WITH MARION’S GOOD-BYE KISS STILL SWEET ON HIS LIPS, Isaac Bell settled into his seat on the flyer to Sacramento and waited for the train to pull out of Oakland Terminal. She knew him well, better than he knew himself. On the other hand, there were things she might never know.
He closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in a bed for days, but sleep eluded him. His mind was racing. From the state capital, he would take a series of trains north toward distant Oregon. He needed a fresh look at the Cascades Cutoff tunnel collapse, with an eye toward reckoning whether the Wrecker intended another attack at the front end of the tunnel. On the way, he would meet with Archie Abbott, who’d wired him that he might be hitting pay dirt with the hobo jungle outside Dunsmuir.
“Mr. Bell?”
The conductor interrupted Isaac’s thoughts. The man touched a knuckle to his polished visor in a respectful salute, and said with a sly wink, “Mr. Bell, there’s a lady asking if you would be more comfortable sitting with her.”
Suspecting he would find the enterprising young Miss Hennessy in the next Pullman, Bell followed the conductor up the aisle. The conductor led him off the train and directed him across the platform toward a private car coupled to a baggage car hauled by a sleek Atlantic 4-4-2 so shiny it looked like it had just come from the shop.
Bell stepped aboard the car and through a door into a plush red parlor that would not have looked out of place in Anne Pound’s brothel. Lillian Hennessy, who had changed out of the pale blue that matched her eyes into a scarlet tea gown that matched the parlor, greeted him with a glass of champagne and a triumphant smile. “You’re not the only one who can charter a special.”
Bell replied coolly, “It is inappropriate for us to be traveling alone.”
“We’re not alone. Unfortunately.”
As Bell was saying “Besides, may I remind you that I am committed to Marion Morgan,” a jazz band struck up in a room at the rear of the car. Bell peered through the door. Six black musicians playing clarinet, bass fiddle, guitar, trombone, and cornet were gathered around an upright piano improvising on Adaline Shepherd’s brisk hit rag, “Pickles and Peppers.”
Lillian Hennessy pressed close to look past Bell’s shoulder. She was tucked into a swan-bill underbust corset, and Bell felt her breasts soft against his back. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music. “I’ve never met a jazz musician qualified to act as a chaperone.”
“Not
The cornet player wheeled his horn in the air, as if to spear the ceiling. In the gap he opened in the circle of musicians, Bell saw that the piano player arched over the keys, with fingers flying, eyes bright, and full lips parted in a gleeful smile, was none other than Mrs. Comden.
Lillian said, “I don’t know how he found out. But thanks to Father and Mrs. Comden, your honor will be safe, Mr. Bell. Please stay. All I ask is that we become friends. We’ll have a fast ride. We’re cleared straight through to the Cascades Cutoff.”
Bell was tempted. The line north of Sacramento was congested with materials and work trains heading to and from the cutoff. He had been considering ordering up one of Hennessy’s specials. Lillian’s was ready to roll. Steaming northward on cleared tracks, the railroad president’s daughter’s special would save him a day of travel time.
Lillian said, “There’s a telegraph in the baggage car, if you need to send messages.”
That tipped it. “Thank you,” Bell said with a smile. “I accept your ‘ambush,’ though I may have to hop off at Dunsmuir.”
“Have a glass of champagne, and tell me all about your Miss Morgan.”
The train lurched into motion as she handed him the glass. She licked a spilled drop from an exquisitely delicate knuckle and flashed her eyes in French-actress mode. “She was very pretty.”
“Marion thought you were, too.”
She made another face. “‘Pretty’ is rosy cheeks and gingham dresses. I am usually called more than pretty.”
“Actually, she said you were unspeakably beautiful.”
“Is that why you didn’t introduce me?”
“I preferred to remind her that she is unspeakably beautiful, too.”
Lillian’s pale blue eyes flashed. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”
Bell returned a disarming smile. “Never in love, young lady-a habit I recommend you cultivate when you grow up. Now, tell me about your father’s troubles with his bankers.”
“He has no trouble with his bankers,” Lillian shot back. She answered so quickly and so vehemently, Bell knew what to say next.
“He said he would by winter.”
“Only if you don’t catch the Wrecker,” she said pointedly.
“But what of this Panic brewing in New York? It started last March. It doesn’t appear to be going away.”
Lillian answered with sober deliberateness. “The Panic, if it remains one much longer, will bring boom times in the railroad business to a crashing halt. We’re in the midst of wonderful expansion, but even Father admits it can’t go on forever.”
Bell was again reminded that Lillian Hennessy was more complicated than a coddled heiress.
“Does the Panic threaten your father’s control of his lines?”
“No,” she said quickly. Then she explained to Bell, “My father learned early on that the way to pay for his second railroad was to manage his first so well that it was solvent and creditworthy and then borrow against it. The bankers would dance to
Bell touched his glass to hers. “To roses.” He smiled. But he was not sure whether the young woman was boasting truthfully or whistling past the graveyard. And he was even less sure of why the Wrecker was so determined to uproot the tangled garden of railroads.
“Ask any banker in the country,” she said, proudly. “He will tell you that Osgood Hennessy is impregnable.”
“Let me send a wire telling people where to find me.”
Lillian grabbed the champagne bottle and walked him to the baggage car, where the conductor, who doubled as the train’s telegrapher, sent Bell’s message reporting his whereabouts to Van Dorn. As they were starting to head back to the parlor car, the telegraph key started clattering. Lillian listened for a few seconds, then rolled her eyes and called over her shoulder to the conductor, “Do not answer that.”
Bell asked, “Who is that transmitting, your father?”
“No. The Senator.”
“Which Senator?”
“Kincaid. Charles Kincaid. He’s courting me.”
“Do I gather that you are not interested?”
“Senator Charles Kincaid is too poor, too old, and too annoying.”
“But very handsome,” called Mrs. Comden, with a smile for Bell.
“Very handsome,” Lillian agreed. “But still too poor, too old, and too annoying.”
“How old?” Bell asked.
“At least forty.”
“He’s forty-two and extremely vigorous,” said Mrs. Comden. “Most girls would call him quite a catch.”
“I’d rather catch mumps.”
Lillian refilled her glass and Bell’s. Then she said, “Emma, is there any chance that you might hop off the train in Sacramento and disappear while Mr. Bell and I steam our way north?”
“Not in this life, dear. You are too young-and far too innocent-to travel without a chaperone. And Mr. Bell is too . . .”
“Too what?”
