Keeping Secrets (11 page)

“Hm … doesn't sound like very much.”

“I know it. However, he invited me to lunch week after next.”

“I see … well, maybe I could curry Sophie's friendship. She might not behave so stiffly next time I see her.”

He was pensive for a few minutes. “They're a little funny on the surface, but maybe it's to be expected. I've heard a story that just after the Tetzel family came over here and started farming up near Fredericksburg, there was an Indian raid. Half the family were wiped out. Their house and barn were burned, the animals stolen—they lost everything. But Tetzel is a fighter. He stayed and built it all back long before he moved here and went into banking. That calls for a strong constitution, and it's one reason I think he might be the right man to help us.”

“Sophie said they lived on King William up until a few years ago. I guess I could have another day-at-home and invite her, for old times' sake.”

“Don't worry about it yet, not till I'm sure Tetzel wants to give.”

He's shutting me out, I thought. “By the way, they didn't do the tango tonight. I was hoping they would, weren't you?”

“Hm? I—” he began, but then we both heard a loud pop and he said, “Oh, damn, we've got a flat tire. I should have had Nathan drive us.” He pulled off the road and reached for the tools, forgetting my question. For the next thirty minutes he worked on the tire, intermittently cursing, and returning once to throw his coat into the car. I couldn't resist a chuckle at his wanting of any mechanical ability, especially as I thought of Nathan, at home and probably in bed by now, peacefully sleeping.

My cunningly phrased question went unanswered.

13

Early in January of 1915, Emory made a pact with Adolph Tetzel.

As Emory explained it to me, Tetzel would lend money directly to him, as needed, to finance the revolution to put Barrista in power. Tetzel fought for stock options in Cabot Consolidated Copper in exchange, but Emory, still stubborn about giving away any of his holdings, managed to persuade him to settle for a percentage of the profits, payable as soon as the first amount was deposited into Emory's newly opened account.

At the time the revolution was successfully carried through, repayment of the loan would begin in installments over a five-year period. The period was negotiable, however, depending upon the sum total loaned. Quarterly interest on the unpaid balance would be due ninety days after the first amount was drawn.

“How long will he continue to receive a percentage of the profits?” I asked.

“As long as it takes me to repay the principal.”

“But if the mines are only turning enough profit to repay your original loan on them now, won't that put you into a bind?”

“I intend to sell some of my stock in other interests, if need be. Tetzel offered to pay off the original notes, but I declined.”

“I hadn't expected anything quite so complicated … or maybe a better word is ‘obligated.'”

“You're certainly right about that,” he said with a wistful look. “It is by far the greatest risk I've ever taken. But I am sitting on one of the richest mining districts in Mexico. As soon as we get this blasted revolution over with and I can begin producing to the optimum and picking up more properties, repaying Tetzel will be the least of my worries.”

I gave him a reassuring smile and thought with frustration, my debt probably amounted to a pittance compared with the figures he was talking about, yet as a woman, my means of repaying it were frighteningly limited.

Before the end of the month it was time for Emory's trip to Mexico. He would carry no more than would fit into saddlebags. Nathan had painstakingly typed and proofed eight copies of Barrista's lengthy Plan de Pacifica Reforma—one for Barrista, one for each of his four brothers, and three for trusted friends of the family. I was charged with sewing special pockets into the vests of two of Emory's suits. As I did so I thought of Emory charging in his rumpled clothes through the mountains and valleys on a horse, camping out at night, eating God-knows-what and smelling worse than a Mexican bandit, while his Cole Six sat quietly in its place in the garage, gathering dust.

Conditions south of the border had never been worse, with outbursts of fighting first here, then there, as Villa declared open war on Carranza. The two great leaders were reduced to a couple of fighting cocks. The American Red Cross sent a large group of volunteers down in a valiant attempt to aid the wartorn Mexico City while one self-assumed leader after another declared himself President.

The great proclamations of the ABC Conference up in Ontario now seemed pathetically inadequate, if not downright laughable, and I wondered how I ever could have been naïve enough to think their attempts at peacemaking inside Mexico would amount to anything. Down there the term ‘Provisional President' might as well have been an entrée on a bandido's lunch menu. It was hard to tell who was official anymore, even for the United States, and members of the diplomatic corps were leaving regularly, doubtless with their hands thrown up in despair if not in response to the undeniably clear orders issued from the other end of a pistol. I knew now that Emory had shown remarkable wisdom in his views on the situation all along—what would have become of the peaceable Barrista, sent down under the auspices of the ABC, to lead the country? Would he by now be drawn and quartered, a sacrificial lamb instead of a leader with a growing list of disciples?

Even so, as the day of Emory's departure neared, I wished more and more that matters could have developed any other way than behooving him to fulfill the dangerous job ahead of him. I imagined a bandit behind every bush, the nose of a gun poking through the leaves at Emory as he rode around like Paul Revere. By the time his last night at home arrived and all the work of preparation was done, I was in a fit of nerves.

To make matters worse, rain was pouring down as though from storm clouds slit with razors. I walked testily to the window as Emory flipped through an old issue of the
Mexican Mining Journal
. I wanted to tell him I never thought marriage to anyone could be this hair-raising, that I might not wait around for his return, that he was greedy as hell for going through with this nonsense, and an absolute scoundrel for presuming to leave me without him for an untold number of months.

Then I looked around at his face, the picture of outward calm, and all I could say was, “Is there any way you can get word to us once in a while?”

He closed the
Journal
and looked at me. “I'll try. I might at least get a message through when I stop at the mines. I can wire you, or tell Jones, the engineer, to write you of my safety. Maybe I can send word through Barrista. But remember, no one knows what I'm doing down there—no one here or there—and keep in mind that my safety may well depend upon that.”

“Don't speak to me as if I were a gossiping old woman. Don't you think I know that?”

He sighed. “Come here, Electra.”

“No, you come, if you want me.”

He rose and walked to the window. Lightning fractured the skies and thunder rattled the window glass. He put an arm around my shoulder and nuzzled my neck. “Emory—” I began.

“Sh. Listen … when we were kids and I walked away from Childers, what do you think kept me going for the first few long weeks? It was the thought of you, pasted against that fence, wishing me luck. I wouldn't have made it to the next town if not for that.” I shut my eyes tight. “You were the first person to ever believe in me—I never forgot that—and if you can't believe in me now I just won't make it. I know I won't.”

For a few moments I couldn't speak for fear that the confession of all my deceit would come pouring out. Finally I turned around and looked up at him. “I'll be here, Emory.”

He took my face in his hands. “I warned you in the beginning I wasn't a man just any woman could put up with.”

I managed a smile. “That statement was hardly considerable enough to cover what you're putting me through now.”

He threw back his head and laughed, then swept me off my feet and carried me toward the stairs. “Time's wasting. It will be months before I feel anything under me softer than a saddle.”

Up the stairs I held him as tightly as if some force were threatening to take him from me forever.

Three weeks after Emory left I received a letter from Barrista. I held my breath as I opened it, but relaxed as I read the first line: “Your husband passed through here—”

The letter said little else, nor had I expected it would due to the risk that it might have fallen into the wrong hands before it reached me. I read it twice, then refolded it.

He had not mentioned his daughter Aegina. I assumed she was still attending school in San Antonio, and since nothing had ever been proven of my earlier fears that she was seeing Emory, the youthful heiress appeared less of a threat just then. I was glad I escaped the confrontation with Emory which I had dreaded yet felt compelled to bring about at one time. Even now I wasn't sure she might not one day get in my way, but compared with the other threat hanging over me, she seemed a small aggravation.

Earlier in the week I had picked up a letter from Mark. He was allowing me two weeks to make a payment, and if none was received, I could then look for him at my door. I checked the date of the letter. Ten days to go. If not for this letter, so explicit in its demand, I might have been more wary of the sound of my doorbell that afternoon. I stopped just short of opening the door.

“Who's there?”

Before answering, the man cleared his throat. “My name is Richard Boscomb. I wish to speak to Mrs. Cabot on a matter of business.”

The voice was well modulated, deep, and refined—certainly not that of Mark. I felt suddenly a bit foolish. The man obviously thought he was speaking to a servant. I hesitated, and finally said, “I am Mrs. Cabot. What do you wish to speak to me about?”

“I've some literature in my case which I think might interest you, if you would allow me to come in for a short while. I won't take much of your time,” he said, still evenly.

I opened the door a few inches. Mr. Boscomb was a slight man, neatly dressed, with a small mustache. He wore a black bowler, which he did not remove, even after I showed him into the parlor. I was convinced by then he was a salesman of some sort.

He went directly to a table and opened his leather case. I pulled up a chair nearby. Now that he was inside, there was an air of pompousness about him. Certainly a salesman would have been more …

“To put it simply, madam, I am in the business of selling information, among other services,” he began without facing me. He drew some papers from his case and laid them on the table, then looked directly into my eyes at last. “A mutual friend in New Orleans has recommended that I pay you a call.”

I leaned forward then. The blood was rising to my temples. “You must be mistaken. I have no friends in New Orleans.”

He observed me for a moment, then a small smile played on his lips. “Shall we say, then, a mutual acquaintance?”

“What do you want?” I demanded.

He picked up a slim folder and handed it to me. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

I flipped through the pages of names, addresses, and telephone numbers, then handed it back. “No,” I answered truthfully.

“Quite. It happens to be peculiar in this area,” he said, then paused before continuing. “My firm is interested in establishing a network of such indexes over this and other surrounding states; ultimately, we hope, on a national basis. We are already under way in a number of strategic points along the eastern seaboard.

“We believe that as the war in Europe continues, as well as the Mexican border troubles, there will be an ever-growing market for contacts such as you see in this volume, to be distributed with the utmost discretion, of course.”

My lips felt like parchment paper. I ran my tongue over them. “What has this to do with me?”

“To put it briefly, your … associate in New Orleans … felt you could be of invaluable help in compiling information that we need, that is, contacts who might wish to participate, over a broad area which we are most eager to encompass.”

I started to interrupt, but he added, “I can of course guarantee you substantial remuneration.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where did you come from?”

He smiled pleasantly. “My work takes me to all corners of the world.”

“Well you can tell our mutual acquaintance that I am not interested. Good day.”

“But I was given to understand you are in something of … shall we say … an embarrassing financial situation just now. Temporary, of course, I'm sure.”

I rose and handed him his folder, so angry I dared not speak again.

“You might be well advised to hold on to it, madam. There may come a day when you will alter your opinion. Think about it.”

“I don't think you'll be hearing from me. Now, get out.”

He drew up his shoulders and picked up his case. At the door he turned and said coldly, “I assure you, madam, I personally will not trouble you further. Here is my card. Feel free to telephone or write to me any time. I receive messages through my office.”

I stood on the porch and watched until he was out of sight around the block, then looked both ways. Seeing no one except a group of children riding their wheels across the street, I closed the door. Then I went upstairs and slipped the two items into the rear of a drawer in my lingerie chest.

The following morning I took the Mexican-opal ensemble to a pawnshop on the outskirts of town. I was in such a state of despair that I rode all the way with my eyes fixed on the window glass, seeing nothing but a blur of shapes and colors pass by, ignoring the friendly attempts at conversation by the driver.

Since receiving the opals from Emory in December, I had tried several times to bring myself to sell them. I had even investigated a number of shops far from where we lived as possible places where I might exchange the jewelry for cash, without the risk of someone recognizing me. Yet each time I found I simply could not do it, and wound up writing a letter to Mark instead, trying to put him off, while racking my brain for another solution.