Girl in Disguise Page 10

  Had I been her all along, and the good girl I thought myself the real disguise?

  Chapter Twelve

  A Little Life

  Mere hours after I returned from Chicago, I found my position so changed, I felt I was in a dream. From my solo ride of anguish and confusion, I went to the most extraordinary spectacle: a Christmas party at Allan Pinkerton’s house.

  I had only ever seen the outside of the boss’s house, and that only a few times. He was not a man who advocated mixing pleasure and business, for obvious reasons. I remembered, years ago now, tailing him home while I practiced my surveillance skills. He had returned all three nights to this tidy clapboard house on Randolph. Now, I suspected he had known of the surveillance and simply refrained from mentioning it to me out of politeness. I wondered what he thought of me, then and now. He was not a man given to great displays in my experience.

  When I entered, the party was in full swing. I took the measure of the room quickly and located the boss surrounded by smaller figures. Two boys and two girls.

  His children. There was one girl in her teens, looking somber but excited, and two slightly younger boys, who seemed antsy and uninterested in the goings-on. Then there was a much smaller girl, pink-cheeked to match her pink dress, flounced and ruffled within an inch of her life.

  I had never thought of Pinkerton as a father, though I knew he had a family. I knew also, from office gossip, that there had been a handful of tragedies and not all of his children had survived to the present day. But there was never any reason for him to talk about them, either the living ones or the dead. After all, I was the one who was tested when we played truth or lie; he never told me stories in return, and so I knew next to nothing about him. Strange, considering he was probably the person who knew me best in all the world.

  Then the music began. It was inexpressibly odd to hear a reel being played while looking at the faces of men I’d only seen acting criminal, not to mention the petite women and round-cheeked children scampering about among them. The fiddle soared, the man with the bow sawing away with great vigor, and for a while, I only watched his face. The music faded away. His expression told the tale. Perhaps that was another skill I could add to my repertoire, this silent pantomime, this kind of energy.

  Then I let my gaze slide away from the fiddle player, surveying the room, and what I saw astounded me.

  Allan Pinkerton had grasped the hands of his smallest daughter, the pink one, and was scampering in circles in an uneven, galloping gait. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

  It put a smile on my face. So he was a man after all and not a machine for solving crimes. Perhaps we could all be like that: intellects in real bodies, living our lives as full people. Perhaps there was hope for me after all.

  A familiar voice behind me said, “He’ll always be theirs, you know.”

  Familiar—and unwelcome. I knew who it was without turning. “I don’t know what you mean, Mortenson.”

  “You know it very well, Kate,” he said. He stood at my left shoulder, and when I didn’t turn to look at him, he took two steps to face me, head-on.

  Not moving, I corrected him. “Mrs. Warne.”

  “Was there ever really a Mr. Warne? Can it be proven? Or is it a fig leaf to conceal your lifelong solitude?”

  There was a small reddish stain on his starched white collar, just to the left of center, and I fixed my gaze on it. Angry and exhausted, I wanted so badly to tell him the entire truth about Charlie, about how our marriage started and how it ended. A tale of blood and wrongdoing. Maybe that would silence his taunts. But I did my best to emulate Mrs. Borowski, her even temperament, and the calmer soul within me prevailed. If I told, the truth would only become a cudgel he could use against me. The best I could do was give him nothing.

  Instead, I said, “I assure you, I’m a true and happy widow.”

  He was dogged. “And were you a happy wife?”

  “Happier than yours, I’m sure,” I said. In truth, I knew he was not married, nor had he ever been. But the silence that greeted my rejoinder suggested I’d struck home.

  At that moment, Graham DeForest swept to my rescue in a festive moss-green frock coat and contrasting burgundy vest, a cup of punch borne high through the air in each hand. He bowed and handed mine over, smiling broadly under his impeccable mustache.

  “Welcome back!” he cried. “Just in?”

  “Just.”

  “Wouldn’t be a shindy without you.”

  I inclined my head royally. “My pleasure, kind sir.”

  He stepped back and inspected me, nodding in approval. I was wearing the only dress in my closet that wasn’t wrinkled and musty from disuse, a striped mint-green taffeta with pagoda sleeves.

  Then he looked at our cups and at Mortenson—just seeming to notice him now, though of course, he wasn’t—and said, “Sorry, Jack, didn’t think to get you one.”

  “I don’t drink spirits.”

  “And therefore have you none,” he said. “But I jest!” He clinked his cup against my cup and gestured to the dancing, bending his head close to mine, effectively shutting Mortenson out of the conversation.

  The neglected man slipped away. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him for just a moment—never comfortable in conversation, not anyone’s favorite, always the odd man out. But his absence did help me breathe a bit easier, and I took a grateful sip from my cup. I watched him without turning my head; our detecting skills always came in handy, even in an atmosphere like this one, which might not seem to call for them.

  After a few minutes, Mortenson joined a circle of conversation that included Tim Bellamy, who had an unusually dainty young lady decorating his arm. I couldn’t help but stare at her. Her gown was made of a deep pink silk with five flounces, lovely and clearly expensive. Ribbons ornamented her sleeves. The waves of her jet-black hair, parted in the center and beautifully styled into broad loops, gleamed in the light above her silver, bell-shaped earbobs. Most remarkably, she looked up into Bellamy’s face with an open, rapt gaze. I nudged DeForest.

  “Is Bellamy married?”

  He glanced over with a subtle motion. “Affianced, I believe.”

  “Good for him, then.”

  “Won’t last. They never do.”

  The idea of upright, stony Bellamy as a serial fiancé struck me as slightly ludicrous. “He’s been engaged to be married before?”

  DeForest laughed. “Not him in particular. It’s the work. Late nights, too many secrets, never able to talk about anything or build a life in private. We belong to the work first and foremost. Everything else comes second or not at all. The other person never understands.”

  “Seems like Pinkerton’s wife does.”

  “The exception to the rule. And he’s the boss—he’s not out on cases day and night. It’s different for us. When an operative is involved, marriages don’t last.”

  Softly, I said, “Even if you were interested in such things.”

  “Actually, I’m strongly considering it.”

  It was the last response I expected to hear from him, given his situation, which he now knew I was aware of. I dropped my voice but kept my tone casual, in case anyone was listening. We both looked straight ahead, watching the dancers. It made the seriousness of our conversation feel less ponderous.

  “But why?”

  “People ask fewer questions. Wife at home, nobody wonders. You understand?”

  “In a sense.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, still looking at the dancers and not at me, “I’ve thought about proposing to one woman in particular.”

  “She was still married.”

  “Good God, Kate, not Cath Maroney, that hotfooted harlot. I’m not a fool.”

  “Aren’t you?” I teased.

  His mouth turned up at the corner. “Perhaps.”

  �
�So who’s the mystery lady? A wealthy widow?”

  “A widow, yes. Not so wealthy but very intelligent. Perhaps the most level-headed woman I’ve ever known.”

  “She sounds like a peach.” I was staring at Bellamy’s fiancée, just a slip of a girl with a worshipful smile on her rosy pink lips, and wondering if Graham’s intended was as lovely.

  He continued, “But I wasn’t sure whether you might consider getting married again.”

  Realization took a long moment. I heard what he said, but I didn’t understand it. Then it dawned on me, what he was asking.

  A proposal. A backward, strange, left-handed proposal of marriage. From a man I knew had no love for me as a woman and could never have.

  I burst out laughing.

  There was a hysterical edge to it, an uncontrolled note, and I quickly brought my hand up to my mouth to muffle the sound. I couldn’t react like this, in a room full of our coworkers, none of whom knew his secret. I’d just been too surprised.

  Moments later, I had smothered the sound. A few people seemed to have noticed—Bellamy and his pretty fiancée both appeared to be looking in my direction—but after a heartbeat, they looked away again, returning to their conversations.

  My eyes sought DeForest. He still faced the dancers, so I could only see his profile. The sharp features, the set jaw, so handsome. I couldn’t read his expression. I knew my reaction had been unexpected, but he betrayed no discomfort, no disappointment. He was a good man.

  I said in a calmer tone, “Graham, what an utterly ridiculous idea.”

  “Is it? We’re both alone in the world, aren’t we?”

  I couldn’t disagree. “Yes.”

  “We enjoy each other’s company very much. I respect your mind, and I think you respect mine. I hope?”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  “Plenty of marriages don’t even have that.” His tone was level, sincere. “If you get married to a real man, he’ll expect to stuff you full of babies and take you off Pinkerton’s payroll straightaway. Husbands want to be fathers. You’ll go from operative to drudge, trailing after your squalling charges instead of bringing criminals to justice. Is that what you want from life?”

  After a pause, I said, “Not when you put it that way.”

  “I think the old man might not like it though,” he said, gesturing to where Pinkerton and his daughter danced, their cheeks both flushed. “He wouldn’t understand it was just for show. We couldn’t tell him, of course. I don’t think he could keep my secret as well as you have. As you will.”

  I stood, speechless again.

  “But that can be managed. Consider it for a few days,” he said. “No need for us to rush.”

  He tapped my cup with his again, then turned his attention back to the song.

  My head was still spinning from the idea that Graham DeForest might marry a woman he didn’t love just to hide in plain sight. Or perhaps it was the punch. I’d drained my cup, and there was no telling how much of the liquid there had been spirits instead of juice. I felt light-headed but not with joy. As if I might faint.

  The fiddle sawed a vibrant refrain, the triumphant end to a reel, and then fell silent. Bursts of applause flowed through the room. Bellamy’s fiancée freed her hand from his arm long enough to clap three times, then tucked it back into its intimate resting place. Pinkerton released his tiny daughter’s hands, and she tumbled, coming to rest in a giggling heap. He beamed at her. She reached her arms up to be lifted.

  Next, a petite woman with dark hair stepped to the front of the room. I could have guessed her identity but didn’t need to. Under his breath, DeForest said, “Ah. It’s the wife.”

  This, then, was the boss’s wife, Joan. She was not the most handsome of women, but there was something commanding about her despite her small size. Her dress was the plainest in the room, a watered brown silk with only a short fringe of the same color around the sleeves for decoration, with no ruffles or frippery. Her hair was tied back in a neat chignon, without even a ribbon to decorate it. Her hands were folded neatly at her waist.

  Silently, she raised her hand and made a single gesture to the man at the piano. He set his fingers on the keys and played three slow, lingering notes. Without a word of introduction, Mrs. Pinkerton opened her mouth, and the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard began to pour forth, singing a lilting, mournful ballad. I was absolutely transfixed.

  Oh my bonnie love, I dream you

  Far from home tossed on the sea

  Sail ye far and sail ye fair now

  Long as ye sail home to me

  Long as ye sail home to me

  Oh my bonnie love, why go you

  Leaving me to cry alone

  Sail ye far and sail ye fair now

  Long as ye come sailing home

  Long as ye come sailing home

  Oh my love, I want to tell you

  Of our child you’ll meet one day

  Wish my words could ever reach you

  But ye’ve sailed so far away

  But ye’ve sailed so far away

  Her pure, sweet, soprano voice sounded clear as a trumpet in the large room, and no other noise competed with it. I was not the only member of the audience who couldn’t move a muscle for fear we’d disrupt the spell of Joan’s song. Next to me, DeForest was absolutely motionless. I saw no one move except for the little children, who stared up at their mother as she sang, looks of rapture on their tiny faces. Her husband also gazed at Joan with absolute adoration, a love I would never have thought him capable of but now so plain on his face, it could have been written there in ink.

  Oh my bonnie one, I loved you

  But you’ve gone across the sea

  In her arms you sleep forever

  Never will ye sail to me

  Never will ye sail to me

  Her voice broke on the last few words, as if the emotion of the song was too much to be borne. Whether her sentiment was truth or show, I couldn’t say. I only knew that mine rose up and overwhelmed me.

  The terrible truth hit me like a fist between the eyes.

  The children and husband gazing with wonder upon the woman who belonged to them. The smile she gave them in return, part proud, part shy. This was a true, honest, full family, and I would never have anything like it.

  DeForest was right. A real marriage was beyond me. Even if I could find someone to love me—and who would do that?—there would be no children. The doctor had made that clear. Any family I might have would be a cover identity at best. An assigned husband, ersatz children, fabricated as a snare. No one real. No one true.

  To my horror, I began to cry.

  I stepped back, intending to make my escape.

  DeForest laid a hand gently on my elbow. “Kate?”

  I shook my head, not trusting my voice, and stepped away. I retired from the room and hoped no one would follow.

  Down the hall, I found myself in a smaller room, a dark parlor. I seated myself at the far end of it, trusting the dark to obscure me at least in part. I didn’t want to roam farther into the house for fear I’d be an intruder, and that would raise more questions than even my foolish tears would do.

  After a few minutes, I was able to get myself under control. I wiped the rising tears away forcefully with the corner of my handkerchief and slapped my cheeks so that the pain would give me something to focus on. It worked for half a minute. I was pinching the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger for a new distraction when I heard faint footsteps, growing louder.

  The footsteps were a woman’s, soft and light, leather against a wooden floor. My eyes were dry now. I looked up to face whoever was coming.

  Joan Pinkerton entered the room. Even though she was no longer singing, she still retained the aura of power that had flowed from her along with the music. I found myself shrinking even as she appr
oached, before she said a word.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was a bit dizzy from the heat and just needed a moment. I’m better now.”

  She walked up to where I sat. There was an empty chair next to me, but rather than seating herself in it, she stared from above. Close up, I could see the pattern in her dress, tiny squares on squares within the silk. Hidden nested boxes.

  “You’re the famous Mrs. Warne, then,” she said in a thicker brogue than her husband’s. Her tone too was unlike his. She made it sound like there might be something wrong with being famous—not that I even was—and most definitely something wrong with being Mrs. Warne.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” I replied, extending a hand, hoping I could keep my composure.

  She gazed at me coolly and did not take the hand.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Listen once and listen well, Mrs. Warne,” she said, not loudly. “You keep your grubby mitts off my husband. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to with your late nights and your cases and your work.”

  “Ma’am, you’re mistaken, I swear.” I was flabbergasted.

  “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.