Words Spoken True (4 page)

As they proceeded on toward Mrs. Wigginham’s house, the air in the carriage seemed to be running out, and Adriane began to feel faint. She kept watching Stan as his words bounced off her ears and wondering how in the world she would be able to live the rest of her life with him. The rest of her life.

Perhaps she would be glad for the babies to come and bring her the chance of escape through death. Henrietta had once told her that Adriane’s own mother had embraced death the night Adriane was born. That she had wanted to die because she knew Wade Darcy deeply regretted the day he had married her. It was a lie. Not that her mother had died giving her birth, but that her father had regretted their love. By this time Henrietta’s every thought had been darkened by the bitterness of grief. She had lost three babies, and Wade no longer went to her bed. Adriane had only been ten, but she had known. As Henrietta sometimes told her before shoving her in the dark closet under the stairs, Adriane always knew too much.

But now Adriane did not know enough. What did she really know about this man sitting beside her? What did she know of marriage? Worst of all, she knew no other choice. For a few seconds she couldn’t breathe. As she fought to keep from gasping for breath, she fingered the carriage door handle and considered throwing it open. She needed more air.

She forced herself to breathe in and out slowly. It would not do to fall apart in front of Stan. With effort, she pushed the fluttering panic back into a dark corner in her mind and took control of her emotions. She might be swept away in a flood toward the altar, but she could at least try to swim a little to see if she might make headway against the force of the current.

First she would talk to her father that afternoon before any official announcements were made. Maybe there remained a chance she wouldn’t have to be swept away to the altar at all. Her father had always been one to see reason. Adriane would just have to come up with some very good reasons not to marry Stanley Jimson, or at least not marry him so soon.

Adriane made herself smile over at Stan and really listen to what he was saying about the house his father was planning to build for them. When he paused to take a breath, she said, “But doesn’t it take a long time to build a house? Perhaps September will be too soon for the wedding. We could wait until next spring.”

“Don’t bother your pretty little head over such things, Adriane. We are to live with Mother and Father until the house is finished.”

“They have agreed to that?” Adriane wasn’t able to keep a hint of disbelief from her voice.

“Of course. Father is very pleased with the whole arrangement. He likes you very much.” Again Stan looked at her in a way that made Adriane want to shrink away from him before he went on. “He was the one who suggested perhaps it would be best if I consulted your father first.”

Adriane frowned a bit. “Your father scarcely knows me.”

“But he thinks you are lovely. As you are, my dearest.” Stan caressed her hand with his thumb. “He and your father have become very close as they’ve worked together building up the American Party here in Louisville.”

“Father has been attending a lot of their meetings, but he doesn’t say or even write much about what goes on there.”

“Of course not. The party leaders feel it is better if we form our policies in secret.”

“But why?” Adriane asked.

The American Party had been gaining strength in Louisville, and her father was sure their candidates would sweep the city elections next month. The party, dubbed the Know Nothings by a New York editor because of the way members claimed to “know nothing” when asked about the party’s aims, did have a few stated objectives. The members took an oath to vote for no candidate who was not a native-born American and they favored a twenty-one-year wait for immigrants to become citizens.

Coleman Jimson, who hoped to be the Know Nothing candidate for state senator in the August elections, had been courting the
Tribune
’s support for months. So now Adriane waited for Stan’s answer with considerable interest and hoped he wouldn’t simply laugh at her question about politics as he sometimes did.

For the moment, he seemed to forget she was a woman who could not possibly understand nor be interested in anything political as he explained. “No battle was ever won by the general riding over to the opposing general and spreading out his battle plan in front of him. And this is a battle. Those of us who are true, native Americans have to fight against the influence of the immigrants who haven’t had time to learn the ways of our great country. We have to make sure the country is preserved for those who founded it, for those who have fought in her wars.”

His words echoed a bit in her mind as she remembered one of her father’s recent editorials stating almost the exact same sentiments. It bothered her that she didn’t know who was parroting whom.

She said, “The Irish and Germans just want a place to live and work.”

“But at what cost to the true American? We cannot allow the city to be controlled by men who would answer to their pope before they would answer to their president.” He glared over at her, the flush back in his cheeks.

“Do you think the pope tells them how to vote?” Adriane asked.

Instead of answering her question, he laughed as he said, “You do have a way of turning a conversation, Adriane, my sweet. A moment ago you have me down on my knees in a carriage, of all places, proposing, and the next you’re plying me with questions on political matters you can’t possibly understand. Sometimes I think you only do these things to tease me.”

Adriane bit back the other questions she had. She wanted to know more, but she had to be circumspect in gathering political information to use in her Colonel Storey letters. No one knew she was Colonel Storey. Certainly not Stan or her father. Sometimes she thought Beck suspected, but he’d never said anything. A woman wasn’t supposed to bother her pretty head in regard to anything political. Not only was it unseemly, it was rumored that the strain of thinking on such matters caused madness in females.

At least Colonel Storey could survive her marriage to Stan. She could still send his letters to the
Tribune
, and there would no doubt be more gatherings, more chances to overhear bits and pieces she could form into letters from the opinionated colonel.

She managed to smile over at Stan, but her smile faded when he began to look her over as if she were a new pacer he hoped to acquire for his carriage. “You look lovely as always, my sweet, but I do hope you will get some new gowns with a few ruffles and of a more comely color, say a soft pink or yellow. And perhaps you should keep your gloves on today.”

Adriane held her tongue with effort as her determination to talk to her father before the evening grew stronger. Perhaps there was yet a way out of this dilemma. But as Stan kept talking, her heart grew heavy, and she felt the floodwaters sweeping her off her feet again.

B
lake Garrett hurried along the street, trying to avoid anyone’s eye who might want to talk. He was usually more than willing to stop and pass the time of day with people on the streets since it was one of the best ways he’d found to gather information, especially from those who disagreed with the editorials and stories in the
Herald
. That is, as long as they weren’t waving a gun or knife about.

Blake tried to avoid those kinds of encounters and hadn’t done too badly since coming to Louisville six months ago. In fact there had been so few run-ins with angry readers that Chesnut told him he must not be getting enough fire in his editorials.

But today he kept his eyes on the street in front of him. He was already late for Mrs. Wigginham’s Library Aide Society meeting. When he’d first promised Mrs. Wigginham the
Herald
’s support of her worthy cause, he’d thought she would be satisfied to send him a letter telling of the proceedings, which he could then publish in a prominent place in the next issue of the
Herald
. But no, she’d insisted he must personally attend the meeting if he wanted to remain in her good graces.

Dear Mrs. Wigginham. She might smile and bat her eyes as if she were still a young belle of eighteen instead of well into her sixties, but Blake recognized power when he saw it, whether it was in the social arena or the political one. Someone not in Mrs. Wigginham’s good graces would not find himself invited to important social gatherings. Someone not in her good graces wouldn’t have much chance of becoming a respected editor in the town. So Blake was rushing along to her house even though he’d much rather be digging for news out on the streets.

Of course the old lady was also an indefatigable matchmaker. She’d no doubt have some friend’s sweet-mannered daughter lined up to make cow eyes at him today. Blake sighed at the thought. When he’d tried to tell Mrs. Wigginham as diplomatically as possible that he was much too busy with the
Herald
right now to give the proper attention to the fairer sex, she had delicately touched her lace handkerchief to her lips to hide a smile while claiming that men always gave their attention to the ladies. It was their nature. She was simply trying to help him meet and attend to the proper young ladies.

When Blake edged past a pile of crates in front of Simpson’s Candle Works, water splattered down on his head from the eaves still dripping from an early morning shower. He ran his hands through his black hair to shake out the dampness. He’d left his hat somewhere again. Probably in one of the taverns down in Shippingport, but there was no time to go back for it now. He had to make his appearance at the meeting not only to appease Mrs. Wigginham but also because he was sure Wade Darcy of the
Tribune
would be there. The Library Aide Society might not be sensational news, but it was becoming a matter of honor to Blake that Wade Darcy not beat him to any story.

Blake smiled a little to himself. Darcy would have seen a copy of the
Herald
by now and would know Blake had scooped another headline story. Blake had picked up a copy of the
Tribune
down in Shippingport that morning. There was no mention of the murders in it at all. Instead its columns had been filled with political news, readable and important enough, but not the kind of thing a man had to read first thing in the morning even if it made him late to work.

Wade Darcy had had things his way for a long time in Louisville. Too long. The
Tribune
still had the highest circulation of the dailies in the city, but it wouldn’t be long before the
Herald
caught up. Blake was beginning to think he might pass the
Tribune
in another month, at least three months ahead of the schedule he’d originally set for himself when John Chesnut, the owner of the
Herald
, had hired him on as editor. Chesnut rubbed his hands together with glee and laughed out loud every time Blake reported the rising sales numbers to him.

Chesnut, an editor of the old school, didn’t always agree with what Blake printed, but he gave him a free hand.

“As long as you keep nipping at Wade Darcy’s heels, you can print stories of frog fights, for all I care,” he’d told Blake even while shaking his head at the first murder story. “But son, are you sure folks are going to want to read this? I mean, it’s not as if the poor girl was exactly a lady, and she was Irish besides. You know how most of the folks in this town feel about the immigrants.”

“They’ll want to read it,” Blake had assured the old man.

And they had. While plenty of people thought the stories more than a little scandalous, they read them. There were those who accused Blake of reporting the details of the murders for the sole purpose of increasing the
Herald
’s circulation, a position Wade Darcy was glad to expound on. Just a couple months back the man had written an editorial attacking Blake for his “insensitivity and impropriety.”

Worse, Darcy had hammered home to his readers the fact that Blake was a Northerner. Not something that would endear Blake to many of Louisville’s finest citizens who liked to think of themselves as Southerners. Blake blew out his breath and recalled Darcy’s words.

While New York City might have no standards of decency ruling its editors, Mr. Garrett might do well to remember that he presently abides in the South where gentility and consideration of our fair ladies’ high sensibilities are much more to be considered than how many newspapers this type of sensationalism might sell.

Blake had always been able to remember most anything he read word for word. A blessing for a newspaperman, his father used to say. Or a curse when a man wanted to forget. Not that Darcy’s words bothered Blake all that much. Readers would be disappointed if the editors didn’t sling a little mud at one another in their editorials.

Plus it was hard to be convinced of Darcy’s sincerity when a rehash of that first murder story in the
Herald
had been on the
Tribune
’s front page in the very same issue as the editorial.

Blake frowned now, thinking about that first murder. At the time, he’d thought it was a freak happening. The girl had been pretty and young, and though no one would come out and say it in so many words, she’d probably been making money the only way she could to help her family eat. Nobody had been too worried about it. A girl like that had to expect a bad end, and certainly nobody had thought it would happen again.

But it had. Twice now, with the poor woman found last night. Even the police were beginning to pay some attention to the murders. That morning, he’d stumbled across Sergeant Wentworth actually asking questions down in the latest victim’s neighborhood. Blake thought with satisfaction that at least part of this newfound interest in keeping the law even in the Irish communities was due to his reporting of the crimes.

Blake didn’t care what people thought. He hadn’t written the stories only for the shock of the headlines. A woman getting murdered, whether she was considered a lady or not, was something that should concern the authorities, and three women murdered should be enough to set the whole town on its ear.

He had known this last woman. Kathleen O’Dell worked at the Lucky Leaf Tavern where Blake often stopped for a meal when he was down along the riverfront nosing about for stories. While the poor girl hadn’t exactly been a beauty, she’d been pleasant enough and always quick with a wink and a laugh in an attempt to stir Blake’s interest.

“Aye, twill be the lucky girl that ever catches your eye, Blake Garrett,” she said the last time he’d seen her. “Or perhaps it is you already have a proper miss somewhere a-waiting for you. But there’s plenty who need a girl not quite so proper as well.” She raised her dark eyebrows and brushed her body close to him in invitation. “I could show you a good time.”

“Just bring me my meal, Kathleen. Just the food,” he told her with a laugh. “You know a newspaperman doesn’t have any money left for fun after he has to pay for leads to his stories.”

Little did he think that two days later he would be paying for news of her death. The ragged Irish boy had come banging on the door to his offices after midnight the night before. They’d already run the first issues, but when Blake heard what the boy had to say, he’d shouted to Joe to stop the press. They’d pulled half the front page out of the galley, and Joe had waited while Blake set the new type, composing the story on the spot.

Then, to be sure the story was genuine, Blake had gone down to the riverfront where he’d made himself look at what was left of Kathleen O’Dell. As he’d stared at her mutilated face, a cold resolve hardened inside him to do everything in his power to bring the woman’s murderer to justice.

Kathleen and the other two murdered girls might not have been ladies, but they didn’t deserve to die like this. He’d use the
Herald
to push that at the mayor and the chief of police in every way possible until there were some results. And in the meantime, he’d search for his own clues. People sometimes told a newspaperman things they’d never tell anyone else if that man asked the right questions.

That morning, he’d hunted up all his regular contacts to get some leads on what those right questions might be, but even the people who usually made up some kind of tale rather than have nothing to say seemed to be at a loss when it came to the murders. It was becoming too apparent that no one had the first idea as to who the murderer was except the poor girls who could not tell and the murderer himself, who wasn’t likely to admit to the heinous crimes.

So there was no one to accuse or even suspect. Worst of all, the killings seemed to be on some sort of schedule, about a month apart. Blake was determined to at least bring enough attention to the murders to make the monster, whoever he was, hesitate to strike again. Blake already had the death of one young woman on his conscience. He didn’t relish having another.

Blake frowned as the noise of the street faded away. He didn’t like to think about Eloise Vandemere. Pretty, silly Eloise. Blake might even have been foolish enough to marry her if her father hadn’t deemed him such an unsuitable suitor.

Her death shared no similarities to the deaths of these poor Irish girls. Eloise had been a lady. That fact more than any other had been the reason Blake had no way to see that those who caused her death were brought to justice. He couldn’t even be sure he shouldn’t share in the blame.

Blake pushed thoughts of Eloise away. He could do nothing for her now. He’d had his chance before her death and failed her. He had to live with that and someday meet his Maker with that dark spot on his soul, but dwelling on it wouldn’t bring Eloise back to life. He had moved on. Left New York behind and begun over.

Louisville was a new town, with new people and new problems. And he was a new person, nothing like the young pup who had imagined himself in love with Eloise. He’d landed on his feet with John Chesnut and his
Herald.
Some might call it luck. Pure, blind luck that had Blake knocking on Chesnut’s door the very day the doctor had warned the old man to quit chasing the headlines if he wanted to keep breathing.

That was all right with Blake. If he could draw only one card as a newspaperman, then luck might be the best card to draw. It had served him well that day. Made Chesnut give him a second look. Ended up with him being an editor, the one who could decide what would be printed and what would not. A level of newspapering it might have taken him years to rise to in New York.

At last he saw Mrs. Wigginham’s stately brick house down the street. Carriages surrounded it, but a quick check of his watch told him he wasn’t overly late. He shoved the watch back in his pocket and straightened his lapels before he ran his fingers through his dark hair again. His last-second grooming did little good as his hair fell back into the same lines with a few curls lapping down on his forehead. He brushed at a bit of dirt on his trousers, checked his shoes for mud or worse, and bounded up the steps where a black servant opened the heavy wooden door before he had a chance to lift the brass knocker.

Mrs. Wigginham’s large double parlor was full of ladies in frothy yellow, pink, and blue dresses with here and there the dark suit of a gentleman among them.

Mrs. Wigginham advanced on him the moment he stepped through the door. “Ah, Mr. Garrett, I’m so pleased you managed to work my little benefit into your busy schedule.”