The next morning the New York Times proclaimed that the Tammany candidate had lost, in spite of the bully boys’ intimidation and bribery tactics. The editorial hoped for a brighter future in a city free from corruption. Unless they’d elected St. Patrick himself, I doubted that would come to pass. The gutters were full of discarded rosettes and trampled bunting.
The world went back to normal and work went on at Mostel and Klein, one day blurring into the next. Each night I came home wondering how much longer I could keep going and why the heck I was putting myself through this torture. Then the next Monday’s post brought a second letter from Major Faversham (retired). It was a fat packet containing a photograph of a lovely girl in a ball gown. The photo had been tinted so that the gown was light blue and her hair was a soft light brown. The gown was low cut and she wore a locket on a velvet ribbon at her neck and carried a fan—every inch the daughter of privilege. Another photo fell out of the envelope, this time of Katherine in hunting attire, on horseback. The young man holding the bridle was looking up at her—a good-looking example of Black Irish, not unlike Daniel’s appearance. He was younger, taller, and skinnier than Daniel but with similar unruly dark hair and rugged chin. It didn’t take a genius to guess that I was looking at Michael Kelly.
I read the accompanying letter:
I have enclosed two good likenesses of my daughter. The groom is, of course, the scallywag Michael Kelly. He is the most reprehensible young man. When he was caught poaching on my estate I took pity on his youth and had him trained to work in the stables. He proved himself good with horses and could have made something of his life if he had learned to be content with his station. Instead he became a rabble-rouser, a so-called freedom fighter, and was arrested for attempting to blow up the statue of Queen Victoria in Dublin. Again I spoke for him, and hoped that my lecture would make him mend his ways. It did not. Again he was implicated in civil unrest and, not content to flee the country, persuaded my young, impressionable daughter to flee with him. Heaven knows if he plans to make a respectable woman of her or if she is ruined forever.
You can see why my case is so desperate. If we could bring her home and manage to hush up this whole sordid business, she would still have a chance of a normal life in society. She is but nineteen years old.
I can only presume that he took her with him, hoping to get his hands on her fortune. She will, indeed, inherit a considerable sum when she turns twenty-one, but at present she is as penniless as he is. If she has any money at all with them it would be from the sale of some minor pieces of jewelry she took with her.
As to friends in America—we have none. Most of Katherine’s life has been spent in India, where I had the honor to serve Her Majesty in the Bengal Lancers. She is completely unused to fending for herself and I am in grave fear for her. I urge you to put the full facilities of your enterprise to this commission and find our daughter as soon as possible.
I am in this matter, your obedient servant,
Faversham
I reread the letter with satisfaction. At last I had something to sink my teeth into. Katherine had come to New York penniless. That meant there was a good chance that she was still here in the city. Now that I had photos I would start to track her down. My main problem was when. How could I track down Katherine Faversham if my days were still spent in a dreary sweatshop, with no end yet in sight? Indeed Max Mostel hadn’t even completed the designs in question, so there was nothing to steal. And every day my frustration was boiling up, ready to explode. I wasn’t at all sure how much longer I could continue to hold my tongue.
That very day Paula Martino, the young pregnant woman, had risen from her chair and was creeping toward the exit when she was spotted by Seedy Sam. “Where do you think you’re going now?” he demanded.
She gave him a shrug and an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I gotta go.”
“You gotta go, all right,” Sam bellowed. “Get your things. You’re outta here. The boss don’t pay no stinking girls to waste his time powdering their noses.”
“No, please,” she begged, her face white and strained. “I’m sorry. It’s only until the baby—it presses down so and then I can’t help it.”
“Listen, kid, I’m doing you a favor,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t be allowed to bring no squalling baby in here anyway. Buy yourself a machine and start doing piecework from home.”
“Buy myself a machine?” Paula demanded, her face flushed and angry now. “How you think I buy myself a machine, huh? You think I got gold hidden under my bed, huh? I got two kids to feed and a husband who can’t find work and you say buy myself a machine?”