Chapter 11 Unexpected Battlefields
Unexpected Battlefields
The carriage clip-clops down ice-lined Fifth Avenue, past a parade of gleaming white mansions and stately townhomes, the snow-dusted promise of Central
Park growing ever closer from the distance. New York in February is a good sight more frigid than winter in Kansas, though
this afternoon’s jaunt has warmed Cora indeed. Béa recently secured the truly marvelous necklace as a lure to intrigue their
marks (which admittedly does make Cora wonder about the limits of Alice’s budget), Cora has captured Harry Peyton’s unique
attentions, and Alice is thankfully beginning to trust her.
Case in point: While Alice has run off for some mysterious errand involving real estate, Cora was sent back alone from the
dressmaker’s early to ready herself for tonight’s dinner at the Vandemeers’. The first time she’s traveling singly as “Miss
Ritter” in the three months she has been living in this city.
She settles herself against the bench, bracing for the inevitable turn onto Thirty-Eighth Street, for the now-familiar front stoop of Alice’s home.
This is what it must feel like to be part of a family—a team, rather, a crew.
She never felt valued by Prospero and the troupe, always relegated to behind the stage, hardly embraced
as one of their own, even after so many months on the road together. No one besides dear old Maeve even bothered to show her
the ropes or teach her the tricks. And yet with Alice, Béa, Ward, even Dagmar, she finally feels she’s where she belongs.
On the front lines and, hopefully, on the march toward victory—preparing to take down the city and get exactly what she wants.
They turn off Madison. The driver of the hansom cab helps her down.
“Miss . . . Ritter, is it? Or can I still call you Cora?”
Cora stops at the bottom of Alice’s front steps with a frown.
She turns to find that increasingly omnipresent reporter from The Herald leaning against a lamppost a few yards away. Cal Archer. Goodness, Alice is right. The man is relentless. Cora is beginning
to wonder if he is really seeking out more information about Württemberg or if he’s onto them. And if it is the latter, how
long Alice will be able to fend him off.
Cal’s well-fitted brown suit shows off his tall, lean physique. He’s smiling at her, his derby hat set jauntily askew today,
a notepad in one hand, a pencil in his other.
Seeing no polite way out, she smiles too. “Cora, yes. It’s lovely to see you again, Mr. Archer.”
He cocks his head, wry. “Is it?”
The question is apt. He’s truly the last person Cora wants to be detained by at the moment, especially without Alice here
as chaperone and buffer.
“A joke,” he adds quickly, as if apologetic, but humor lingers in his eyes. “I know how people of my profession are often
perceived, even by fans of our work.”
Cora’s cheeks grow hot. Alice was right to glare at her in that last encounter. What had she been on about, declaring her “love” of his writing?
Cal hoists his notepad, seizing on her moment of discomfort. “I was only hoping for a few minutes of your time and then I’ll
let you get on with your day.”
“Right now isn’t ideal, I’m afraid,” she says. “I have a dinner engagement tonight and I’m already late.”
Cal glances at his pocket watch. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
She laughs, flustered. “Late to get ready. Obviously.”
He nods, eyes sparkling. “It seems you’ve ingratiated yourself quite quickly into New York society.”
“Simply lucky to find a host of generous, welcoming friends.”
“Impressive for someone so new to these shores.”
“Though surely unimpressive to arrive late to a kind invitation.” She resists the urge to grit her teeth. “Another time, perhaps, Mr. Archer?”
With a curt nod, she begins to ascend the stairs.
Cal calls out, “You seem different from the last time I saw you.”
Cora stops, neck prickling. Is he referring to her accent? No, it’s impeccable and she knows it. Her demeanor, then? Some
other element of her carefully constructed persona that isn’t rendering consistent?
Cora slowly turns around again, smile stitched tight as a corset.
“More . . . settled,” he finishes with a smile. But there’s an uptick to his tone again.
“The last morning we spoke, I had just received word of my brother’s death, at the hands of the Hungarians.” Cora lifts her
chin archly. “I was not, as you say, myself that day.”
“Ah. Right. My condolences. The Hungarians, you say?” Mr. Archer flips his book to a page full of dark ink.
“Speaking of, I haven’t been able to connect with the grand duchess lately.
She’s quite hard to pin down. I’ve been trying to get her for days, but even when I manage to find a window, she’s as opaque as a front door. ”
Cora can’t help but smile at that. Another apt comment from Mr. Archer. She feels the same way about Alice. Often, in fact.
Sensing her resistance crumbling, Cal pounces, “Truly, Miss Ritter, just a few questions on Württemberg, the nation’s state
of affairs—”
She sighs. “Why, may I ask?”
“The paper wants to cover the situation in full.” He surveys his notes, murmuring, “I don’t think anybody fully knows what
in Sam Hill’s going on over there and the place is suddenly the talk of the town. My editor wants a longer feature piece,
but there are a few loose ends I’ll need to tie up first.”
Longer feature piece. Meaning the front page of The Herald. Real, legitimate news. A piece like this could actually help Alice, now that she thinks about it—those horrible railroad
men seeing their story confirmed in black and white while they sip on their early morning tea. A perfect next step in the plan.
With all Alice is managing, perhaps Cora should take more initiative. Alice could be in over her head, despite what she says
to the contrary, overwhelmed with all she needs to achieve in a few months’ time, as she desperately seemed last Sunday. Cora
has proven she is a trustworthy member of the team, has she not? What did Alice tell her about dealing with the press? “Start with the truth.” Surely there is a way to spin the truth just so to this man, in order to sell their lies?
“Loose ends,” she repeats. “What type of loose ends?”
“Well.” Cal considers her carefully. “I suppose I’m perplexed as to how Württemberg has kept its apparent bounty of natural
resources out of all the history records.”
His stare becomes penetrating.
“I’m not sure I understand your question, Mr. Archer.” Somehow Cora manages to keep her tone both accented and cool.
Tucking his pencil behind his ear, Cal takes a step closer.
“These lavish emerald mines that have the entire town in a tizzy,” he says softly, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising. “Why
is it that this spring is the first time I’ve . . . well, I’ve ever even heard of them?”
A dull buzz mounts between her ears, building to a voiceless scream.
How, again, did Cora think she could “spin the truth” to cover a gaping hole of a fabricated investment opportunity?
“Ah . . . yes. I do appreciate your confusion there.”
Just breathe, Cora. Breathe and reset the stage.
The stage. One thing she learned from countless hours watching Prospero . . . if a performer expects the audience to believe, to ignore the lies and suspend their doubts, the performer must lead them. Must evoke certainty incarnate, a confidence
so unflappable that the audience has no choice but to pledge their poetic faith.
Lead him there.
Confidence.
Think.
Cora’s thoughts slip-slide through all of Béa’s lessons, Alice’s training, those arcane history books and papers on the German Empire, which she’s studied for hours on end.
She knows Alice warned her not to appear too informed or intelligent, but it may be time for yet another pivot.
“Well, to fully understand, you simply need to consider our nation’s history.”
Cal slowly tilts his head. “Go on.”
Cora steadies her hummingbird pulse. Unflappable.
“Württemberg has always been a nation of secrets,” she explains. “One need only look to the decisive battles of recent times.”
Cal retrieves his pencil from his ear. “The decisive battles, you say . . .”
“The Battle of Tauberbischofsheim, as one prime example.”
The reporter’s eyes almost evacuate his skull, which gives Cora a rush of satisfaction.
“The Battle of—” Cal coughs, clearing his throat. “Sorry, can you spell that?”
Cora proudly obliges.
“The Battle of Tauberbischofsheim was a crucial conflict in the Austro-Prussian War, where Württemberg, along with the rest
of the Eighth Army, faced the mighty Prussian forces.”
She is careful to keep her tone somber and disguise her delight, now that Cal is writing copious scribbles in his notebook.
“It is well known that Württemberg was comprehensively defeated. What is less well known, secret even, was the forced indemnity payment and clandestine treaty between Württemberg and her conqueror.”
Cal’s brow furrows. “I . . . see.”
“And then? Only a mere decade later, Württemberg is again pillaged for the sake of peace, the terms of its entrance into the German Empire wholly unfair, and not widely known.” Cora steals a breath. “Consider the current devastated state of our once-great nation, Mr. Archer. After all
this theft and exploitation. I do hope you appreciate why we Württembergians are unwilling to proclaim what is left of our
riches to the world.”
She pauses, understanding how crucial it is to choose her next words carefully—to keep the mines themselves out of the papers
and yet still sell the story.
“And I do hope you will honor that . . . reluctance, Mr. Archer,” she says. “When and if you choose to write your piece.”
Cal studies his notes and then nods, looking up at her.
“I believe we understand one another, Miss Ritter.” He snaps his book closed decisively. “You certainly know your history.
This has been very enlightening—”
“I’m sure my cousin would be most pleased to give you more details,” Cora hastens to add. “At some point, anyhow. But I really
must be going now.”
“Of course. Thank you for your precious time.”
Cal smiles. It’s quite a nice one, actually. Cheeky and lopsided. With a tempered sort of cockiness that she might find appealing
in other circumstances.
He waves his notebook by way of goodbye.
As soon as he’s gone, Cora wilts with relief. Along with elation. What she just concocted for Mr. Archer might keep him at
bay for the duration of their scheme. Who would have believed it possible? Miss Cora Ritter, capable of conjuring news stories
straight out of thin air!
She stifles a laugh on the stoop, excited to tell Alice.
“I expect you to do exactly as I ask, without hesitation, objection, or embellishment.”
Though she realizes there is a slight possibility that Alice may be less than thrilled by this latest improvisation.
In any event, Cora will need to banish that concern for another time because there is a more pressing matter at hand.
Dinner. Tonight.
Their first mark. The Vandemeers.