Chapter 13 A Stroll Down Memory Lane
A Stroll Down Memory Lane
Cora tightens the collar of her borrowed coat, a beautiful yellow wool with wide, fur-lined sleeves and a matching stole.
The wind has kicked up to an almost comical degree, an audible whoosh sending dead leaves whipping across her high-heeled boots.
“Still keen to press onward?” Harry says, teeth chattering. “A fascinating reflex, shivering, is it not? Tiny contractions
meant to manufacture the sensation of warmth.”
Cora resists the urge to roll her eyes, along with the urge to mention that she, too, is hard at work manufacturing an altogether
different sensation, one of a mutually satisfying, blossoming relationship.
Somehow she defers to her better angels.
“I do appreciate the fresh air,” she assures him, using the excuse of the cold to nestle tighter into his side. “Let’s keep
on. I am very grateful for your tour of Central Park.”
It’s probably the truest thing she’s said all day.
Central Park still feels like a well-kept secret, a marvelous green oasis that astounds her every time she happens upon its grounds, even after all these months.
Sprawling green meadows. Lakes and woodlands and babbling brooks.
It’s as if God dropped Kansas right in the middle of Manhattan, unfurling plains tucked into the heart of the bustling city.
It makes it hard not to pine for Long Creek Farm, the old rolling pastures, the endless sea of wheat . . . and yet her goal
has never felt so possible, so close. If Alice’s plans continue falling into place, absent the latest wrinkle—with four of
the families intrigued and soon to be hooked, and Harry’s adoration building, hopefully, to the point where he simply must
convince his father to finance along with them—Cora could be signing a purchase agreement for the farm come May. Dreams attained.
Coraline O’Malley, victorious.
She swallows around the tiny lump in her throat, watching as Harry marvels at a group of squirrels parading around a nearby
tree, all the while absently narrating the unlikely adaptive mechanisms of the city park vermin. He really is so absorbed,
so sheltered, all the money in the world not enough to buy him any worldly shrewdness.
Then again, does any mark like Harry honestly stand a chance against the likes of a cunning woman such as Alice? Or against
Cora and the rest of her team, for that matter? Not to mention months of careful orchestration, meticulous planning, schemes . . .
She hasn’t thought about her father in quite some time, but now Cora finds herself pulling out old memories, considering them from different angles, like prisms in the light.
She always blamed Da for his foolishness—his credulity was the sole reason Cora lost everything; she was so sure of it.
But there were so many people working and conning him, from all sides, weren’t there?
Neighbors pressuring him to join the grain elevator.
Friends warning he was falling behind. Those slick lenders from Ross & Calhoun, flipping lightning fast through their thick pages of legal jargon, promising him the world, and goading him to sign.
Maybe the story she’s been telling herself is a bit too simple.
“You seem far away, Miss Ritter,” Harry says now. “Thinking about home, perhaps?”
She startles, turning.
“Your pupils have expanded,” he explains excitedly, “a telltale sign of daydreaming.”
Harry, she reminds herself, is referring to dreaming of her fictional homeland.
“Indeed,” Cora recovers. “It’s been so long since I’ve graced Württemberg’s shores.”
Hell’s bells, focus, Cora—Württemberg is landlocked.
“That is an expression in my country,” she ad-libs quickly. “Württemberg’s magnificence seems to expand beyond its borders
to the mountains, the seas, and the shores.”
Harry nods thoughtfully at that hogwash, as he tends to do, never too eager to press or venture too far out of the confines
of his own little world. One minor blessing, as Cora has taken to wandering off script frequently these days, often out of
necessity. Of late, Alice is off with Mr. McAllister more than she’s home, always claiming some emergency meeting about the
new embassy or now, this latest complication about the emerald that they must address.
“Württemberg does seem a fascinating place,” Harry says. “Arabella relayed the contents of an article she happened upon the
other day, discussing your nation’s history. I do support your cousin’s efforts, by the by. The national resistance. You ask
me, a country should have autonomy over its own resources.”
Cora nods, straining for solemnity, but finds she has to bite back a smile. That story she cooked up for Cal Archer ended up gracing the front page of the latest World News section of The Herald. And true to the reporter’s word, there was no mention in the slightest about emerald mines.
Mr. Cal Archer may well prove an unforeseen asset, in addition to a nuisance.
“Let us hope, Mr. Peyton. Let us pray that our homeland’s future is as warm and bright as the sun.”
“I would enjoy hearing more about this magnificent Württemberg.” Harry smiles his trademark befuddled grin. “You can play
field guide again for me, if you like.”
She nestles another inch closer. “I assure you, it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. As well as one of the most
blessed. Rolling hills, sparkling emeralds, as far as the eye can see—”
“Arabella, too, is always keen to mention the minerals.” He bites his lip. “This is, perhaps, humorous . . . When we were
children, she and I had once envisioned a made-up land of sparkling jewels, one you could only find using a very detailed
and specific code of coordinates. We would travel there all the time, on these ill-advised adventures—from our chosen spot
in the park and straight into a land of our own creation.” He shakes his head at the memory. “How silly we were.”
“How silly, indeed.”
The “simmering” Cora had detected at Delmonico’s between the Ames girl and Harry most certainly would have built into something
more serious given time. Bit of a pity, as the two odd ducks might have made quite the flock in another life—given, say, the
absence of a fictional emerald heiress.
Speaking of, maybe it’s time to change tack. Move things forward with a time-tested appeal to other, more biological instincts to seal the deal . . .
“Mr. Peyton,” Cora murmurs demurely, spinning to look at him. “I do hope this is the correct phrasing in English . . . You’ll
have to forgive me, I wish to impart the right sentiment. I appreciate your past . . . adventures, but I have many, many thrilling exploits to offer you myself.”
Harry swallows, his Adam’s apple jumping. “Thrilling, ah, exploits?”
“Mm.” She leans closer, smiling, batting her eyes—quite a difficult feat in the midst of a windstorm. But she must be achieving
the desired effect, because a distinct red is now creeping up his narrow throat.
She drops her voice another octave, spoon-feeding the sensual overtones so there is no confusion: “And please know that I
would always be delighted to play your field guide, Mr. Peyton.”
Harry has turned red as a tomato.
“Why . . . I believe I should like that.” He swallows. “I should like that very, very—”
“My, what a coincidence, Miss Ritter!”
Cora freezes. That distinctly brazen tone.
Cal Archer steps toward them in long strides, that cocksure, determined gait ever so strangely familiar. He’s sporting a top
hat and a thick, black overcoat in this weather, but the bulk does nothing to hide his athletic physique. He appears taller
than the last time she saw him, which is obviously impossible. He’s not taller, is he? He sidles up beside them, towering
over Harry.
Cora straightens. “I am beginning to get the sense you’re following me, Mr. Archer.”
His blue eyes glimmer, his words visible puffs against the cold. “I do cover other beats, Miss Ritter. Believe it or not.”
“Ah,” she says primly, surprised to find herself game, even excited, to volley with him once more. “Tell me then, what is today’s top story? Park pigeons, perhaps? The perils of winter picnics?”
He smirks. “Don’t believe we’ve met.” Cal turns to Harry, extending his hand. “Cal Archer.”
“Very good to meet you, sir. I’m Harold Peyton.”
“The Peytons, ah,” Cal says. “Of course. I’m familiar with your father’s work.”
“Is that right?” Harry waits for Cal to elaborate. He doesn’t.
Cora starts, “Mr. Archer—”
“Now that we’re all acquainted, I’m hoping I might take advantage of this serendipitous encounter.” Cal pulls his notebook
from his pocket. “Your sob story went over well with my editor, Miss Ritter, so he’s hoping for a follow-up. A humanitarian
story this time, perhaps,” he muses, flipping pages. “Something on the everyman of Württemberg. How the plight of your country
is affecting the homestead. Make people really sympathize. You don’t mind, do you, Harold?”
“Only insomuch as Miss Ritter minds.”
Cora opens her mouth, priming to share a litany of facts about Württemberg’s people, before she promptly closes it. She has
yet to garner Alice’s reaction to her first published improvisation, after all. Until she does, perhaps it’s best not to pull
the same trick twice.
“Mr. Archer, I believe this conversation is best suited for another time. Or another person altogether,” Cora says. “Perhaps
the Württembergian Embassy can help you.”
Cal’s eyes brighten. “Embassy? Where’s that, now?”
She bites her lip. Goodness, she lacks focus today. Does the embassy even exist? She tries to recollect what Alice last told
her. Comes up blank.
In fact, maybe it’s best to stop talking altogether.
“They are obviously ever so busy,” Cora amends quickly. “But I can speak to them on your behalf. Or accompany you. Eventually.
When the time is right. Which is not right now.”
“I should quite like to accompany as well,” Harry marvels.
They both turn.
Harry clears his throat. “Should you need your own field guide, Miss Ritter.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cal says as Cora coos, “How chivalrous of you, Mr. Peyton.”
Cal frowns, which, to her surprise, sends a trill of delight up her spine. Is it really possible he tracked her down in the
middle of Central Park only to see her again?
No, that’s ridiculous, and far too self-indulgent.
“Sounds like it’s settled, Mr. Archer,” Cora adds breezily. “I’ll send word for when we might all visit together. Now, do
you mind if we continue on with our stroll without further imposition?”
“Of course.” Cal tips his hat and steps aside.
“Though I dare hope you don’t consider the free and independent press an imposition,” he calls after her.
She smiles and turns.
“If you ask me,” he says, “my paper’s playing quite an important role in your whole affair.”
That strangely loaded term, affair, might alone be enough to send her off-balance, but the scoundrel also has the cheek to wink at her.
That said, this off-kilter feeling is not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
“Good day, Mr. Archer,” she says.
“Good day, indeed.”
“Are you all right, Miss Ritter?” Harry ventures, once Cal’s gone. “You seem very flustered.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Peyton.”
“The blood vessels around your cheeks have dilated and your eyes appear glassy—”
“Simply because I’m with you.”
She winces, having meant for the words to come out as a flirtatious purr instead of a growl. Thankfully, her retort still
does the trick: Harry’s stopped walking and is now blushing himself.
“If that man was bothering you,” Harry says, puffing out his chest, “I am more than happy to have a word with his employers.”
As if this wide-eyed lad could even find his way to The Herald office alone.
“Oh, ah—no, no, Mr. Peyton, that won’t be necessary.” She flashes him her brightest smile. “Please. Let us enjoy our afternoon.
Now, what were you saying earlier, about your favorite spot in Central Park?”