Whispers in the Reading Room (35 page)

“Sir, are you heading back to the Hartman?”

“I’ve told you before not to question me, Hunt.”

“Forgive me.” Vincent barely had time to answer before his boss had turned away. Almost immediately, he turned down an alley and disappeared from sight.

“Poor Mr. Marks,” Bridget said as she stared at the spot where Mr. Marks had disappeared. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Vincent hadn’t either. “Perhaps he simply needs some time to himself.”

“He’s not heading to the Hartman. Where do you think he’s off to?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess. The only time I’ve ever seen him dart down that alley is when he had business down in the tenements.” He shrugged. “Perhaps he has some business we are unaware of,” he added as they resumed walking.

“Now? I doubt that.”

“Well, then, maybe he is going to reconsider things,” Vincent offered, though he didn’t really believe that.

“He’s not,” she said firmly. “Mr. Marks doesn’t change his mind. Ever.”

Bridget was right about that. If there was anything Vincent knew about Sebastian Marks, it was that he stayed on course. No matter what, he didn’t look back. He didn’t have regrets, and he didn’t try to second-guess himself.

“There isn’t any use in guessing what’s going to happen or worrying about things,” he said, attempting to interject a note of confidence in his words. “Come Monday, things will be back to how they once were.”

“I don’t know if I can go back.”

“You mean to the hotel? I’m sure it will be fine. You seemed happy enough there.”

“I mean any of it. I don’t know if I can become nearly invisible again.”

“You enjoyed being a ladies’ maid that much?”

“No. But I enjoyed talking to Miss Bancroft. I even enjoyed listening to her mother’s stories and complaints. I was needed. Needed in a way Mr. Marks will never need another soul.”

Vincent was surprised. Not that she felt that way but to hear her admit as much. He refrained from commenting on it however. After all, one of them had to be the voice of reason, even if it was silent.

Vincent hadn’t expected to feel so empty inside. When he’d first witnessed Mr. Marks’ infatuation with the librarian, he’d been both relieved to see that the man was human and did have a need for relationships. Then that feeling had given way to dismay and irritation.

Vincent hadn’t appreciated the way Lydia Bancroft had disrupted their finely organized life. She’d thrown a wrench into their wheel and in doing so had changed his boss, his boss’s priorities, and even Vincent’s friendship and relationship with Bridget.

But now that Mr. Marks had ended things with Miss Bancroft and the three of them were a tightly woven unit again, Vincent felt empty inside. Hollow, as if someone had taken an integral part of him and thrown it away. What was missing? He wondered. Was it Miss Bancroft? Or was it that feeling that nothing mattered except work?

He was suddenly coming to the conclusion that everything mattered, and he somehow had forgotten that over the last couple of years.

“Here we are,” Bridget said unnecessarily as she took her valise from him. “I’ll, um, slip in through the back entrance like I always do.”

Seeing her slim arm clutching her belongings like they were in danger of being snatched, her brown hair looking as beautiful as ever . . . and her matching brown eyes looking as desolate as their employer’s, Vincent could no longer prevent himself from asking the question on his lips. “Will you be okay, Bridget?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

Her affirmative answer should have been enough. “Sure?”

“Sure enough. I, uh, decided something while we were walking.”

“What is that?”

Her chin lifted. “I’m going to quit. And then I’m going to find something different to do.”

The thought of the loss of her was almost too difficult to grasp. “Like what?” he scoffed. “What are you qualified to do?”

She flinched. “You may not think I’m good for much besides cleaning chamber pots and ironing shirts, but I have most of my money saved. I was smart enough to put it in the bank and it’s a good sum. Good enough to find a room in a boarding house for a couple of months while I figure things out.”

“But what about Mr. Marks? You’re simply going to abandon him?” He was really thinking of himself.

“Of course not. If he’ll let me, I’d still like to be his friend.”

“He has no friends.”

“He has you and me. That’s a start, don’t you think?”

“If you want to remain his friend, then why are you leaving?”

“When I first started working for him, I was desperate. I clung to my job like the lifeline it was. But I feel stronger now.”

He still didn’t understand. Or, maybe more to the point, he didn’t
want to understand. If he did, he would have to allow her to move on. “Bridget, think about what you are considering.”

“I am.” Though a muscle in her jaw jumped, she spoke in an even voice. “Mr. Marks told me over a year ago that I owed him nothing, and in fact never had. I was the one who always felt that I couldn’t leave.”

“But now—”

“Now I know I can’t stay.” Grimacing, she added, “I can’t simply live my life in fear.”

“I didn’t know you were afraid.” Alarm coursed through him at someone even contemplating hurting her. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’ve been afraid to face facts, Vincent. For too long, I’ve been afraid to imagine what else I could do. I was even afraid to remember that I have self-worth. God didn’t make just some of us worthy and others of us good for nothing beyond being barely invisible.”

“Will I still see you Monday?”

She nodded. “I’ll report to Mr. Marks Monday, and then I’ll give him a few days’ notice. Plus I’m going to have to find a different place to live.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. You deserve a better life than simply staying on the sidelines and blending in.”

“That’s what I’m good at.”

But she never had blended in to him. From the moment Mr. Marks had hired Bridget O’Connell, Vincent had been aware of where she was, what she was wearing, and how she seemed to be feeling. He hated the thought of her disappearing from his life altogether.

“Good-bye, Vincent.”

“Not good-bye yet,” he corrected. “Simply good day.”

“Yes. Good day.”

As he walked away, Vincent knew he’d think of her smile for the
rest of the day. And what the loss of it was going to feel like for the rest of his life.

“That was a very sweet scene,” Sergio Vlas said as he stepped from the shadows of the Hartman Hotel. “Better than some of the shows that played at the fair. I’d clap, but I fear it might hurt your feelings.”

Bridget’s mouth went dry as she stared at the man who was both Mr. Marks’ competitor in business and reluctant “friend” in life. “Ah, Mr. Vlas, hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there.”

Her words seemed to amuse him. “I didn’t expect you to. I doubt Marks’ able assistant would have wanted anyone to witness your pretty speech. He’s always struck me as being quite attached to you.”

Tilting his head to one side, Sergio slowly let his gaze slide from her eyes to her lips. Then lower. “So, tell me. Was your soliloquy sincere? Or was it merely something to tell Mr. Vincent Hunt to let him down easily? I wasn’t sure.”

As usual, she felt as if the Russian was seeing too much. And was he jealous?

“Did you need something, Mr. Vlas?”

His eyes softened. “Though seeing you always has its benefits, I actually came here to offer you my services. And please, call me Sergio.”

She was stunned. And a little frightened. “I am not certain what services of yours I might need . . . Sergio.”

“We both know that you’re lying now, Bridget,” he said as he stepped closer to her. His expensive cologne wafted toward her, reminding her that he had almost as much money as Sebastian Marks.

He had never courted society however.

Which was just as well. No matter how many years passed, he spoke
in a careful, clipped way that spoke volumes about him. She’d always wondered if he was so careful with his enunciation because English was his second language, or if that was simply the way he enjoyed speaking.

His golden-colored eyes fastened on hers. “Bridget, with all the drama at the Silver Grotto, I suspected that you might be leaving Sebastian Marks’ employment. I came here on the off chance that you might need me now.”

“That . . . that is very kind of you,” she said, eager to say anything to end the conversation and move away from him.

“I am many things, Bridget. However, I am never kind.” When she shivered, he blinked slowly. “Forgive me, I misspoke. I am never kind. I never feel kindness toward anyone. Except for you.”

Shocked by his declaration, her lips parted. “Sergio—”

He stepped closer, then softly pressed three bare fingers against her lips. “Don’t say a word, Bridget. I know you are too good for me.”

“Too good? Mr. Vlas, I am merely a maid.” She wasn’t even exactly that. She was almost a secret employee of Mr. Marks, doing his bidding in the shadows of his life.

“You are more than that, dear.” He smiled then, showing off his shocking display of crooked, gleaming white teeth. “At least, you’ve been that way to me. Just remember that you are not alone. Remember that I am always available to you. No strings attached.”

She wondered if he meant such a thing. Did men ever do anything without an expectation for something more? A tingle ran up her spine. To cover up her confusion, she said brazenly, “You sound as if you know something I don’t know.”

“I simply know that it is a good thing that you’ve decided to move on. One never knows what will happen in one’s future, especially since it seems as though your employer has suddenly decided to revisit his past.”

Without another word, he walked away, and as she watched him go, she caught sight of the pocket watch. And realized he had just turned down the same alley Mr. Marks had.

Though she knew better, she rushed forward and followed. It was a foolish decision and a dangerous one. But she had no choice. There was no way she was going to abandon Mr. Marks now.

S
ebastian had promised himself that when he left the tenements, he’d never go back. Yet, that promise wasn’t all that easy to keep. Every couple of years, he found himself back in the area. Though he had a new name and a new life, sometimes he needed to remind himself of who he really was.

The son of a prostitute who had once been willing to do anything and everything to change his circumstances. Maybe he still was willing to do most anything.

The place smelled the same. The terrible stench of the stockyards mixed with the sharp tang of blood, machinery oil, coal, and unwashed bodies. There was a time when he’d hardly smelled it. Now he was sure he was going to have to give all his clothes away to remove the odor from his being.

However, it had never been the smell that had bothered him as much as the constant noise. The braying of cattle, the squeals of swine. The men complaining. Women yelling at their men and children. Too many children crying. Encasing it all was the continual din of the machinery, the trains arriving, the clang of boxcars opening and shutting, the screech of brakes.

That irrepressible noise had stayed with him his whole life. It was why he worked in a club where gentlemen’s voices floated upward, where the noise of dice and cards and chips clicked in an orderly way. The clink of glassware and the ribald laughter were far preferable to hear than all the sounds that struck nerves and summoned images of heartache and pain.

Of course, nothing could match the beauty of the quiet solace he’d found in the library. There, the rooms smelled of dust and Lydia Bancroft’s faint lemon and lavender scent. So clean. So fresh. And the words he’d found in the books were like nothing of his past.

All of that was why he’d used his fists and his brains and his wits and his determination to give himself a new life. He’d adopted the name Sebastian because it was a character from Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
. He’d taken the surname Marks because he liked how deceptively simple it was. It was also, of course, a play on Marx. Simply a more gentlemanly, acceptable name.

He’d sworn to himself that he would never again be known as the skinny, pale Samuel Marx, the bastard son of a two-bit prostitute who died far too young and left him with nothing.

But “never” was proving to be an elusive state in his world.

“Samuel Marx,” an elderly woman cackled from her stoop. “As I live and breathe. I hardly recognized you.”

He forced himself to stop. “But yet you did.”

She pointed one gnarled finger to the corner of her right eye. “It’s the eyes. One always thinks you’ve got near on black eyes . . . until you see them up close. You always did have too pretty eyes for a man. Pity.”

He racked his brain, but he couldn’t recall ever meeting this woman. “Do we know each other?”

“I knew you when yous was just a babe.”

He had no time for this. He walked on.

“I knew yer mother too! Fed her a time or two when she was a young girl.”