Chapter 28 #2
Mrs. Taft’s face brightens with surprise. “Why, how splendid to hear you speak at last! Only yesterday, your husband said you were stricken with nerves. And yet here you are, so composed. How well you seem today.”
I force a smile, though my throat is tight. “Yes…much improved.”
“Oh, but how dreadful for him,” she goes on, slipping her hand through my arm. “You mustn’t sit alone. Come, join us.” And there he is. Vest. Tie. Glinting badge. Sitting beside Mr. Taft, as if the whole arrangement had been staged. As if he’d been waiting for me.
A chill grips my spine as I lower myself beside Mrs. Taft.
Mr. Taft beams. “Good morning, my dear. Have you met Mr. Pennington?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Mr. Taft seems just as gleefully surprised to hear me speak.
“Good morning,” Pennington says, his expression polite, unreadable.
Mrs. Taft fans herself. “Mr. Pennington is a detective. How thrilling to have him aboard with us.”
I swallow hard. “Thrilling indeed. What sort of cases do you handle, Mr. Pennington?”
“All manner of criminals. Often men who have taken what isn’t theirs,” he replies.
My throat tightens, but I laugh lightly, as if he has told a clever jest. Harmless, Alice. Be harmless. A silly wife with no notion of the world beyond her teacup.
“My husband would be delighted to hear your stories,” I say smoothly, “though he is sadly confined to our cabin this morning.”
Pennington does not give anything away. “I should very much like to meet him.”
My blood runs cold. Every word I speak binds me tighter to Kodiak’s lie. To play the dutiful wife is to shield him, but to shield him is to damn myself beside him. This was not how I’d imagined this playing out.
Pennington studies me as if searching for a lie. “And where is home, Mrs. Byron?”
“Ohio,” I say smoothly. “Cincinnati.”
“Ah. A fine city.” He sets down his cup. “And yet you boarded at New Orleans?”
I force a smile. “We’ve family there. My husband wished for me to meet them.”
His expression remains mild, but his eyes sharpen. “And how long have you and Mr. Byron been married?”
“Three years,” I say, the lie slipping out silky smooth. My hands tremble beneath the table.
“Three years.” He repeats it softly, as though testing the words.
Mr. Taft chuckles, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Your husband is a large fellow, quite a presence. Why, Mr. Pennington here was asking after him only yesterday.”
My fork slips against the china, the scrape far too loud in my ears. I school my face into a polite smile, though my pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
Pennington inclines his head. “Yes. Hard to miss a man like him on a vessel like this.” He leans back in his chair. “What line of business is he in, Mrs. Byron?”
The room seems to hush around me. Every path feels dangerous—too plain, too evasive. My palms sweat against the napkin in my lap.
“He manages accounts,” I say. “Trade matters. Boring things, I fear.”
Mr. Taft chuckles. “Ah, numbers. Not so boring when fortunes are at stake.”
I set the cup down. “And you, Mr. Pennington? You must forgive me; I’ve done all the talking. What brings a detective aboard this ship?”
His eyes narrow a fraction, though his smile holds. “My business is varied. Merchants. Banks. Rail men.”
“You must travel constantly. Do you have family aboard, or are you alone in your work?”
His pause is slight, but I catch it. “Why do you ask? Do I seem in need of company?”
Mr. and Mrs. Taft laugh, delighted, but my stomach knots. He hasn’t answered at all. Only reminded me that he sees through me.
I fold my napkin in my lap, unfold it, fold it again, fighting to steady my hands. “Forgive me,” I say with a small laugh, feigned and fragile. “I suppose I was only making conversation.”
“Of course. Idle talk helps the voyage along,” he says. His spoon taps once against the rim of his cup. A delicate sound, though it makes me flinch. “And what does Mr. Byron call his business? You say he manages accounts. With which firm?”
The air drains from my lungs. “With several. He is…independent.”
“Ah,” Pennington says softly, as though the answer amuses him. “Independent. Then he must be quite capable with numbers. I wonder, did he study for it? At a university perhaps?”
“No. His father instructed him.”
“Indeed?” His eyes sharpen.
The room sways, the chatter of the dining hall fading to a dull roar. I want to flee, but Mrs. Taft’s hand rests lightly on my arm, pinning me in place as surely as a shackle.
She dabs her lips with her napkin. “Mr. Pennington, you do ask the most questions. Like a true detective at his work, never content until every fact is laid bare.”
Mr. Taft joins her with a genial chuckle. “Yes, sir, one might think you were interrogating the poor lady.”
Pennington’s smile doesn’t waver. He turns his cup slowly between his fingers.
“One never knows who they may meet, Mr. Taft. Or what small detail might serve to turn over a stone in some larger matter. Every conversation can yield a clue, if one listens closely.” His gaze fixes on me.
“For instance, perhaps you recall, Mrs. Byron, a case that made the Ohio papers. A murder and a kidnapping at a roadside inn.”
The room spins. The din of cutlery and laughter fades to nothing. My arms go numb, blood rushing in my ears. He knows. God help me, he knows. Or suspects enough that it will not be long before suspicion becomes certainty.
I manage a smile, brittle and weak. “I’m afraid I do not keep up with such dreadful things.”
“Of course not,” he says softly, as though humoring me. The weight of his stare tells me otherwise.
I lower my head. My plate is blurred, unrecognizable. All I can think is that he will not let us walk free from this ship. Desperate to move, to flee, I force myself calm. A hasty departure would mark me worse than any lie I have told.
Mrs. Taft prattles on about the ship’s arrival, about Galveston’s promenades, about the weather. God bless her chatter for filling the silence I cannot.
But Pennington is steady as a hunter. His cup sits untouched now, his hands folded as he analyzes my every move. My body trembles, and I struggle to steady it. If I stay, I will break. If I leave too suddenly, he will follow. I need a reason.
I dab my lips with the napkin and force a small, apologetic smile. “You must excuse me. The room is rather warm.”
Mrs. Taft squeezes my hand. “Of course, my dear. Do go and rest. I shall send a tray up for your husband.”
“Thank you,” I say. My legs are heavy as lead as I push back my chair. I do not look back, but I feel him rise. The weight of his gaze clings to me like a shadow.
I walk with measured steps toward the door, every muscle screaming to run. The roar of the dining hall fades as I pass through the doors into the open corridor.
“Mrs. Byron.”
His voice is low, only for me. Not polite now, not conversational. A summons.
I turn to find him standing a few paces off, badge glinting in the daylight.
“A word, if you please.”
A scream claws at my throat, but I choke it down. To run, to refuse, would damn me on the spot. Kodiak waits in our cabin—I ache to bolt to him—but instead I lower my head, my voice calm though my insides quake. “Of course.”
He leads me down the aft passage, his manner courtly, almost mocking. A narrow door opens into a writing room, empty and cool. When it shuts behind us, the hum of voices dies away. We are alone.
I turn to face him, pulse hammering. “What is it you want of me, Mr. Pennington?”
His gaze sharpens. “Truth, Mrs. Byron. Only truth.”
My fingers knot together, white at the knuckles. “And what truth is that?”
He studies me, head slightly tilted, as though measuring how quickly I’ll break. “That your husband is not the man you claim. That you are not the wife you pretend to be.”
The dam bursts. Tears spill hot down my cheeks, and I bury my face in my hands. “I-I was frightened,” I stammer, sobs breaking through. “Ashamed. I couldn’t cause a scene in front of the Tafts. They’re such kind people—Mrs. Taft especially—and I didn’t want her to see…”
His expression shifts, a shade of relief crossing it. “So. You are Alice Sherman.”
I clutch the back of a chair. “How do you know? How can you possibly know who I am?”
His mouth hardens. “Your kidnapping has been shouted across every Pinkerton office between Cincinnati and New Orleans. The Shermans want you home.”
My stomach twists. To them I was nothing but a farmer’s daughter. Chattel. And now they cry for me only because it suits their honor.
Pennington presses on, relentless. “As for the man you call your husband—Archibald Randolph. Known as Kodiak. He is a thief, a murderer, a marauder of trains and homes alike. There are families who will never sleep sound again because of him. There is blood on his hands in three states. He will hang,” Pennington says flatly.
“On that you may depend. And you, Mrs. Sherman, you will be returned to Ohio. Where your family waits for you.”
“Then…you mean to take him before we make land?”
“When the time is right,” he says evenly. “If he is cornered too soon, others may be harmed. I will go speak with the captain now. He’ll see to it no one leaves this ship until the outlaw is in custody. He will be brought ashore in irons.”
The words make my stomach lurch. Ashore. In irons. Galveston will not be freedom but a noose. I let my voice tremble, feeding his certainty that I am weak. “And what of me?”
“You need not fear,” Pennington replies, softer now, almost reassuring. “The moment you are free of him, your ordeal will be over. You will be restored to your people.”
Those are not my people. The Sherman’s were never my people. Not Joseph or any of his ilk. My own family sold me to save themselves, and for years I excused them. They were never my people either. Kodiak has shown me true love, and if Mr. Pennington leaves this room, Kodiak is as good as dead.
“Oh,” I say, feigning relief. “Thank you, Mr. Pennington. Thank you.”
He nods once, stiff and proud. “I will notify the captain now,” he says, turning away.
I cannot let him go. Not with that promise. Lord forgive me. My hand slides to my waist, prying under my blouse. Unsheathing it from its buckskin sleeve, the knife is cool in my palm. My hand shakes, but I step forward, blade hidden at my hip.
“Mr. Pennington.”
He pauses, then looks back. The polite mask remains, but curiosity and a sliver of caution sharpen his face. “Yes?”
For the barest instant, I see another path—confession, mercy, surrender. But it vanishes as quickly as it comes. If he leaves this room, Kodiak is finished. We are finished.
I raise the knife, hands trembling around the bone handle, and drive it hard into his heart.
His breath bursts out in a ragged gasp, eyes wide with shock. His hands clutch mine at the hilt, not pushing me away, not yet believing.
“Lord forgive me. I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears streaming. “So truly sorry. But I cannot let that happen.”
The sound he makes is soft, almost a sigh, as his knees buckle.
I stagger back, the knife slick in my hand, my heart hammering louder than a gun.
Kodiak is mine. And for him, I will damn myself.