“Swear nothing. You lie for a living, like he does. Save us both the trouble.”
I opened my mouth to answer back, and she hissed at me, flat out hissed. The tears pricked at my eyes again. If my work was carving out a little life, without a husband and children, was even that little life to be judged so harshly?
All I could do was meet fire with fire or crumble under her scrutiny. When I stood, I was a half head taller than her, and I tried to use that.
“What a lovely little song you sing,” I said frostily. “It’s so nice that you have something.” Then I swept past her and walked back to join the party, wanting to vomit, and not because of the punch.
? ? ?
I sought and found DeForest a handful of minutes later, holding court in the corner with half a dozen other operatives, telling a story of a woman who wouldn’t stop pursuing him, which no one else in the room seemed to suspect for the grand fiction I knew it must be.
For a while, I watched him, considering. He was a good and kind man. He would not judge me for the woman I was, because he knew what I did, and it was no worse than what he did. He even respected me for it.
I knew also that my face was not the kind of face that inspired instant devotion. Charlie had made sure I’d known it, and though his opinion was only that of a fool and a sot, it had sunk in with repetition. Men were hardly lining up to lend me a new last name. I hadn’t been born a Warne, but without a miracle, it seemed I might die that way.
And there was more to consider. If I were married to DeForest—he would make a striking groom, wouldn’t he?—would that keep me safe from the jealousy of women like Joan Pinkerton? Could it be my safeguard against the men in the office who assumed I’d been having an affair of the heart with Pinkerton for years now, simply because they couldn’t imagine my skills and capabilities were enough to earn my success?
I knew I would be safety for him, that no one would suspect his secret if he were squared away with a wife. He would have to be careful with his activities, of course, but he’d managed to keep them quiet so far. We could protect each other. Keep each other safe from what we both feared.
I stared at his profile for a long time.
His story came to an end, and his laughter was echoed by the laughter of the men around him, and he caught my eye.
I beckoned him away and spoke quietly and quickly, hoping not to draw attention. Our conversation was short.
“I can’t,” I said to him.
He searched my face with those warm brown eyes, eyes that made other women melt. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“You can think about it a while longer, you know.”
“Not necessary. It makes no sense for me. I’m sorry.”
I excused myself, smiling a little so no one would remember me upset, and left the party shortly afterward.
It was all lies, in any case. I didn’t reject his proposal because it made no sense. I rejected him because it made too much. If I didn’t say no right away, some time spent pondering it might be enough to convince me to say yes. I was already far too close to the edge. I might think too much about Joan Pinkerton’s jealousy, my own barrenness, the utter lack of love in my life that gave someone the confidence to declare that love wasn’t even a possibility. One more log on the fire, one more cup of punch, and I might have given in.
I wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
Chapter Thirteen
Springfield
Love makes fools of us all. If I had an inkling of what that meant after Philadelphia, the lesson was hammered home in Springfield.
The railroads had never fully recovered from the Panic, but they had managed to find a new equilibrium, especially our friends at the Illinois Central Railroad. I rarely worked with the railroad—DeForest and Paretsky were our train experts—so I was surprised when Pinkerton summoned me to his office one morning and told me to pack a bag for travel. I was even more surprised that he didn’t tell me where we were going or why. But he did tell me that our train would be leaving in just over an hour.
Waiting for him at the station as directed, pacing under the high arches of the grand, curved windows, I felt uneasy. For a lousy reason, but it wouldn’t be denied. As masculine as they acted otherwise, the men at the agency gossiped like old biddies at a picnic. Word would quickly spread that the boss and I had gone off somewhere together and stayed overnight. I still couldn’t shake the rumors of our love affair, though I was getting very good at ignoring them. I chose not to care. And if it scared me at first how easy it was to make myself feel differently about something by simply deciding it, I decided I could ignore that too.
When Pinkerton hailed me, though, there was nothing in his manner beyond the usual friendly, businesslike air. We stepped aboard the train and seated ourselves on the red cushions of the banquette. Pinkerton waved off the porter and stowed our bags on the rack above our heads himself. Quickly, we were underway.
As we rode, he briefed me on the situation. I knew the parties involved or at least the parties we would be meeting with: the vice president of the Illinois Central Railroad and a lawyer who worked with them, mostly on tax matters. Money was missing from the company’s account, and they suspected embezzlement, Pinkerton told me.
“How did they find it out?”
“I want you to hear the story firsthand. The lawyer will tell you.”
“Which one’s the lawyer?”
“The scarecrow. Lincoln. Acts the country bumpkin but sharper than ten tacks.”
“And why is he involved?”
“They want someone from outside the company. He has access to the books easily, and he understands them. All the vice president, McClellan, has is a hunch.”
“So what are we to do?”
“Not we. You. I haven’t got the time. You’ll be working directly with the lawyer on this.”