Chapter 5
August 3rd, 1881Five Points, Manhattan, New York City
The clock had just struck nine, too early in the evening for Henry to be losing himself to the sinful wisps of an opium-induced daze. But that wasn’t stopping him. Tucked away in a clouded private booth of a prestigious opium den, he melted into the oriental cushions of the sofa as he swallowed mouthfuls of vapour from the tail end of an ivory pipe.
He had never smoked opium in its purest form until he came to New York. Laudanum contained a minuscule amount mixed with an alcohol solution, thus the euphoric effects were only enough to induce sleep. Unlike laudanum, however, opium from a pipe was transcending.
It brought forth dreams within dreams in a timeless sanctuary. Whispers of romance fluttered into his ears. In the soft, dancing smoke of the den’s essence-burning, velvet-cushioned decadence, forbidden thoughts were no longer taboo. They were alive, deliciously intoxicating him with grand delusions of what could be. It was pure bliss. And it made him think of her … of his Eva.
Granted, the practice itself was pathetic. One sat in the muted dark with strangers, smoking from a pipe and consequentially passing out on a bed of pillows and furs, like a drunkard in an alley. It was not glamorous. If anything, it was pitiful. But since the day his father had confessed to killing his brother and grandfather and forced Henry into marriage with threats against his sister, pitiful he had become, and so pitiful he would be. That did not mean throwing complete caution to the wind, however. If his plan for freedom were to work, he had to tread carefully.
Henry cast a glance at Angelo.
Across the jewelled table of gold, Angelo sat within his own mountain of pillows with a man’s lips at his throat and an opium pipe laid carelessly across his lap.
Despite the altercation at McGlory’s Armory Hall, Angelo continued to soften Henry with subtle acts of manipulation. There was vulgar entertainment, promises of drugs, and whispers of power. While that would work on most men, it would not on Henry. After years of dealing with his devil of a father, he knew better. He recognized the signs of greed. Angelo was after something, and Henry intended finding out what it was.
Angelo’s head rolled forward, and he opened his eyes. Through his thick lashes, his sleepy gaze acknowledged Henry. A faint smile crossed his thin lips.
“John, I think my friend may want to join us,” Angelo said.
The man attending to Angelo turned to look at Henry. “Friend?”
“More accurately, my brother-in-law,” Angelo said. “I heard he refuses to fuck my sister. What do you make of that?”
“Maybe your brother-in-law enjoys other pleasures.”
“Or perhaps, I simply do not want to copulate withyour sister,” Henry said sternly.
“How unfortunate that you must conceive the next Asheford generation,” Angelo said.
“Right.” Henry’s tone was filled with contempt. He straightened, tossed the pipe onto the table and glared at Angelo. “Shall we get to the matter of business, or have you called upon me to discuss my marital bed?”
Eyeing Henry, Angelo ran a tongue over his plump bottom lip. He pulled John in by the neck and kissed him hard. Slowly, Angelo’s dark lashes lifted. Hard eyes the colour of coal locked onto Henry.
Henry pressed his lips together as discomfort crawled the length of his spine. It is all a game of manipulation. Don’t give in to his intimidation. Holding Angelo’s gaze, he withdrew a cigarette from his silver case. As far as distractions went, a cigarette was better than another hit of the opium pipe.
John drifted out of their private quarters, leaving a faint trail of sweat in his wake.
Henry nibbled the inside of his lip. He was alone at last with Angelo, who had been softened by drugs and his concubine’s affections. It was the perfect time to strike. He leaned forward, elbow on knee, to offer Angelo a cigarette.
Angelo did not hesitate to pluck one from the case. He lit it with a fresh match and leaned back on the red velvet cushions.
“I spoke with your father,” Angelo declared.
Henry’s brows raised. “Oh? What did he have to say?”
“He has told me tales about your reluctance to join the family business.”
“Has he?”
“He has also told me not to trust you. Why is that?”
Henry’s lips twitched. So, Angelo wanted to speak about loyalty. About damned time.
“My father is stuck in his ways,” Henry said nonchalantly. “He’s trying to force me into a mould that does not fit. It is true I am reluctant to join his side, but only because he refuses to allow me the chance of modernizing the company.”
“Modernizing?”
“Smuggling can only last for so long. The world is changing, laws will soon be set in place, and the police, well, those bastards are only getting smarter,” Henry said. “To survive the next couple of decades, the company must expand into new territories – gambling, extortion, politics. Not petty theft or stolen treasures from foreign crypts. I’m talking about infiltrating the highest levels of power.”
Lies, upon lies, upon lies. He had spent many nights practising what to say to make his act as Henry the willing heir more believable. With Angelo’s evident lust for power, it was easy to craft a speech that would make the man’s eyes sparkle with greed.
“I understand,” Angelo said. “Sometimes, our old men feel threatened by what their sons can achieve, so they try to suffocate the flame before it burns them alive.”
Henry nodded. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
“There is something in you that I admire after all.”
“Oh?”
Angelo flashed a sardonic smile. “It would seem we are forged from the same metal.”
A smile lifted the corners of Henry’s lips. This was his chance to press his advantage. “Indeed, I hope that one day, an understanding could be formed between us.” As soon as the words left his mouth, disgust overwhelmed him; it always did when he kissed Angelo’s perfectly shined leather shoes.
Angelo exhaled a puff of grey smoke. “Likewise. In fact, I will let you in on a potential trade deal between your father and me. It’s been long in the making.”
Henry’s chest tightened with nervous excitement. Could this be the pistol trade hinted at in the stolen ledgers?
“The problem lies with the third party involved. His name is Tsing and he rules the Chinese quarter in the city. Truth be told, the trade would have happened months ago if it were not for the superstitious bastard’s trust issues with your father.”
Henry snorted. Wise man.
“And, truth be told, I cannot entirely blame him. Doing business with Limeys can be risky, given your nature to … well, dominate.”
“The same could be said about the Yanks these days. They have a tendency to not listen and act on impulse,” Henry said.
Angelo threw back his head and laughed. “That’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to speak boldly. It takes a real man to say such a thing to my face. Going forward, however, I must continue to sway Tsing on the matter. Until then, I suppose we can continue enjoying the subtle pleasures of life.”
“We?”
Angelo’s brows pulled together. “Do you imagine I told you this for fun? No, my dear Asheford, we are brothers now and should trust one another. It is to our mutual benefit.”
The corners of Henry’s lips curled. Careful not to show too much enthusiasm at the sudden openness of the conversation, he stubbed out his cigarette.
“Brothers,” Henry said, the word bitter in his mouth. “I had a brother once. He was older than me by three years, with ashen eyes, hair the colour of sable, and a laugh that echoed like the booming crash of a wave against the cliff. We were close, as brothers should be.” Henry paused and looked at Angelo. His throat was nearly swollen shut by a hard, angry ball of sorrow. “I would have quite literally killed for him.”
Angelo took a drag on his cigarette. His dark gaze was distant, a subtle smile touched his lips, and he slowly exhaled smoke. Clearly something that Henry had confessed to had pleased him, as he had accurately assumed it would. Words of loyal devotion would sway any crime lord with an ego the size of Angelo’s.
“Wait for my orders,” Angelo said.
“Certainly.”
Pleased with himself, Henry picked up the opium pipe. As if celebrating their soon-to-be prospect, they took a hit from their pipes. After exhaling a cloud of smoke that would rival a volcanic eruption, Angelo lazily smiled and melted back into the cushions. He may be enjoying a rush, but Henry was not. Hours earlier, he had greatly diluted the drug with tobacco while Angelo was busy fetching his male concubine. The game for freedom was simple. All it required was careful manipulation, well-crafted lies and a willingness to deceive.
“While we’re on the topic of giving orders, will you, for the love of God, give my sister what she desires?” Angelo added. “Otherwise, she will continue to annoy the pair of us with her pathetic mewls for attention.”
***
Midnight had fallen on New York. Even though the city was lit by a million twinkling lights from every building, Henry walked through the darkness of his marital home in hushed footsteps to avoid waking anyone. The stale air in the corridor carried the scent of a supper he had yet again missed.
His mind still clouded by his evening at the opium den, he stumbled into his bedchamber and accidentally slammed the door. He winced. You fool. That will wake your wretched wife. He steadied himself with a palm against the door and locked it with a key from his waistcoat pocket.
With a heavy sigh, he returned the key to his pocket and pressed his lips into a determined line. As much as he loathed being in his marital home, brooding about it would do nothing for his downtrodden spirit. Besides, the meeting with Angelo had filled him with fresh hope that his potential plan of escape would soon come to fruition. Perhaps there was indeed a reason to be jolly for once. Yes, tonight he would celebrate.
He turned from the door to glance around his bedchamber. His lips fell to a frown. This was not the bedchamber of a healthy soul.
The faint glow from a neighbour’s window transformed his room into a place of shadows. Against the back wall was a four-poster bed with dishevelled sheets. To the right of the door was his polished mahogany desk, covered in half-written letters, newspaper clippings, empty teacups and spilled ink. His private, locked trunk, bought on his first day in New York, was against the wall to the right of his desk. It held a smaller suitcase, also locked, with his personal belongings: wads of cash, his pistol, letters from Clarkson and Lottie, and his most prized possession, Eva’s phone and all the gadgets that went with it.
His room was unclean and for good reason. About a week ago, he caught a maidservant prying around the keyhole of his trunk. She claimed she was polishing the metal, but Henry saw her shove a pin into it and shake the lid a few times before he stepped into his bedchamber to put a stop to the intrusion. He immediately released her from service. Since then, he had held himself under strict rule to keep an eye on the activities in his household. If he were caught planning an operation against Edwin and Angelo, he would surely be executed in the gutter like poor Rocco.
Loosening his black waistcoat, he made his way to the liquor cabinet on the left side of the room. He removed the waistcoat, set it on the bench at the foot of his bed and poured a glass of whisky.
A knock sounded. “Husband?” Fanny’s shrill voice called from the other side.
Henry stilled.
She pounded on his door with her fist. “I know you are in there, husband. I heard you slam the door.”
He practically crushed his teeth by the force of clamping down so hard. For a moment, he considered standing still to avoid arousing any suspicion of his presence, in the hope she would give up and retire to her bedchamber.
“Husband?”
She will not leave, and you know it.
“For Christ’s sake,” Henry growled as he set the whisky decanter down hard. He stormed to the door, unlocked it and opened it wide.
“What do you want?” he said, his voice echoing down the darkened corridor.
Before he had time to look at Fanny properly, she flew into his bedchamber in a flash of pink and a cloud of feathers. Hands on hips, she planted herself at the foot of his bed.
“Why is your bedroom always so dark and dreary? At least have the decency to light a candle,” she said.
His face twitched. The nerve of this woman.
Then he noted her figure.
Even in the darkness, he made out a pink nightgown, tied at the waist with a silk bow and framed with a fluffy plumage of exotic feathers at the hem. While the gown fitted every angle of her thin body, the collar plummeted toward her navel, showing off the swell of her breasts.
He narrowed his eyes. “What in God’s name are you wearing?”
“It is all the fashion in Paris,” she said, spinning to accentuate the dramatic flow of the dress. “My friends tell me their husbands cannot get enough of the sight.”
“It looks ridiculous.”
Like a bolt of lightning across a stormy sky, her expression transformed to intense irritation. “What will it take to please you, husband?”
“For one, you can stop calling me that.”
“Public habits are hard to brush off.”
“Then learn to manage them better,” he said, bringing his hands to his hips. “I am in no mood to argue about the attractiveness of a pink-feathered abomination. If there is nothing else you wish to say, leave me be.”
She crossed her arms and frowned. Her pout reminded him of a child denied a bag of sweets.
They had been married for a month and had yet to consummate their marriage. For weeks, she had pined for his attention, and he had refused to give in. Fanny was eleven years his junior but that was not all that repelled him. She was a chatty socialite, an entitled brat, and had every superficial characteristic that he despised with a passion. She was not witty. She had a grandiose air of pride. She did not love him, and he most certainly did not love her. Most of all, he hated how their relationship had been forced and he was expected by a handful of people to produce the next generation like some breeding animal.
A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of their children.
Hell’s spawn, for sure.
“Why must you be this way?” she said.
“I am rather bored by your concern for my well-being. If you have come to speak—”
She stomped on the floor with her tiny heel. “I have come to consummate our marriage. It is my right, and I demand that you give in to my needs.”
There it was. The dark depravity of entitlement lurking beneath her soft womanly features.
Henry’s lips twisted. “Leave me be, Fanny. I have told you a dozen times over that I have no desire to consummate anything with you.”
“Why must you treat me this way? I am your wife.”
“On paper. Nothing more.”
“And yet, you give me affection in the public eye,” she said.
“Affection? Because I speak with you in front of your friends? Because I may hold your arm as we cross the busy intersection? I can assure you, my dear, that is not affection, and even if it were, it would all be for appearances. After all, as members of high society, are we not taught to grin and bear it through the miserable lives forced upon us?”
She approached him.
A head or two shorter, she barely reached his shoulders. Her black hair was pulled tight across her scalp in an intricate wrapping of jewelled pins, and her eyes bore the intensity of a lioness about to strike down her prey.
His jaw clenched.
She grabbed his hand and boldly brought it to her right breast. “How can you keep resisting this? I know you want to give in; I can see it in your face.”
He pulled his hand away. “Desperation does not become you.”
“Perhaps I must be more bold, dear husband,” she said and swept his groin with her pointed fingers.
He jolted away and glared down at her. “I would ask that you mind yourself,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Your behaviour is despicable and unbecoming of a lady of your stature.”
“Are you queer?”
“Good God,” he groaned, running a hand over his face.
“That is what my brother claims.”
“He says that about all the men he encounters.”
A slow smile dawned on her lips. “Ah yes, forgive me, how can I ever question your sexuality when I caught you with that spinster girl at Asheford Hall?”
His heart hammered. “I beg your pardon?”
“What was her name? Janet? Joan?”
“Jane,” he said breathlessly.
“You would remember her name,” she snapped. “Jane Edwards. How could I forget such a plain name that went with an even plainer visage?”
He glared at Fanny. “What do you mean you caught me with Jane at Asheford Hall?”
“A little bird told me.”
“I do not take kindly to riddles,” he said, leering at her.
She exhaled with a pout. “Since you asked so nicely, I paid one of your maidservants to keep watch on you during our courtship days.”
It took everything within him to hold back an outburst of profanities. “You had my own servant spy on me?”
She shrugged. “I am a Davenport. Of course I did.”
“Out.” He pointed to the door. “Now.”
She raised a finger to his chest. Her nail dug into his skin like a dagger as it slid down his shirt. “But that is in the past, darling. We are married now. If it helps, you can pretend I am Jane Edwards when we consum—”
“I said out!”
She stomped her foot. “Fine. I’ll go consummate with the butler, then!”
“Do it. I dare you. It’ll give me more reason to divorce you and leave you a penniless socialite.”
“You can be so cruel.”
“And you can make a grown man want to drink himself to oblivion. Consummate with the entire household for all I care, you will never have me. Now leave me be, I beg you.”
He trailed her to the door. As soon as she stepped into the shadows of the corridor, he turned the key. Head burning and still swimming in the fading haze of opium, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
He needed to escape.
Salivating for a drop of laudanum, he dug his nails into the smooth wood of the door. You need to control yourself. God forbid his addiction spiralled because of moments like this that tested his willpower. Tonight, he would forgo the whisky and the laudanum for the next best thing.
He retrieved Eva’s phone from the trunk. Without removing his clothes, he crawled into bed and sunk into the softness of his pillows. The cool silk sheets comforted his burning face. If only they would have the same effect on his blazing mind.
With a swift glide of his finger, he unlocked the phone.
Eva’s radiant face greeted him. She stood before the ocean with the wind caught in her honey-coloured locks. Her smile was bright, making her freckled nose crinkle. Even more beautiful were her warm hazel eyes, made green by her thick dark lashes.
He smiled as he ran a thumb over her full lower lip. It was an action he had done countless times when they were together.
Before he left for New York, he had made a quick stop at Asheford Hall. Not just to say goodbye to his sister, Lottie, but also to fetch a few of his belongings. Finding Eva’s futuristic things in his trunk had been like a mallet to the chest. Still, her phone and its contents had been a godsend.
Every morning, he made a point of waking early and discreetly charging the phone with her solar-powered charger. It usually took about an hour to gain enough power for his nightly routine of looking through her photographs and, eventually, falling asleep to her music. At first, the act had felt intrusive. The discovery of the photographs and moving pictures captured moments of her life in the twenty-first century. Powerless against his curiosity, he couldn’t help but dive deeper into the sights she had seen and the sounds she had heard. The one thing he regretted most about their early days together was that he hadn’t spent more time asking questions. He had been too afraid of falling in love with a world he would never see.
Like most nights, he started by selecting the song Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd.
When the rhythm picked up, so did the ache in his heart. He imagined Eva running through a field of blooming wildflowers with the summer wind in her hair.
She turned to face him, and a smile lit up her face. Her eyes, brimming with the warm reflection of the sun, glinted with a reassuring happiness.
Look, Henry, I’m as free as a bird now.
“Yes, you are, my beautiful imp,” he whispered. “Yes, you are.”
The edges of his lips curled as this soothing thought lulled him to sleep.