in keeping with my uncle’s philosophy . . . and yours?”
“Your uncle says that in India female children are fed to the crocodiles.”
Rebecca slapped his upper arm playfully. “What a terrible thing to say. I don’t believe such nonsense for a moment, and neither should you. My uncle likes to pull the wool over our eyes sometimes.”
He coughed again and covered his mouth. “I apologize, but you know how some people can be. Always looking for something new to gawk at and whisper about.
“Then all the more reason to step out and let people see what a wonderful man you are.” Rebecca touched him gently on his cheek. “Only the finest woman will do for our Mr. Edward Wallace.” She giggled, turned on her heel and hurried toward the stairs.
Rebecca watched Uncle Cade sit down on his chair behind the heavy oak desk in his private study. The rectangular window behind the desk admitted the rays of the moon that mingled faintly with the flame of the single kerosene lamp burning on the corner of the desk. Several texts and notebooks lay open on the desktop, evidence of his unflagging hard work and dedication to the Society’s mission.
“You should use an electric lamp for your desk, uncle,” Rebecca suggested. “It would be easier to see.”
Her uncle shook his head. “Natural flame is easier for my eyes. Your generation is so used to everything becoming electrified these days, but I find the light harsh and unnatural.”
Rebecca remained standing, looking at the spines of the stacked books on the wall bookshelf to her left. There were many unfamiliar titles on topics she wished to know more about: zoology, philosophy, Eastern mysticism, economics, and evolution.
“Uncle, there’s still so much I don’t understand.”
“In time, my dear. You need to have a clear grasp of the world’s fundamentals before you reveal the details of a new God.”
Rebecca ran her index finger down the spine of a thick volume entitled ‘Eugenics: Policy and Responsibility for a New Century.’ She skipped over to the next, ‘Comparative Phrenology.’
“I’ve read where phrenology has been largely discredited. The size and shape of one’s skull—”
Her uncle banged his fist on his, desk shocking her with its force. “In all my born days. You interrupted my work to debate the continuing relevance of one scientific method? There are others . . . more exacting, and still others waiting to be discovered. Questions will be answered down at the most fundamental cellular level of our being.”
He stared out his study window. “The coming century will be your generation’s time and that of your children where all these truths will be revealed. I thought you understood.”
Rebecca backed away from the desk. “I . . . I didn’t mean to argue, only the man outside, Mr. DeRocha, mentioned something about yesterday afternoon.”
The change of expression on her uncle’s strong, lean face was immediate. A thin, curved smile stretched its way across his taut features. “Sit down, child. Sometimes you’re like a squirrel running back and forth on a tree branch.”
She obeyed and sat down on the wood chair on the other side of the desk. She raised her gaze and met his. “Miss Caldwell and Mr. DeRocha? I don’t understand.”
Uncle Cade looked down at the open pages of the text in front of him as if trying to find something of importance buried in the pages. “There is no mystery here, my dear, I can assure you.” He raised his head again. “I wanted to meet Miss Caldwell for myself to see if she was as exceptional as I had been led to believe by her father and her friends. You know how important it is to attract the proper caliber of person to our cause.” He lifted the cover of the text and slammed it shut. “In particular, women.”
Rebecca folded her hands on her lap. “Mr. DeRocha is under the impression that you spoke to her on his behalf about some very personal matters . . . and that she may have misconstrued something you said.”
Her uncle chuckled and shook his head. “It is Mr. DeRocha who has misconstrued my words,” he corrected. “He has fastened his hope to something that can never be; his engagement and marriage to Gabrielle Caldwell.”
He tapped his fingers on the book cover. “For all the young man’s family’s wealth and prominence, Arley Caldwell would never allow such a union to take place. Any man with a less than desirable background could never marry into a refined bloodline such as the Caldwell’s.”
Uncle Cade slammed his fist down on his desk again. “Only a malicious idiot hell-bent on destroying the perfect opportunity afforded by nature and fate would think to poison the water of life from another man’s well.”
Rebecca jerked back in her chair. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm herself. She pushed her chair back a few inches and straightened her skirt. “Then, if I may ask, uncle, what was your intention to meet with Miss Caldwell in such a manner?”
Uncle Cade folded his arms across each other and leaned forward on the desk. “I may be an older man, Rebecca, but I am not an old man. Do you understand how important the difference is to me and the work we must accomplish?”
Rebecca felt her cheeks flush. She glanced away to hide her embarrassment of knowing there was no proper reply that a young lady could articulate to such a question.
Uncle Cade leaned back and grinned. “Why so shocked, my dear? I have waited a long time to find a woman perfectly suited to help me demonstrate to the world the truth of the words I speak, for after all”—he lifted his head and sat upright in his chair—“the ultimate power and sway of an idea among the teeming masses is only effective if it can be realized in front of their eyes; be turned into something alive, something they can see, touch, and feel.”
Her uncle rose from behind his desk. He stepped over his black grand piano and commenced to play. The sweet, melodic stream of a Chopin waltz bathed Rebecca’s senses, consoling her with its beguiling charm and innocence. She relaxed and sank back in her chair, parting her lips to speak, but having nothing more to say.
Her uncle slowed the tempo and danced his agile fingers across the keys with a feathery touch. “The doctors didn’t say that my war wound would prevent me from fathering children . . . only that it would be difficult.” He finished the piece and gazed at Rebecca.
“Are you sure, uncle? Is she really the right one?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“And what of Mr. McGowan?”
Her uncle let the piano fallboard drop with a reverberating smack against the keys.
“I have made enquiries. Within a few days I will know all that I need to know about Mr. Bret McGowan, but in the meantime . . .” He stepped over to his bookshelf, ran his index finger along the spines until he stopped at a thin leather-bound volume, and pulled it out. “Did Mr. McGowan visit you as I anticipated?”
“Yes, just as you said he would but why did you tell Edward not to answer the door?” She looked down at her shoes. “Mr. McGowan asked me to attend church with him tomorrow.”
Her uncle grinned. “Good . . . and will you continue to do as I’ve asked?” He opened up the book and flipped through the pages. “Edward requires a few more days before I have all the facts at my disposal, then I will finalize my plans.”
Uncle Cade returned to the piano and began another piece. The somber tone and haunting melody were unfamiliar to Rebecca. “Have you discussed your intentions toward Miss Caldwell with her father yet?”
He closed his eyes as he played. “You haven’t answered my question, my dear.”
Rebecca’s pulse quickened. Uncle Cade had been the only father she had really known since her parents died and all he was asking was to charm Bret McGowan until such time as . . . what? She didn’t know but she would have to trust him as she always had. “Of course, Uncle. Anything you ask.”
“Splendid,” he answered without looking away from the piano. “Arley Caldwell is one of my most devout followers. When I am certain the seed of my logic has taken root then all I will have to do is offer Gabrielle the water and light and to make it grow.”
Rebecca pursed her lips and stood. “Is there anything else you wish?”
“Yes. There is an empty medicine bottle on my desk. Please make polite enquiries at the city pharmacists as to the supplier. I’m not familiar with the brand or medicinal contents.”
Rebecca turned and spotted a small, brown bottle at the back corner of the desk. “Are you ill, Uncle?”
He laughed and increased his tempo. “Quite the contrary. I’ve never felt more vital and alive in my life.”
She picked up the small brown bottle and noticed the cap was missing. “Then . . . where did you get this?”
Uncle Cade did not reply for a few moments. “Did Edward tell you how beautifully you sang last night at Mr. McGowan’s ball?
Rebecca blushed. “No, but why should—”
Her uncle dismissed her question by finishing the piece with a single, thunderous chord. He opened his eyes and gazed at her, gleaming with an inner ferocity, an embittered force so penetrating in its depth, she felt transfixed under its power. “Now, listen carefully, for everything depends on what you do and say next. I will be away on Tuesday and Edward has been instructed to . . .”
Rebecca picked up the brown bottle carefully as though handling a vial of poison. Her uncle’s words drifted on the air like the voice in a dream.
“Alcohol will hasten the effect. One more week is all I ask, then my business with Bret McGowan will be finished . . . forever.”
Rebecca looked up and shivered at the dark menace in her uncle’s eyes, a piercing force that chilled her soul more than the singular purpose of his unyielding judgment.
CHAPTER 13
Sunday, September 2
After the service was over, Gabrielle tried her best to engage in light-hearted banter and gossip with her friends outside St. Patrick’s church, but her mind was still filled with the self-satisfied face of
that
woman—and in church of all places!
Has he no decency?
She glanced up at the top of the tall brick steeple and snickered as she imagined a certain gentleman having an unfortunate accident should a certain lady happen to stumble and mistakenly push him out of the belfry.
The friendly, talkative congregation lowered their voices. Everyone turned to watch Bret emerge from the church with Miss Rebecca Armstrong at his side. Gabrielle couldn’t stop herself from glaring at the pretty red-haired woman in the shapely dark blue skirt and white blouse.
Lord, and she’s at least five years younger than you . . . or more.
Bret escorted Rebecca to a waiting buggy with the silent and grave Mr. Wallace at the reins. As Bret helped her up the steps, the younger woman turned and arched her brow at Gabrielle as if giving notice that Bret would be paying attention to her now.
The driver pulled gently on the reins and the brown mare trotted forward. As the buggy departed, Rebecca glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Gabrielle.
Feeling a sudden weight in the pit of her stomach, Gabrielle sighed and stared at the ground.
You have no reason to feel like this. He’s not yours anymore and maybe . . . he never was in the first place.