Band of Sisters (47 page)

But Olivia would not meet her eye.
Whatever is going on with these sisters and their young men?

As they walked through the foyer, Mrs. Melkford pulled Olivia aside. “I’ve not heard a word from Maureen for nearly two weeks. Is she still traveling with her new employer?”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t know,” Olivia stammered. “We’ve not heard from her.”

“No?” Mrs. Melkford hoped the alarm she felt was unjustified.
Maureen’s a sensible, capable young woman. She’s just busy with her work and can’t get away. Or this dreadful weather is to blame.
“Well, I’m sure that if Mr. Morrow found her the position, she must be perfectly all right.” She fumbled with the buttons of her coat, wondering if she should venture to ask. Curiosity won. “Perhaps you’ve heard from him?”

But before Olivia could respond, Katie Rose intruded. “We’ve not heard from either of them, nor from Joshua, for that matter.” She pinned her hat into place, her color rising. “I told you both that Maureen was up to no good, that her reputation precedes her—once a snake, always a snake—but you wouldn’t listen.” Angrily she grabbed her purse and swept through the door, hissing none too quietly, “Well, now you see, don’t you? Two good men—your sweetheart and mine—and my sister. All missin’. What do you think of that?” The door slammed behind her.

Mrs. Melkford, horrified by Katie Rose’s outburst, would have given no credit to such a childish display, but for the quick tears that sprang behind Olivia’s eyes.

Please, Lord, keep Maureen safe; keep her pure. Hold her in the palm of Your hand.
She tucked her arm through Olivia’s as they walked through the door together.
And please, Lord, above all, help these young ones trust You.

Maureen pushed wide the draperies of Curtis’s vacant bedchamber and watched as the only two men she trusted were driven to the train station in the downpour.

“Keep them safe, and hurry them back, Lord,” she whispered as she stripped the sheets from the bed, collected soiled bath linens, and handed them off to the young maid in the hallway.
Here I am, prayin’ again. As though You listen to me.
She shook her head. But she hesitated, duster in hand.
Are You there?

To stall for time apart from Belgadt and his staff, Maureen swept the floor and beat the carpets, oiled and rubbed the mahogany found in the furniture and woodwork, polished the lamp brass and andirons, scrubbed the washbowl, and trimmed the lamps—all she could imagine to ready the room for Curtis’s return.
Oh, that they could have taken me with them!

With Drake Meitland’s phone call, Curtis had given up the search for documents; it was too risky to remain. The most they’d dared hope was to leave the house and bring in authorities that very day to release the women being held, exposing Belgadt and his operation through the passageway that Maureen had discovered the night she followed Harder into the study. Such an arrest would not penetrate the web of the organization, nor would it enable them to trace the whereabouts of women already trafficked. Indeed, it put them all at risk for Belgadt’s retaliation. But it would at least free the group of women being held at the moment. Maureen had prayed that Eliza and Alice were among them, alive and well.

But Victor Belgadt had foiled even that plan. Maureen and Joshua had been packed and waiting by the door when, at the last moment, Belgadt had insisted Curtis leave Maureen as collateral.

“Collateral?” Curtis had played the unbelieving and indignant guest. “You jest.”

“I never jest.” And Belgadt had clearly meant it, revolver in hand. “Until you return with Meitland and our new shipment is secured.” He’d motioned the underbutler to return Maureen’s luggage to her room.

She’d seen the protective rise in Joshua’s chest and known he was about to protest. But realizing that all their lives and the lives of the women beyond the bookcase were at stake, she trusted them to return for her and stepped quickly forward. “I’ll make certain your room is ready for your return, sir.”

She’d turned before another word could be spoken and climbed the stairs to Curtis’s room, taking refuge in her duties.

If I’d not stayed, all would have fallen apart in the moment, and Mr. Belgadt would have surely moved the women before we could return—might do so yet.

If they bring the police to release the women today as planned, I’ll be rescued. But if Curtis truly goes to Washington in an attempt to keep Drake Meitland out of the way longer, I may have another day to wait—and search. But how or where? The moment Drake telephones, the moment he cries foul . . . the women in the tunnel will be moved. We’ll all be exposed. Curtis and Joshua will be tracked down.
She dared not guess their end or her own, though frightening images stole through her brain.

She drew a deep breath, pushing the air down into her belly, held it for a count of five, then allowed it to escape her lips in a slow and steady stream—a strategy she repeated throughout the morning in an effort to maintain her sanity.

If they don’t return with the police by midafternoon, I’ll know their plans have changed. I’ll play this out as long as I can.

By two o’clock Maureen had made her decision.
If I must stay the night, I’ll risk searchin’ for the safe. There must be one on that far wall. Mr. Belgadt’s eyes shot there as he was tryin’ to decide what to do—just before the phone call. We all saw.

But what if I find it? How will I get ledgers out of the house and safely away in this weather?

As windswept torrents of rain continued to pour and beat against the house deep into the afternoon, Maureen’s brain whirred. By the time she served Mr. Belgadt’s late afternoon drink, her head ached with an intensity she’d never known. Every muscle in her neck and back and shoulders screamed.

“You seem troubled, Mary,” Belgadt crooned sympathetically.

“It’s nothin’, sir. Just a headache.” She gave a feeble smile.

“Pity,” he soothed, rising from his chair.

She stepped back, but her reticence did not deter him.

He motioned for her to sit down.

“I’d best help Mrs. Beaton with dinner, sir.”

But he placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her firmly into the nearest chair. “No, Mary. Not tonight. Nancy can give her all the help she needs. I won’t hear of you working when you’re not feeling well.” He began to massage her shoulders, her neck, her temples. “We must make certain you’re in fine condition for your employer’s return.” He ran his hands down her arms and up again. “Mustn’t we?”

Maureen heard the simpering smile, the knowledge of power in his voice. Her stomach turned.

His hands finally rested on her shoulders, a brace surrounding the base of her neck. “Feeling better, Mary?”

“Yes, sir.” She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady, willing her skin not to crawl into a shiver, praying her wig did not slip.

“Perhaps you’d like to go to bed early tonight. Too much tension isn’t good for a woman.”

Her heart flipped into her stomach. She felt the panic rise as bile in her throat. “I’m afraid I’m not well and ever so likely to be sick, sir.” She coughed loudly, then bolted from the chair, gagging, apron to her mouth, not waiting for his response.

It was not hard to plead a sick stomach and pounding headache when Nancy came to her locked door. “Tell Mrs. Beaton I’m sorry; I’m ill and cannot serve tonight. I’ve gone to bed.”
At least it is my bed, and I’m alone.
But when Nancy’s footsteps had faded down the hallway, she rose, trembling, and checked the lock again.

Disgusted, Drake Meitland threw the unread
Washington Evening Post
to the dining car seat beside him and pushed cramped fingers through his hair. His head pounded from too much whiskey and the knowledge that everything he’d worked to build with Belgadt was skating a thin edge.

He knew better than to trust another living soul. Why had he let his guard down with Curtis Morrow?

The man was smooth—Drake gave him that—suave and courtly with Olivia, daring and a good bluff with Belgadt. But the resemblance, now that he thought about it, was striking: dark-brown eyes, curling hair, tall and slim, and that nearly alabaster skin.
It just looked better on a woman.
He shook his head.
How did he find me? How did he know it was me? It was finished three years ago. She swore her family was dead.

Drake narrowed his eyes, thinking you could never trust a woman, certainly not a desperate one. Then he groaned inwardly at his own stupidity.

If only he could take back his words over tonight’s dinner, when he’d confided that it was ironic he’d returned to DC for his biggest coup, since that was where he’d gotten his first lucky break in buying and selling women. Curtis had encouraged his boasting, free with the bottle.

Drake grimaced as he recalled his words.

“Started a few years ago with a girl I picked up outside a restaurant. Down on her luck, hungry—she’d had some kind of row with her parents up in Georgetown and run off. But she was prime and clean—to start.” Drake had chuckled, the wine doing its work. Still, he was careful, as always, not to mention names. “Told her I needed a wife and a mother for my two kids. Gave her a full-fledged sob story that my wife had died the month before of consumption, said I was lonely and desperate—needed somebody who understood, or my kids would be sent to live with strangers.”

I should have noticed his shift in demeanor, but like a fool, I went on.

“Didn’t take much—a three-dollar gold band and two dollars to a justice of the peace I dragged out in the middle of the night—and voilà: Mrs. Meitland.”

“Dorothy?” Curtis had asked incredulously.

“No!” Drake had laughed aloud, thinking that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “No, before I married Dorothy. Mrs. Dorothy Meitland, now, she’s the real thing. Purebred—came with papers, license. Wealthy father, bound for inheritance—the works. The other one was a business deal, but a real looker.”

“So you sold her?” Curtis had been sawing through a prime rib when he asked, and Drake had taken the flush in his face as a response to the chef’s letting a tough cut slide through his kitchen.

Still, something about the purpling vein in Morrow’s neck had given him pause. But he’d kept on, glad for an audience. “When I was done with her. She fetched a tolerable price in the brothels in the city—that was before the big raids. But by then she was used up—dirty, you know.” He’d lit a cigarette, uncomfortable with the details. He’d never liked details. “So I married Dorothy—Papa Wakefield’s money and all that.”

He’d shifted the talk to the plans for the morning and the high-class brothel Curtis still maintained existed. Drake had wanted to go that night, was eager to close the deal. He’d already wasted a week running in circles and needed to get back to New York. Every day he was away, he was losing money—money he couldn’t afford to lose, money he owed Belgadt. A lot was riding on this deal, both to maintain Belgadt’s good graces for having introduced him to Curtis and because Drake’s debts had long outgrown his income.

But Curtis was clearly in no hurry and claimed they couldn’t interrupt during the brothel’s business hours. If he didn’t know better, Drake would have thought the man was stalling.

Curtis had just signed for their bill and they were leaving the table when the question casually came.

“So what happened to her?”

“Happened?”

“To Lydia, your brothel wife.”

Drake caught himself just in time and, shrugging, feigned a slump of regret, a curse that she’d run off, ungrateful as she was. He’d willed his face and hands steady when he told Curtis he’d meet him in the hotel lobby the next morning at ten.

Drake had tried phoning Belgadt from behind the hotel desk but learned that though the lines in the area were operating, Belgadt’s line was out of order once again. It had taken Drake less than five minutes to return to his room, load and pocket his revolver, throw a few essentials into his bag, and slip unseen down the hotel’s fire escape. He’d caught a cab to the station and run to catch the night’s last train to Manhattan.