Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“To maintain a dam to form a lake for pleasure purposes is an enterprise no less legitimate than to build a dam for running a mill wheel.”
Monty was furious. He stepped around Richard Hearst without his usual greeting.
The man blocked half the doorway of the Red Cross hotel, chatting with Jim Parkes, who whittled a wooden block in his aged hands.
Monty was in no mood to act friendly, though he should make himself.
Uncle Henry had declared war after two years of silence, and Monty’s blood boiled hot enough to scald anyone in his path.
His room was mostly empty, the other tenants either taking supper or utilizing one of the bathhouses at this time of the evening.
He removed his boots and eased onto his bed.
His weary bones sighed, grateful he no longer had to sleep on a hard pew.
Though this hotel was nothing like the luxurious Greenbrier or the Grand Hotel or even his personal quarters at Clayton, it was warm, functional, stocked with supplies, and protected him from the outside elements.
That made it the best public lodging he’d ever experienced.
Besides, he didn’t fit into the world of servants and ballrooms and debutantes anymore—as Uncle Henry had reminded him. This was Monty’s world now, and these were his people. He wanted it no other way.
Pain shot through his back, and he winced.
His whole body hurt. The moldy plaster inside the church wasn’t salvageable, so they’d spent hours ripping it out.
Ernie wasn’t much help with physical labor, so they’d sent him to Red Cross headquarters for more disinfectant.
He returned with Annamae and a wagon full of cleaner.
At first, Monty’s dirty, sweaty appearance embarrassed him.
Then the heat of attraction had softened Annamae’s hazel eyes, and he set all reservations aside.
A working man was likely the only kind she’d ever known.
He needn’t bring aspects of his old life to impress her.
Annamae wore her heart out in the open, without false simpering flirtation or guile.
She didn’t claim her role as a respectable lady while acting otherwise behind closed doors.
The pretense of society had always made his stomach sour. At least here folks didn’t hide their secrets behind expensive cigars and glittering jewels.
That was what he liked about Annamae—plus her grit, her intellect, her caring and serving heart.
For years, Aunt Adelaide had scolded him for being too picky when he had scores of young women from the cream of society offering their attention.
He hadn’t wanted any of those women. Sure, they were beautiful on the outside, but then what?
Time passed, and beauty faded. He wanted a woman who challenged him, inspired him, and wanted to work beside him.
Annamae was that woman.
Walking to the commissary after Sunday service with her on his arm had felt as natural as breathing. He’d rarely been that comfortable with anyone, and he sensed he could tell her anything.
Except that he was Henry Clay Frick’s nephew.
How would she feel about him, knowing he came from the very family she held responsible for killing her father? She would see him differently. Might even hold him as responsible as Uncle Henry simply for sharing the same blood.
Which made his need to keep her from getting involved in any investigation critical.
Monty had been dismissed from his uncle’s home and his uncle’s life the day he packed his luggage for seminary and denounced the offered position at Frick & Company.
Since he and his uncle no longer shared ties, there was no reason for Annamae to know of his heritage.
The time would come for that later. Right now, she was asking too many questions.
His uncle was a dangerous man when threatened, and Monty wanted to keep her out of it.
The battle was between him and his uncle, and it was about to get ugly.
The audacity of Uncle Henry to freeze his accounts in Pittsburgh, claiming they awaited proof that Monty had survived, was hogwash.
Pretending he cared and wanted to make certain no fraudulent schemes would infiltrate Monty’s inheritance.
As if any of them were concerned whether he’d lived or died.
Uncle Henry was Monty’s closest relative, and Monty’s inheritance, pennies compared to his uncle’s fortune, would fall to Uncle Henry upon Monty’s passing.
Unless he married, of course. Uncle Henry was freezing Monty’s accounts to make a statement as to the power he wielded over his nephew.
Monty swung his legs up onto the bed, leaned back against the wall, and placed a book on his bent knees. He reached for his writing materials on the small crate beside the bed. He pressed the pointed lead to paper and let the slanted dips and swirls speak his frustration.
He opened his letter demanding that Uncle Henry unfreeze his accounts.
He also informed his uncle that he had issued sufficient proof to the bank of his existence.
Satisfied, Monty added, You know as well as I, the flood that destroyed Johnstown was caused by the club’s oversight to properly repair the dam.
Members were aware of its deteriorating condition.
At your very table, I heard you shirk responsibility for the faulty structure and insist the carriage road be lowered and widened for the convenience of two carriages to pass simultaneously.
You have a responsibility to the people of Johnstown.
If you do not fulfill it, I will release your name and every detail regarding your dealings at the club to every reporter here.
Uncle Henry had always appreciated forthrightness, so Monty closed there and signed his name.
He folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote the address on the outside. First thing tomorrow, he’d take the letter to the temporary post office set up on Walnut Street and pay its postage. Then he’d wait to see how long it took for money from Frick & Company to roll into town.
I’M WELL. Stop. BUSY. Stop. RETURN UNCERTAIN. Stop.
Annamae knew she should say more to Matthew but didn’t wish to pay extra to include details she could relay the next time they saw each other.
She also didn’t want to give him false hope.
He didn’t stir her blood the way Monty did with a single look.
He didn’t provoke her to confront the hard things in life the way Monty did.
While Matthew wanted to shield her from work, Monty seemed to enjoy her working beside him.
There was no question who held her true affection. And though Monty was here now, he wouldn’t be in Washington when it was time for her to return home. The idea of going back to her sparse apartment, where she would spend every evening alone, made her stomach hollow.
What if Monty didn’t ask her to stay?
If he did, would she?
“Is this all, miss?” The lanky man behind the counter raised one eyebrow over the gold spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His fingers drummed on the surface between them.
“Yes, thank you.” She handed him the paper and the appropriate coins then watched him tap the message.
The room was full of people on both sides of the counter.
Judging by the yawns and purple shading beneath their eyes, the telegraph operators worked around the clock to send and receive messages for the residents, military, volunteers, and reporters.
Everyone was working themselves to the bone to serve one another and rebuild, while the club members remained silent.
An article in the morning edition of the Tribune had made her breath quicken with fury.
Though the membership list was still a mystery, an investigation into the club’s financial status revealed that the club itself was invested at thirty-five thousand dollars and that twenty thousand was owed in mortgage, leaving a mere fifteen thousand to be distributed among victims should the club be declared guilty by a court of law.
Since lawsuits would be filed against the club and not wealthy individual members, there wasn’t enough capital for survivors to collect in restitution.
Not that any amount, no matter how large, would right the wrong.
Yet, the knowledge that those men would once again get away with murder feasted on Annamae. She couldn’t sit idle and allow it to happen. Someone needed to stop them, and if she had to be the sacrifice, so be it.
The telegraph operator returned. “Message sent, miss.”
She thanked him and wove through the press of men to the exit.
The street was full of workers restoring the city’s street lamps and cable car tracks.
The air smelled of dirt and sweat, and the reek of decay lingered.
A man holding a shovelful of dirt spun and almost collided with her.
A dark clump rolled off the pile and onto her skirt.
“Sorry, miss. Take care to watch where you’re going. ”
She should take care?
Ignoring his rudeness, she yanked at her skirt to dislodge the clod and moved around him. Good thing the fabric was similar in color to the stain. She hoped to see Monty later today and wished to be presentable.
A shingle constructed from a crude plank of wood hung from the building across the street.
NEWSPAPER OFFICES. Like a beacon, she went toward it, unsure why.
For news of the investigation, she supposed.
A desire to see justice burned like fire in her heart.
The restless agitation, the sour taste of bitterness, stayed with her like a festering wound.