The Widow's Secret (11 page)

A soft, dry sob escaped, the sound jarring in the tomblike silence of the Brocks' garden. Unnerved, Jocelyn froze. Nothing happened, no heavenly visions or even another chilly breeze brushing her face; wearily she rose and started back for the house.

Halfway along the brick path her ears caught the faint sound of voices, her nose the faint whiff of tobacco. Horrified, Jocelyn weighed her options. The only way back into the house was through the solarium, where she would probably encounter whoever was enjoying a smoke. One or more of the servants, or someone in the family? Regardless, Jocelyn abruptly decided that her best defense lay in the presumption of innocence.

She couldn't sleep; she'd come outside for a breath of fresh air.

That was the truth, after all.

The shawl covered her almost to her knees; her night robe lent her sufficient modesty. Perhaps she'd challenge their rationale for lurking about the garden at two o'clock in the morning. Mind set, she made her way back up the path, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering.

The cloud passed, and a dozen paces from the French doors Jocelyn was able to pick out the dark silhouettes of two men. Something about their posture, or perhaps their very presence, sent a shiver unrelated to the cold down her spine, and she ducked behind some sculptured boxwood shrubbery. Confrontation might not prove to be a wise option after all. Call her a coward, but eavesdropping struck her as safer.

Except when the men resumed talking, she was too far away to hear more than a few words.

“…not much longer…”

“…careful…don't want the…to suspect…”

“…my cut…”

A malevolent laugh, then silence. Then came the sound of footsteps scraping softly over the bricks, headed not toward Jocelyn, but in the opposite direction.

Their words, their secrecy—meeting in the middle of the night—indicated far more than insomnia. Her personal misery was forgotten in a leap of excitement over the possibility that she might be inches away from learning the identities of at least two of the counterfeiters. Determination swept away caution. Since she hadn't been able to identify their voices, she would have to identify them visually. Jocelyn stepped back onto the path and sauntered toward the French doors as though she were returning from an evening stroll about the grounds. She caught sight of only one of the two men, who for some reason was making his way toward the back of the garden.

Jocelyn wouldn't risk following him, but if she hurried she might catch enough of a glimpse to recognize the man who had gone back into the house. But as she darted across to the French doors, the man who had headed into the garden stopped, half turning around. Moonlight streaked across his face.

It was Benny Foggarty.

“A
nd I don't know whether or not he saw me,” Jocelyn finished.

For several moments Micah didn't respond. Instead, troubled and silent, he watched Jocelyn sip the mug of cider he'd ordered for her in this streetside café, praying the shock of her news hadn't shown on his face.

Their day's excursion was to have been a pleasant drive in the Brocks' victoria, via the ferry to Staten Island for a picnic. By the time they neared Fulton Street, however, a bitter northeastern wind had sent the temperature plummeting into the forties, turning the sky a bleak metallic gray. Since the light phaeton wasn't equipped for inclement weather, after a final glance at Jocelyn's cold-tipped ears, Micah leaned forward to instruct the driver to return to the Brocks'. As he started to speak, a folded piece of paper was pressed urgently into his palm; after reading the note, without altering his tone Micah instructed Jones to drop them off at St. Paul's Chapel.

Moments after the victoria disappeared into the tangle of traffic, he whisked Jocelyn and himself through the chapel
and along to the busy intersection at Park Row, a terminus for horsecars as well as streetcars. They climbed aboard a crowded streetcar, and several tense moments later he tugged her off, then ushered her onto the Third Avenue El. Not until they reached the Bowery did Micah allow himself to relax, convinced he'd shaken off the two men who had shadowed his and Jocelyn's every move for weeks.

He had discussed their ubiquitous presence with Jonathan Tanner, his assistant, who maintained a connection for Micah with both the Operative-in-Charge at the New York office, and Chief Hazen. All agreed that ignorance of the shadows remained Jocelyn's best protection, so until now he hadn't mentioned them.

Jocelyn's revelation changed everything.

Restlessly, not for the first time Micah scanned the sea of humanity, praying nobody would think to look in the Bowery for the impeccable widow Bingham and her millionaire Southern beau. A hotbed of iniquity, the district bulged with concert saloons and bawdy houses. Garish street signs lured the unwary into a world of vice, while sharpers and hawkers and thieves preyed upon immigrants and rebellious sons of robber barons alike. Above this raucous humanity the El clattered day and night. Counterfeiters had flourished in the Bowery for over thirty years, though courtesy of the Service, arrests had dramatically dropped in the past few years as word spread: arrests led to convictions, which led to prison.

Until his transfer to the nation's capital, Micah had tracked down a number of suspects in the Bowery. In the process, he had discovered that even in this notorious district a flower or two like the tiny streetside café flourished among the weeds.

With a frigid and unforgiving wind in their faces, after leaving the El he had ushered Jocelyn through the narrow
doorway into Castelli's. They managed to secure a small table in a back corner, which provided a modicum of privacy.

But the intimacy Micah had hoped for had just been shattered by Jocelyn's news.

Benny Foggarty, in league with someone at the Brocks'?

“Micah?”

He managed a reassuring smile. “I heard you. I'm thinking. Sometimes it's a laborious process.” Humor briefly lit her anxious eyes. “If you'll finish your cider before it's cold, and give me a few moments, we'll talk, all right?”

“All right.”

Micah watched her shoulders droop, watched her hands wrap around the thick earthenware mug as though clinging to a buoy in a raging ocean. Every instinct clamored for him to hustle her as far away from the Brocks as possible.

The fact that he was thinking like a suitor instead of an operative disturbed him on a profound level.

“I need to share something with you,” he finally began, and steeled himself.

“You have to leave, I know,” Jocelyn put in hurriedly. “It's all right, Micah. I knew last night, when I saw Ben—” She blinked, then in a flurry of movement scooted her wooden chair closer to his. When she resumed speaking, the words emerged low and strained. “I'm concerned for you, Micah. It's too risky for you to stay in New York any longer.”

A boisterous family crowded into the front of the café. Red-cheeked and windblown, with waving hands and staccato Italian they greeted customers and the two serving girls in a wash of bonhomie that rippled through the room, except for one table in the far corner.

“In fact—” Jocelyn gestured toward the family “—now would probably be the best time for you to leave. You can slip through that group who just arrived. I know you were making
sure nobody followed us here, but hiding within a crowd also seems a prudent tactic. I'll find my way back to the Brocks' while you—”

“Shh.” He clamped a firm hand over hers, stilling the restless movement of her fingers. “I'm beginning to think you've forgotten who's the professional operative here.” Jocelyn's expression didn't change. Micah abandoned his feeble attempt at disguising anger with humor. “What have I ever done to make you think I could waltz away to save my own hide, and leave you undefended?”

“Because you
are
the professional operative,” Jocelyn pointed out with infuriating logic. “You have an important job, a vital job, to ensure these villains are brought to justice. If something happens to you, they'll be the ones waltzing away.”

Outraged, he demanded, “And what about
you?
” She sat there in her elegant walking suit, the epitome of wealth, of privilege. Even her hat with its ridiculous netted veil marked her as a cultured, sophisticated woman. She didn't belong here. He never should have brought her here. He should have taken her straight to Grand Central Terminal and sent her—Where? Eyes burning, he planted his palms on the table and leaned forward. “You plan to ‘find your way back'? Explain that Mr. MacKenzie's a blackguard who abandoned you in the Bowery? In the first place, they wouldn't believe you.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “The Mr. MacKenzie they know would never dream of treating a lady in such a reprehensible manner, not when he's made his intentions obvious.”

“I'd think of something. I'll tell them we argued, and I left you.”

“Well, you're half right. We are arguing.” Shaking his head, Micah gently squeezed her rigid hand. “Jocelyn, trust me, please. Nothing is going to happen to me. But now more than ever, I'm concerned about you. You've played your part
beautifully, not even a trained operative could have performed as well as you these past weeks. But now is not the time to change our script.”

“I didn't change the script, as you quaintly put it. Benny Foggarty did.”

“I know.” Why, of all times, did Pinkerton's have to require Alexander MacKay's services elsewhere? “Remember when I told you that someone would always be watching over you, even when I wasn't with you?”

After a moment she gave a terse nod.

“That person is a private detective who agreed to help us out. But two days ago his services were required elsewhere. Due to budgetary constraints…” In the past the words had left a perpetual sour taste in his mouth, but not fear. Not until today. He finished bluntly, “We don't have the manpower to replace him.” He knew his assistant would take over for MacKay, but Jonathan's reassignment would leave Micah himself unprotected…which would ultimately endanger Jocelyn even more. “Your only contact now is me.”

“I thought,” Jocelyn said, “when you said someone would always be watching, that you were talking about God.”

No other woman in his life could flabbergast Micah like Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham. She might as well have hopped on top of the table and belted out a ribald ditty. “God is always watching over you,” he acknowledged in a husky voice. “But I didn't think you'd want to hear that, much less want to know that I pray for you—every day.”

She turned away so he could not see her face, sitting with the absolute stillness that always wrenched his heart. It conveyed an arid isolation devoid of human contact as well as divine. Micah wanted to remind her how faith had preserved his sanity, and healed his own loneliness. But for some reason, each time the need to open himself up reached a
boiling point, where words burned his tongue with blisters, something had restrained him.

Micah rotated his head in a vain effort to relax. Not something, he reminded himself. Someone. Someone Whose timing was always perfect, Who deserved respect, and—regardless of Micah's own inclination—patience.

So once again he swallowed the words, and waited.

Jocelyn turned back around. “I haven't wanted anything to do with God,” she concurred wretchedly, “because it hurts too much. I know you don't understand.”

“You might be surprised by how much I understand.”

He would have said more, but at that moment the jabbering family converged around the nearby tables, recently emptied, and commenced the noisy process of seating themselves. One of the women selected the chair a scant twelve inches from Micah. A baby was draped over her shoulder, swaddled in bright colored blankets. Jostled when his mother sat down, he groggily opened his eyes, lifted a wobbly head and stared straight at Micah. Drool spilled from the corner of a perfect rose-petal-pink mouth, which suddenly widened into a cherubic smile.

Oh, God. Father…the pain
…Would the pain ever cease tormenting him? Catching him off guard with its randomness, its cruelty? But God understands, he repeated to himself, as he had repeated over and over throughout the past six years. God Himself had endured the death of His Own Son.

And gloried in His resurrection.

It's different, Lord.
Somewhere buried within the pain, anger flashed, quick as sun glinting off a sword, then vanished. Oh, yes, he longed to shout the words, he understood more than she could possibly realize.

But his throat was locked, and the hypocrisy of his own heart mocked him.

Gradually, he realized someone had taken his hand, that someone was speaking into his ear, words whose meaning he could not decipher but whose sweetness soothed his soul. With an effort, he tore his gaze from the baby and found Jocelyn almost plastered against his side. Her lips brushed against his ear as she talked, and the soft syllables collected themselves into coherent sentences.

“…and I know the sight of a baby can still awaken the sorrow, even after all these years. Micah? It's all right. The woman's handed the baby to someone at another table. Can you look at me instead? I…It hurts me to see your face, and know that…” When she realized she had finally gained his attention, she pulled back a little but did not release his hand.

“Know what?” Micah finally managed to unlock his clenched jaw muscles enough to ask. Like a dying man he clutched Jocelyn's fingers. Instead of a tiny head with a tuft of downy black hair, he tried to focus on Jocelyn's dainty, aquiline nose beneath the annoying veil. But this time the pain would not be silenced. “How could you possibly know what it's like to lose your own child, and every time you see a baby, to remember how your own looked, waxen and still….”

Her eyelids flinched, but she did not retreat. “I can't know your pain, Micah. Nor can you know mine. How could
you
possibly understand what it's like to be a woman who will never experience the joy of having a child at all? Who is scorned and pitied because she's barren, and who'll never know whether or not it's true.”

With a jerk Micah hauled himself back from the quagmire of self-pity. “Jocelyn, forgive me. I had no right to say what I did.” He turned his chair so that his broad shoulders shielded them both from the rest of the patrons. Glancing down, he saw that he was still holding her hand, probably crushing it. “I'm sorry,” he murmured as he began massaging her fingers
one by one. “Like you, I have dark spells. Charred spots on my soul, I call them. They flare up less frequently than they used to, but I never know when one's going to scald my throat.” His voice thickened. “Babies, and small children…they're precious, innocent. Gifts from God. Most of the time these days I can celebrate new life. Sometimes…” A long breath shuddered through him. “But I do know it's difficult, to keep trusting Him when—I'm sorry,” he repeated.

“I am, too.” She lifted her free hand and rested it on the bunched muscles of his forearm. “All these years, I've felt as if I'd been locked inside a cage and abandoned. So I raged against life. Blamed God for all the pain I'd had to endure when all I'd ever done was try to be a good person. Then I saw…I saw…” She stammered a bit before finishing in a rush, “When that baby smiled at you, I saw your face. And listening to you just now, I think you're still fighting to free yourself from your own cage, aren't you? When we first met—for the second time—your faith angered me. You were so sure of yourself, sure in your faith. Even when you told me about your wife and son, you still blindly believed God cared about you. I didn't want to like you, Micah.”

For some reason the last confession lit star points inside him that twinkled in the darkness. “I never would have guessed. Now you know a struggling sinner lurks behind the self-assured believer.” He thought she smiled, but the lighting was dim, their corner shadowed.

Then she said hesitantly, “I think my anger's fading a bit. I'm…I think I'm confused, instead of angry. Does that relieve you?”

If she sensed a mustard seed's width of his feelings she would not use a word like
relieved
. He brushed his index finger against a fold of the veil. “Jocelyn…will you shove this thing out of the way? I want to see your face clearly.”

“What? But it's transparent. I can see….” Shaking her head, without further protest she lifted the veil from inside the high collar of her shirtwaist and pulled it over the brim of her hat. “It is a frivolous bit of fashion, isn't it? But I like the hat itself. The feather makes me smile, because the first time Katya saw it, she asked me if ostriches were really green.”