It was all there, had I chosen to read between the lines: Matthew’s impetuousness, his disregard for proper etiquette, the entitled expectation that I would do whatever he asked—even a joking reference to the inner despair that would take me so long to truly understand.
Yet all I saw was an invitation into a world I thought forever denied me, a world of luxury travel and hovering servants and notes dashed off on extravagantly expensive stationery. What had begun as a lark—a challenge to see if I could catch Matthew’s attention—had taken a more serious turn. I’d been dreading our arrival in New York, when I’d be out of a job and forced to start fresh. I’d thought about staying on in the city, but a future as a shopgirl or secretary already felt like defeat. I remembered Matthew’s face as he stepped closer to me by the shuffleboard court, the mix of apprehension and hope in his eyes. Why not go to Chicago? I had nothing to lose.
I brought the card up to my face and brushed it against my lips, breathing in the scent of the paper and ink and imagining Matthew’s fingers skimming against the page. I already knew what my answer would be.
Yes.
CHAPTER TWO
I’d known, from as far back as I can remember, that I had to make my own luck. I may have come from nothing, but that wasn’t how I intended to end up. My mother always told me that getting in good with a rich family was the easiest, best way to pull myself up from poverty. She’d done the opposite and paid a heavy price.
Ma was seventeen, pregnant, and penniless when she married my father, Brian “Binny” O’Meara. Not a promising start, and things went downhill from there. Binny was a drunk, a gambler, and a fool; if he’d been any two of those things, we might have scraped by, my mother liked to say, but all three? Our family was doomed. The little money he earned went straight to whiskey and cards, and his few, rare winnings never made it back home. When she asked him for money to buy milk, he hit her. Until the day he went too far and the anger she’d held in came hurtling out in one burst of rage—one strong enough for her to plunge a knife into his stomach.
I don’t remember it happening, though I was there. I was later told I’d crawled right through the puddle of blood that seeped across the floor. I was sent to Aunt Nellie’s while Ma was in the asylum. Those two years left me with only faint impressions of floury aprons and murmured voices, of warm hands tucking me and my cousins into bed. A real home. But Ma got better and took me back, vowing to make a fresh start. She was still young. She might have done all right, if she’d gone about things differently. But Ma never did think beyond her next meal, or mine. Her moods made it impossible to hold down a regular job, and she was too proud to fall back on her older sister’s charity. Ma’s stubborn that way.
Eventually, Ma turned to the kind of work any girl can do if she’s pretty and not worried about eternal damnation. When her “callers” came to visit, she’d scoot me under the kitchen table and tell me to stay hidden behind the oilcloth. I’d hug my ragged stuffed bunny and wonder about the grunts and howls I heard from the bedroom, thinking it was some kind of game. When I was older and knew better, I would go out to the back porch when her visitors came so I wouldn’t have to hear them. It was rough in the winter, swaddled up in her winter coat and mine, but it was better than being inside. Even when it was just Ma, spiraling down into one of her moods, I’d escape to that porch, put my hands over my ears, and swear I’d get out.
Ma wanted me to get an education, but only as a means to an end. At college, she told me, I’d meet the right kind of man, the steady, dependable sort who wouldn’t desert his wife in favor of a bottle or slap her around for speaking her mind. By the time I was twelve, Ma had saved enough to send me to St. Anne’s, a snooty Catholic boarding school where eagle-eyed nuns kept a close watch on the students’ virtue. I’d never amount to anything as an Irish cook or laundress named Kathleen O’Meara, Ma said, but if I started copying the St. Anne girls, I’d improve my prospects. I was enrolled as Katherine Moore, and Ma told me to put the word out that my mother was an invalid who wouldn’t be making any visits. When no one questioned my story, I discovered I was good at lying.
A talent that served me well in the years to come.
My roommate at St. Anne’s was an orphaned girl named May, who was being supported by the church. She’d lost her parents but not her faith, and she liked to say that God would provide. I couldn’t help thinking that God didn’t seem all that concerned with my day-to-day life on earth, and he’d certainly never provided anything for my mother. No, I thought, I will provide.
Now, my perseverance had paid off. I’d impressed Matthew Lemont, a man so rich I’d never have to worry about money again.
I had doubts, of course, before stepping on the train. I had sent a note back to Matthew accepting his offer and telling him I’d be staying at the Knickerbocker with the Headlys, but I hadn’t seen him during the following three days of fretting and second-guessing. Our only communication was a brief message sent to my room informing me where and when I should meet Matthew at Pennsylvania Station.
I made no mention of Matthew when I told the Headlys I was going to visit family in Chicago, and I was equally cautious in the telegrams I sent Ma and my cousin Blanche. Mr. Headly looked surprised when I told him I’d already booked my ticket, but he wished me luck and gave me an extra fifty dollars, most of which I spent at a Fifth Avenue boutique recommended by the hotel’s head porter.
Staring at myself in the mirror in my new dress, shoes, and hat, I faced up to the enormity of what I had agreed to: traveling halfway across the country with a man I barely knew. Aunt Constance’s warning echoed in my mind, and I wondered if I was making a terrible mistake.
Too late to turn back now, I told myself. Don’t look; just leap.
By the time I got to the station the next day, I was afraid Matthew might have changed his mind. What if the attraction he’d felt toward me was nothing more than a shipboard flirtation? I saw him, waiting on the platform. Though he had favored loose linen jackets on board the ship, he wore a precisely cut dark-blue suit and had liberally applied pomade in a vain attempt to tame the natural wave of his golden hair. He raised his hand in greeting. I hurried forward and was suddenly aware that I had never stood face-to-face, almost eye-to-eye, with such a striking man. He looked charmingly relieved to see me.
“Kate.”
“Mr. Lemont.”
There it was, in a simple greeting: the unalterable gulf between our stations in life. He smiled, amused, and said, “Matthew. Please.”