Chapter Text
“Never met the gentleman myself.”
With words he’d spoken a short time before echoing in his head, Scott threw his top hat and cane onto the window seat and missed. The cane rolled to a halt at his feet as he dropped onto the end of his bed and stared at the plain white envelope in his hands:
Mr. Scott Lancer
8 Louisburg Square
Beacon Hill
Boston
A Pinkerton agent had delivered it to him in the street on the way home from the Harraways’ New Year’s Eve Ball. He’d told Scott what the letter said, extracted an “I’ll consider it” to relay back to his client and then departed.
As soon as the man was out of sight, Scott sank down on the kerb. He didn’t believe it. Until he read the long sloping handwriting for himself, he couldn’t believe it.
Kicking the cane away, he folded back the flap of the envelope: railroad and stagecoach ticket orders and a statement of intent with some instructions on how to get to a place called Morro Coyo. It barely constituted a letter, but he read the words at least a dozen times in the street before making his way home. The handwriting was well-formed. That was a surprise. From everything he’d heard about Murdoch Lancer, he’d imagined a cattleman with only basic schooling. Brief as it was though, if this message was anything to go by, his father was a man of some education.
“Father—he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” Flinging the folio aside, Scott loosened his tie and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. He wished he could picture a face, but he only had a name and feelings of abandonment and longing. It was time he grew out of both.
Damn, damn, damn—why had his father left it so long?
Scott picked up the letter again and stared at the copperplate handwriting. It was the first tangible proof Murdoch Lancer remembered his existence. Three years had passed since Julie burned his birthday telegram—three years—and eight months since he found out what she’d done. He’d told Grandfather he wouldn’t be tempted if and when his father tried to contact again. Why was he even considering making the journey? He must be crazy.
Stuffing everything back in the envelope, he shoved it into the top drawer of his dresser and began to get ready for bed. The man had some cheek writing to him after so long. He could go to hell.
The bed springs creaked as Scott slipped between the freshly laundered sheets and pushed the earthenware hot water bottle to one side with his feet. When he leaned over to turn off the lamp, his eyes fell on the daguerreotype photograph on the bedside cabinet. His mother looked so young and happy. She’d cared for his father enough to follow him to an unknown future on the other side of the country. Correction: to a foreign country. California was part of Mexico when Scott was born. Julie wouldn’t even go as far as St Louis for him, and they spoke English there. Nothing would have been familiar in California in the 1840s. All his mother had when she left Boston was faith in her husband.
That must mean something.
But, according to Grandfather, Scott’s father repaid faith with neglect. “Your mother bled to death on the side of a dirt road, because he waited too long to get her to medical help.”
Murdoch Lancer wasn’t even with her when she died. Bastard! The facts spoke for themselves. Didn’t they?
Head aching, Scott turned out the gas lamp. It made a small phut, and he lay back, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. If his father wanted to say something he should have said it years ago. “Damn him.” Scott rolled over and punched the pillow. He shut his eyes. Sleep. He’d know what to do in the morning if he could just get some sleep.
But his mind was too full of places and people, conversations and shadowy images. By the time he sat down to a late breakfast with his grandfather, he was no closer to making a decision. “Murdoch Lancer has invited me to visit him in California.”
“Indeed?” Grandfather lowered his knife and fork, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “No letter or telegram has arrived here. Who told you he wanted to see you?”
“A Pinkerton agent.” Scott rubbed his eyes. Sleet spattered the window panes, making the breakfast room appear jaded and gloomy, despite the fire in the grate. Even Grandfather looked haggard in the dim light. “He stopped me in the street on my way home from the party.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t some kind of joke staged by your do-nothing friends?”
Trust Grandfather. Scott drank coffee and tried to swallow his irritation. “I did consider the possibility.” But he’d discounted it almost as soon as the agent departed. The gentlemen Scott currently spent time with weren’t that imaginative.
They weren’t particularly responsible or productive either, which was why Grandfather disliked them, but they were good fellows. Scott enjoyed their company—most of the time. They went to all the best parties together, and there wasn’t a burlesque show, race track or gambling house in Boston that they didn’t know inside and out: alcohol, gaming and ladies, not necessarily in that order. Maybe the novelty was wearing thin, but it was better than being locked away in a plush office behind a pile of ledgers doing Grandfather’s bidding.
“The man was legitimate. He showed me identification and gave me this.” Scott passed the envelope containing the letter and ticket orders across the table.
Colour drained from Grandfather’s face as he read, but returning the letter to its envelope, he cast it dismissively onto the table. “It’s a ruse. Young Lowell or Blair financed it—guaranteed. You’ll be going off on a wild goose chase.” He sat rigid in his chair, eyes fixed on Scott, ignoring the coffee going cold in front of him. “Murdoch Lancer hasn’t shown any interest in you since your coming of age and that was cursory.”
The truth hurt, but Scott had already had a night arguing with himself. “It would be a rather elaborate deception and to what purpose? No, I believe the request is genuine, and I admit I’m curious.”
“He’ll want something from you.”
“Indeed, but what?” Reaching for the butter, Scott spread some on his toast. “It can’t be money. He’s offered me a thousand dollars for an hour of my time.” One thousand dollars was a huge amount, even by Boston standards.
“A bribe and probably a lie.”
“I thought that too at first, but why would a man go to the expense of paying travel costs in advance and employing the Pinkerton Agency only to renege on his offer? If he did that, I could leave immediately. And surely my father wouldn’t gamble on me being gullible enough to give the money back, let alone add to it.”
“Who knows how that man’s mind works?”
“It could be interesting to find out.”
Grandfather gave a derisive snort. “It shouldn’t make any difference what Lancer wants or thinks. You promised me only last year that it would never make a difference.”
“I know, sir, but I was upset then. I hadn’t thought everything through. Now my father has made contact again despite my silence. At this point, maybe accepting his invitation would be the right thing to do.”
“Honour and duty should only be shown to those who understand their worth, Scotty.” Grandfather pushed his half eaten breakfast aside and got up from his seat. “Garrett Enterprises needs you here. You know my views. For both our sakes, don’t do anything hasty.”
Scott nodded. “I’m going for a walk. Would you like to join me, sir?”
“Not today, Scotty. It’s too cold.”
“We could take the carriage instead. Some fresh air might do you good. You look pale.”
“I feel weary. I think I’ll just enjoy the holiday reading quietly in my study. But you go. You can tell me who you meet when you get back.”
New Year’s Day always brought the neighbourhood out to the Common if it was fine, but today the sky was grey and uninviting. Although the sleet had stopped, there was an icy breeze, and Scott walked quickly to keep warm. He saw the younger members of Bob Eliot’s family exercising their black spaniel, but he wasn’t inclined to go near them in case their sister had mentioned what had happened the night before. Captain Forster and the Winthrops passed in their carriages, but he saw no one else he knew. He was free to wallow in his thoughts about his father and California.
The Pacific Ocean, San Francisco and Carterville: he wanted to see so many places and do so many things. He’d followed the construction of the transcontinental railroad as though his future depended on it—at one time he’d thought it did. Even when he was in the army he’d scanned any newspapers that came his way for news of its progress. He was more realistic now, but if he accepted his father’s invitation he would travel that route and see the frontier he’d read so much about.
The visit could be short and to the point—get a few answers and teach Lancer he wasn’t needed or wanted—but the journey would enable Scott to experience the space and freedom of places where Grandfather had no influence. The very thought was exhilarating. Julie was right; St Louis would have been a stepping stone. He dreamed of further west.
Did his father share Scott’s urge for adventure and achievement? Was that what made him leave Scotland? Maybe Scott had inherited the hunger to build something of his own. He’d never know for sure if he never met Murdoch Lancer.
Scott paused by the ice rink, hugging himself to keep warm. A fine skin of frozen water was beginning to form. The weather had been too changeable for real ice, one week hopeful like spring and the next freezing cold; rather like his feelings towards his father. Last winter everything had been more settled. The snow had come early, and when he’d got back from St Louis he and Julie had gone skating almost every day. He wondered what she was doing now.
Not that it mattered. Their engagement was over. They still saw each other occasionally in company, but for the most part they kept their distance. He was still angry with her; he tried not to be, but he wouldn’t be in this predicament now if she hadn’t interfered. Her actions had wrong footed him with his father. She had robbed him of the moral high ground by not allowing him the opportunity to make his decisions and respond three years ago. One thing was for certain, this time he would respond; whatever the answer, he definitely would respond.
He spent the rest of New Year’s Day struggling to think rationally about the invitation, but his feelings kept getting in the way.
Grandfather was very considerate; surprisingly so. He didn’t raise the subject of Scott’s father once. He spent most of the afternoon in his study, and neither of them ate much at supper. Grandfather seemed distracted too, and he retired early.
Fear of upsetting him had been a large part of what kept Scott awake the night before; he slept better now the news was broken. By morning he admitted a truth he’d been denying to himself and others for years. “I want to meet my father, sir. I’m going to accept the invitation.”
Grandfather frowned. “You’re making a mistake. I won’t stand in your way, but going cap in hand to a man who has neglected you since childhood is ridiculous.” He coughed and reached out for the water jug, attempting to pour himself a glass. His hand shook, and some water spilled on the cloth. Scott mopped it up with his napkin. “Are you feeling all right, sir?
“I’m fine.” Lowering his glass, Grandfather removed his napkin and stood up. “I’ll expect you at the office at three. I’ve legal documents I need you to sign.”
As soon as Grandfather left for work, Scott sought refuge in his bedroom. He sat down at the writing desk and chose a sheet of fine white paper. After preparing his pen carefully, he made three false starts before producing a letter even shorter than the one he’d received. He could have resorted to a telegram, but despite his determination to treat Murdoch Lancer with indifference, he felt compelled to physically write to him.
I have a few matters to attend to first, but I will visit California as requested.
He delayed his departure a little, not because he really had business of great importance, but because he didn’t want to appear too eager. Let his father be the one to wait for a change.
Brave words for a son who wastes no time in posting the letter; Scott laughed at himself.
From the post office he went straight to the train station and exchanged the ticket orders for proper tickets. He decided not to stop anywhere longer than necessary on the journey to California; he would do his sight-seeing on the way back. Beginning the first leg aboard the Great Western on February 2nd, he’d change onto the Union Pacific at Omaha and the Central Pacific at Ogden near Salt Lake City.
“Business or pleasure, sir?” The ticket agent examined the ticket orders and then began checking timetables, noting arrival and departure times in pencil on a sheet of foolscap.
“I’m going to visit my father in California. We haven’t seen each other for several years.” It felt good to speak about his father in a normal way. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The ticket agent nodded. He was only half listening as he shifted his attention to a list on a clipboard beside him. “Hmm, excuse me for one moment, sir.” He left the counter and went into the back room. Scott heard the tap, tap of a telegraph. Then after a few minutes there was another tapping and the ticket agent reappeared. “There are limited trains for the final stage of your journey, and the demand for tickets is particularly high in February when the snow clears on the Sierra Nevada. You cannot afford to miss your connection in Utah.” Stamping each ticket as paid the agent passed them over the counter one by one.
Scott smiled and gathered up the tickets. He’d got a seat on the train out of Ogden on February 8th. There wasn’t another spare ticket until the end of March. “Don’t worry. I won’t be missing any trains.”
Dodging traffic, he crossed the road outside the railroad station and ventured into an emporium of trade goods that he’d walked past earlier. Strange how he’d never noticed the store before, but it was fascinating. There were all sorts of tools and equipment, and a new invention called barbed wire—lethal looking stuff. Maybe it would be something to talk about with his father.
When he left the emporium, he headed towards the Oyster House on Union Street. His stomach was starting to growl; it was nearly one o’clock. In a few short weeks he’d have boardwalk not pavement beneath his feet. He’d ride every day in the saddle. How long had it been since he’d done more than canter across the Common? Whistling cheerfully, he tipped his hat to passers-by and flicked pennies to two boys with their noses pressed to a candy shop window. Everything and everybody appeared bright and optimistic; 1870 was going to be a good year.
“Lancer!” Gerald Lowell stood up at a crowded table near the back of the restaurant as Scott entered. “We’re hiring a pavilion for the Spring Races in March. Will you join us?”
“Sorry, I’ll be out of town—visiting my father.”
“Your father? I didn’t know you had a father.” Lowell clapped him on the shoulder and made room at the table. “We’ll miss your company. But this calls for a celebration. Bartender: a round of drinks if you please.”
Scott laughed and accepted a beer. Anything and everything called for a celebration when Lowell was around, but on this occasion he was right. “I haven’t met him before. He’s a rancher in California.”
‘A rancher—well, that’s different.” Lowell stood up again and raised his glass. “A toast gentlemen: To Lancer. May the ladies of California fall at his feet and may his father be nothing like his grandfather.”
Scott and his friends roared with laughter and then spent most of lunch talking about the train trip west. He almost forgot he had an appointment, but the sight of an errand boy from Garrett Enterprises jogged his memory. “I have to go. I’ll meet you outside the Adelphi on Friday night.”
Hoping fresh air would remove the smell of beer and cigar smoke, he took a longer route and arrived at his grandfather’s office just before three.
“Take a seat, Master Scott. Mr Garrett has a client with him. He shouldn’t be long.” Lucas swivelled around in his chair and pulled a bell cord to let Grandfather know Scott had arrived.
But Scott didn’t feel like sitting. Stuffing his gloves in his pockets, he stripped off his hat and coat and wandered about looking at the paintings on the walls. They were mostly of Boston at various stages of its development. Tucked between two filing cabinets though, he discovered an illustrated map of the Pony Express. Cowboys and Indians were riding at full gallop through the wide open spaces of the American frontier.
“Dreaming of your cavalry days, my lad?”
Scott turned to find Dr Matthew Franklin standing behind him. He must have been the client ensconced with Grandfather. The door of the inner office was now open, and Lucas was ferrying files in and out.
“Happy New Year, doctor.”
The two men shook hands.
“No more trouble, I trust.” Dr Franklin nodded towards Scott’s right hand.
“No, sir, thank you.” Scott turned it over to prove it was completely healed. He’d visited Franklin soon after breaking up with Julie. One of the cuts had festered. The good doctor had removed a large splinter, and he’d had enough compassion not to ask how it got there.
Scott glanced towards his grandfather’s office. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Wrong? Oh, I see what you mean. No, Garrett just called me in to sign some papers before I left for my daughter’s in Rhode Island.”
“He’s not seemed quite himself the last couple of days.”
“No? Well, the doctor standing in for me is…” There was a loud noise like the sound of a chair falling over and then something heavier hit the floor.
“Help! Help!” A panicked Lucas appeared in the doorway. “Dr Franklin, thank goodness—”
Scott and the doctor rushed into the inner office before Lucas could get the words out. A chair was indeed on its side and Grandfather was trying to get up from the carpet, wheezing and coughing. He’d been sick.
“Stay where you are, man.” Dr Franklin crouched down and loosened Grandfather’s collar. He checked temperature and pulse as his patient leaned back against the desk, flushed and gasping for air. “What happened?”
While Lucas explained, the doctor sent Scott to fetch his medical bag from his buggy outside. Eventually they helped Grandfather up into a chair.
“I’m fine. I just came over a little dizzy.”
“You’re not fine. You’re heart seems all right, thank goodness, but I need to give you a more thorough examination.” Dr Franklin looked worried.
“Elijah Mitchell can do that. Your daughter is expecting you.” Grandfather accepted a glass of water from Lucas but brought it straight back up.
“Don’t give him anymore.” The doctor checked his watch. “I’ve time to see you home, Garrett. Mitchell can do the rest and call me back if need be.”
Hurrying outside, Scott hailed a cab. By the time they got Grandfather back to Louisburg Square and into his bed, the wheezing had eased, and he looked a little better. They tried him with a sip of water, and he managed to keep it down. Dr Franklin took a urine sample; then examined his patient again. He seemed a little happier. “No immediate danger, I think, but until we can determine what’s going on, you must stay in bed. Dr Mitchell will come to see you in the morning.”
Scott sat by his grandfather’s side until he fell asleep. The old gentleman was now very pale, and he looked unusually frail. Franklin used to joke that Grandfather had a pact with the devil, because he never suffered more than a head cold, but now his age and the possibility of losing him seemed very real.
Getting up, Scott began to sort through Grandfather’s clothes, emptying pockets so they could be laundered. Even the cuffs of his frock coat had vomit stains. Scott gazed at the array of oddments he piled on top of the tallboy: Grandfather’s pocket book; a pen; an invitation to tomorrow’s mayoral dinner—he wouldn’t be able to attend; a half-eaten peanut with the remainder still in its shell; some peppermints; a pocket knife and comb; and a number of coins. Grandfather was always so well-groomed. Who knew his pockets were as full of the detritus of life as any other man? Grandfather was human and not immortal; it was an uncomfortable realisation.
By the following day, the patient had regained some colour, but he barely ate. He complained of tightness in his chest and lethargy. Dr Mitchell was not much younger than Grandfather; in fact, they had been at school together and knew each other quite well. Mitchell had come out of retirement to care for Dr Franklin’s patients while he went on a two month vacation, but clearly they had very different methods. “The urine sample Dr Franklin took before departing offered no clues. He’s given me your notes to read, but as you have been in excellent health until now, I don’t expect they’ll be of any use. I’ve seen this type of condition before. It’s pulmonary in origin; a debility with uncertain prognosis. Some patients recover full health and others languish and die.” Scott didn’t find this particularly comforting.
However, Grandfather seemed unperturbed. “Don’t waste time reading notes that can’t help. I have every faith in your ability, Mitchell. What treatment do you propose?”
Adjusting his spectacles, the doctor puffed up with the compliment. “Complete bedrest, hot compresses and a tonic of my own recipe.” He made Grandfather lean forward so he could tap his back and listen with his stethoscope. “I’m confident we’ll get the better of this, but it’s fortunate your grandson is here to take the load until we do.”
Grandfather glanced up at Scott, but when their eyes met another bout of coughing racked the old man’s chest. Scott gripped the bed end, his heart sinking with every rasp. The chance to meet his father had turned to quicksilver, and it pained him to think he might not be able to hold on to it. God help him, he had no choice. “I won’t leave you like this, Grandfather. If necessary, I’ll postpone my trip.”
“I’m sorry, Scotty. For your sake, I wish there was another way.”
Scott doubted that was true, but it was pointless to say so.
For two days, despondency grew like a canker inside him. Dr Mitchell fussed and pontificated, but Grandfather appeared no better. Scott suggested they wire Dr Franklin to come back, but neither Mitchell nor Grandfather would have a bar of it.
Hope returned in the unlikely guise of his great aunt. Scott greeted her with unusual eagerness when she arrived from Worcester. She came for a few weeks every winter to shop and take tea with the high society dowagers of Boston. He was clutching at straws, but if medicine failed, maybe she could bully her brother back to health. Writing to Murdoch Lancer could wait. If Scott wasn’t able to board the train, he would write or send a telegram then.
Aunt Winifred commandeered the role of head nurse as soon as she walked through the door. “If you’re not a doctor, you’re no use in Harlan’s sickroom. This is woman’s work. Take yourself to his office where you can do some good.”
As if on cue Lucas arrived at the house with a box full of documents.
“I need you to step up, Scotty.” Grandfather reached over to the bedside cabinet and picked up a sheath of papers. “I asked my lawyer to draw up this Power of Attorney some months ago, in case there should ever be a need. It allows you to authorise day to day transactions up to five hundred dollars and gives you unlimited powers should I ever become physically or mentally incapable. I hasten to add I’m a long way off that now.” He smiled and coughed into his handkerchief.
Scott was stunned. He’d never expected this. Grandfather was the master accountant. While he was still breathing, he would never let go of the financial reins. By taking this one step he’d told Scott two things: first, he’d suspected he was seriously unwell before he collapsed, and second, his illness was genuine. God forgive him, but Scott had had doubts. Grandfather was such a wily old fox and his hatred of Murdoch Lancer ran deep.
Surprised by how much hope the possibility of trickery had given him, Scott turned away for a moment. There was still time for Grandfather to recover. Aunt Winifred was here now. Scott would depart on the second as planned. Breathing deeply and swallowing his fears, he picked up the pen. “Where do I sign?”
But the next few weeks were nothing short of wretched. Whereas his grandfather appeared to draw energy from getting suited up and going into the office each day, Scott found it drudgery. Lucas fed him a steady diet of loan agreements, insurance documents, share options, reports and accounts for review, begging letters and memoranda. Every evening Scott spent an hour going over the more complicated documents with his grandfather, getting advice and instruction on what to do. Certain files he never got to see. Lucas scurried back and forth between the office and Louisburg Square each morning, always leaving a few folders behind.
“There are some matters that are just too complex to explain, my boy.”
“But, sir, how will you ever get well if you don’t rest?” Maybe Scott would make mistakes, but the doctor said complete bedrest. Surely he didn’t mean sitting up giving dictation or sifting through business analyses and loan applications.
“I am resting. I’d go mad if I had nothing to keep my mind occupied, and you don’t have the experience yet to deal with everything.” Grandfather closed his eyes. Breathing still seemed difficult for him. If he’d stay lying flat perhaps he’d recover more quickly. As it was, he didn’t seem able to sustain conversation for more than a few minutes. “You’re a great help. I couldn’t manage without you, but we will do this together until I’m back on my feet. Then I’ll give you more training.”
Scott felt like he was drowning; in his dreams he could see the silhouette of his father standing on a distant shore, but Scott was anchored to the spot with the water rising. No one appeared to hold out any hope of Grandfather recovering before February, and if Scott missed his departure date there was no chance of him making that crucial connection in Utah. He could go earlier but not later. Dr Mitchell was the most optimistic, but even he assumed Scott would be working alongside Grandfather for the foreseeable future.
Grandfather soon seemed to have forgotten about Scott’s father and the proposed trip entirely. Scott found that disheartening, but it was perhaps preferable to Aunt Winifred, who remembered. She broached the subject of his father in some way almost every time they were alone. “How can you possibly want to meet a man you’ve had no contact with for twenty-four years?”
“Murdoch Lancer is my father, aunt.”
“I know who he is. I remember him all too well. That uncouth Scotsman made your mother’s life a misery.” Aunt Winifred passed Scott the potatoes and accepted the green beans in return. “Harlan wouldn’t tell you this, but it would break his heart if you went.”
“I’d come back. I only intend to visit.”
“But what does your father intend? That’s what I’d like to know. Mark my words it will be nothing good, not for you or your grandfather—Harlan has sacrificed so much for your benefit.” She wagged her knife at him. “Your father will ask you to sell the investments Harlan made for you. He’ll want you to plough the money into his ranch.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but your father can be very persuasive as poor dear Catherine found out. It’s a good thing your trip is cancelled. I’ve already lost one member of my family to the whims of that man. Please don’t put me through the grief of losing another. Your grandfather is in a very frail state, Scott. Any suggestion of you leaving Boston would upset him greatly. If you want society and excitement, there’s plenty to be had here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Scott stifled a yawn and chewed his food like it tasted of cardboard. He’d established early on that Aunt Winifred had conveniently mislaid any real proof of his mother’s unhappiness, but on the other hand, California and his father seemed to be moving further and further out of reach.
Nor was he likely to sample the many entertainments of Boston any time soon.
“Take advantage of me being here and go out to dinner or the theatre. It’s time you found yourself a good wife. That Dennison girl was never right for you, but I recall Harlan mentioned Miss Aston and one of the Eliot girls.”
“Beatrice, but it didn’t work out.” Scott shovelled carrots into his mouth. The sooner he finished this meal the better.
“She has cousins.”
“Yes. Miss Catherine Eliot is quite charming, but now is not the time.” After the fiasco at the New Year Eve’s ball there might not ever be a time—unless Bob could persuade her to give him another chance. That was a thought.
Scott sipped his wine and glanced over at his aunt.
Why was she frowning? Admitting even a passing interest in an Eliot should have had her over the moon and doing a jig.
“Isn’t she the eldest daughter of Dr and Mrs Robert Eliot?”
Scott nodded. He’d only mentioned Katie in the hope of getting his aunt off his back, but from the look on Aunt Winifred’s face, he probably should have kept his mouth shut.
“She wouldn’t be your grandfather’s first choice. Miss Jane Eliot would be better. The connection would be more useful.”
“More useful! Aunt Winifred, the interests of Garrett Enterprises do not dictate every aspect of my life.” The affront of the woman: who would have guessed? Even an Eliot was second best if her father wasn’t one of the politicians or businessmen that wielded so much power and influence on the Eastern seaboard. Scott much preferred Dr Eliot to any of his brothers, and he definitely preferred Katie to any of her cousins.
He escaped the table as soon as he could, and the following week he arranged things so he could take up his aunt’s offer, even though he didn’t feel much like socialising. Unfortunately, the only friends available were the men who had caused all the trouble with Katie Eliot in the first place.
“I really don’t know what you’re still so upset about, Lancer. It was only a bit of fun. If her friend hadn’t been eavesdropping, neither of you would have ever found out.”
“That’s not the point, Blair.”
“No, the point is you’re turning into a stick-in-the-mud.” Charlie Blair grabbed the back of Scott’s neck and shook him. “I introduced you to the very lovely Barbara Stanforth after Miss High-and-Mighty turned you down, and from the racket Old Man Stanforth made later, I’d guess you found her much more accommodating. You had a good time, Lancer. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
Scott forced a smile, pushing his friend away so he could finish his beer. Yes, the company had been enjoyable, albeit less valued, and there was no doubt he wasn’t in the best of moods at the moment. He’d had a good time on New Year’s Eve in the end. It wasn’t the fresh start he’d been hoping for, but it had been an adventure of a different kind. He’d left the Harraway mansion through a bedroom window, and he’d been on top of the world until the Pinkerton agent appeared.
Now the sky was falling, or at least mountains of paper; he was being buried alive without even a bell rope to pull, and his chances of meeting his father anytime soon were fast disappearing.
Three days after his night out, February 2nd dawned cold but sunny. His train—the one that should have taken him from Boston on the first stage towards California—would depart at noon without him. Grandfather was still unwell, and although Scott was not in the office for once, he was still equally trapped. He was with his aunt in a confectioner’s shop. They were supposedly buying chocolates for the invalid, but Scott knew who would eat most of them. “Some nice caramels will cheer Harlan up.”
“What about a few peanut clusters, ma’am? Freshly made.” The salesman leaned over with his tongs ready to lift one into the box.
“No, no, that would never do; my brother is allergic to peanuts. I’ll take some peppermint creams.” Aunt Winifred got her purse out of her handbag and went to pay while Scott pondered idly why he didn’t know his grandfather had an allergy. When he came to think about it, they never did have anything made with peanuts at Louisburg Square. That must be why.
But they were halfway home in a hired carriage when the significance of his aunt’s comment truly sank in. “Aunt Winifred, what happens to Grandfather when he eats peanuts?”
“Oh, it’s highly dramatic. He vomits and gets all wheezy and shaky. He goes red in the face at first and then deathly white. It takes him several hours to come right. We worked out what it was when he was about six after he threw-up in church. The Fowler boy had smuggled in a peanut brownie, and they’d shared it. Harlan vomited all over Miss Abernethy in the next pew.” Aunt Winifred chortled and patted Scott’s hand. “Your grandfather was quite a scamp as a boy. Later, he used to eat a peanut whenever he didn’t want to do something—until Father caught on and caned him.”
Scott stared straight ahead into the black leather of the carriage wall. It had all been a sham, a ploy to stop him from going to see his father.
As soon as they drew up outside the house, he jumped out, even before the carriage stopped moving. Ignoring the indignant protests of his aunt, he shouted at the coachman to wait and dashed upstairs, nearly bowling Jordan over in the process.
Scott burst into his grandfather’s room. His bed was empty. Where…? There he was. The old liar was enjoying a Corona on the window seat. The sash was wide open to get rid of the smoke. “How could you, Grandfather!”
“It’s only one cigar. I was feeling a little better.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Scott looked over at the chest of drawers. The peanut was still there. The maid had simply moved all the small items into a china dish. Scott grabbed the peanut and dropped it into his grandfather’s lap. “You ate one deliberately to make it look like you were seriously ill, and you’ve been faking it ever since. There’s nothing wrong with you, Grandfather, and I’m going to California.”
The clock on the dresser said eleven thirty. If he was quick he might make it. His bags were already two thirds packed with the lighter clothing he expected to need in a warm climate. He threw a few things on top and yelled for Jordan to help him get them down to the carriage.
“Lift one finger and I’ll sack you on the spot.” Grandfather glared the butler into a corner. Then he tried to block Scott’s path. “I don’t want you to go to California.”
“I know.” Scott pushed past him, carrying both suitcases downstairs by himself.
“Your mother—you know what happened.”
Scott swung around in the entrance hall. “I know your version of what happened, Grandfather, but it’s more than that. Why are you so against me meeting my father and judging the type of man he is for myself?”
“Because it’s a complete waste of time, and I don’t want him hurting you more than he has already.”
“More than you’ve just hurt me, you mean?” Scott didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t have time. He opened the front door and hurried down the stone steps.
“I need you here, Scotty.” Even in his dressing gown, Grandfather followed him onto the pavement. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with your best interests in mind.” As Scott threw his bags into the carriage, Grandfather grabbed his sleeve, forcing him to turn around. “I forbid you to go.”
“I’m not a little boy, Grandfather!” Scott actually snarled as he wrenched his arm free. He even surprised himself. He heaved himself up into the carriage. “The station: I need to be there by noon.” It was already thirteen minutes to.
The coachman cracked his whip and pulled the carriage away from the kerb.
Grandfather stood grim-faced and alone, staring after it. Scott looked back with a pang of guilt. He hated leaving like this; he felt disloyal. But Grandfather had brought it on himself. After Scott met Murdoch Lancer he would come back and make peace with the old fraudster, but he’d never let Grandfather have so much power over him again.
“Yah, get along there.” As soon as the carriage escaped Louisburg Square, the coachman whipped the horses and urged them to go faster. “Watch out!”
They hurtled down Mt Vernon Street and took the corner into Hancock at a reckless pace, forcing Mr Endicott to grab his wife and drag her to safety. With arms outstretched, Scott held onto the sides of the carriage as it pitched dangerously from side to side.
They crossed into Lynde Street and slowed. Wagons and coaches clogged the route. Scott stuck his head out the window. “Faster, man, faster. It’s five to twelve.”
Forcing a hack to stop suddenly, the coachman passed a brewery dray and pressed his horses to a break-neck speed, leaving angry pedestrians, carters and coachmen in their wake.
But a minute later he had to rein the horses in. A wagon stacked high with lumber and a funeral procession coming from the other direction blocked the road.
“Pull over!” Scott leaned out the window, shouting and waving his arms, but there was nowhere for the wagoner to go. It wasn’t until the next intersection that he could let them by.
Suddenly, a siren sounded in the distance. The shipyards. The end of the morning shift.
“Shit!” Scott thumped the carriage wall.
Counting seconds now, he prayed for a miracle as the main station came into view.
They careered along the street with the coachman yelling, “Out of the way!”
Finally, the horses pulled up hard at the entrance as the big hand of the station clock inched to the nine minute mark.
Scott leapt onto the pavement, and a train whistle blew.
Abandoning his luggage, he raced into the station. He tore across the mosaic tiles of the ticket hall. Passengers queued at the entrance to the platforms, but Scott had no time left. He vaulted over the barrier and ran towards platform two, ignoring the angry shouts of a station attendant behind him.
Billows of steam obscured his view. Trains waited on several platforms. There was a train at platform two, but dear God, it was moving.
“Stop!”
“Stop!”
But he was too late.
The caboose cleared the platform as Scott reached the top end. The train and all hope of meeting his father for the next two months were gone.
Bending double, Scott gripped his knees and gasped for air.
“God damn it to hell!” He straightened and looked up at the roof, blinking back his frustration.
“May I see your ticket, sir?” A platform attendant with auburn whiskers panted up to him.
That’s all he needed. “There’s no point. I’ve missed my train.”
“No one is allowed onto the platforms without a ticket.”
Scott stared at the man in disbelief and gritted his teeth. “I’m leaving now.”
He strode back to the barrier where the coachman waited with his luggage and the hat he’d lost running through the ticket hall. There had to be a way. Maybe there was another train or route he could take for the eastern section. Maybe he could hire a horse and cut across country at some point to make up the lost time.
“Bad luck, sir.” The coachman lifted the bags up and rested them on the barrier. Scott would have to wait for the throng of in-coming passengers to clear before he could get back through. “Do you want a ride back to Beacon Hill?”
“Thank you but no. I’ll go to the booking office. The ticket agent might have some ideas.” Scott took hold of his suitcases and put them down on his side of the barrier. Then he gave the coachman five dollars for his trouble.
“Thank you kindly, sir.” The coachman touched his hat and headed off to find another fare.
“Excuse me, sir, but I must insist on seeing your ticket.” The platform attendant was back at Scott’s elbow.
“For goodness sake.” Scott extracted the ticket from his inside pocket. “There. See. I have a ticket for the twelve o’clock train to Albany, platform two.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s what I thought.” The attendant produced a clipper out from nowhere and clipped the ticket.
“What the hell are you doing? I want to exchange that if I can.”
“Platform sixteen, sir.” The attendant pointed to the far end of the station.
“What?”
“Platform sixteen, sir.” The infuriating little man flicked open the large gold fob watch chained to his vest. “You have four minutes. If you’d gone through the gate in the proper manner, you would…
For a second Scott just gaped. Then he came to his senses. “You mean my train is still here?”
“Delayed by unforeseen circumstances, sir. It will leave from platform sixteen at twenty past twelve on the dot…You now have three minutes.”
The pompous—Scott could have kissed him.
He picked up his suitcases and ran.
It was hard going carrying bags, and by the time he reached platform sixteen his arms were aching.
But the train was there.
“Wait!”
The conductor stood in a cloud of steam with one arm raised and holding a flag, ready to give the signal for the train to move off. He halted his whistle two inches from his mouth.
“Please wait.” Scott struggled up to him. “Is this the train to Albany?”
“It is, sir. Glad you could make it.”
Scott clambered aboard and the conductor blew his whistle.
As the train chugged forward, gradually gaining speed, Scott hefted his bags into a rack. Then he slumped down on the red leather seat opposite a pinstriped businessman reading the Boston Times.
Thank you. Thank you, God!
After catching his breath, he stood up again and leaned out the window. The streets and buildings of Boston flew by and eventually disappeared from sight. Breathing in clean country air, he knew things would never be the same. He’d taken back his life.
The businessman folded up his newspaper as Scott shut the window and fell back against his seat. “You seem very pleased with yourself, young man.”
“I’m going to see my father.” Scott grinned. He’d come that close to missing the chance; he didn’t care if he looked like a demented fool.
How quickly circumstances had changed, and if Grandfather was not the man Scott thought he was, then perhaps Murdoch Lancer wasn’t either. Unprompted, his father had written and invited him to California, and now, against all odds, Scott was on his way. For once, he could listen to what the rancher had to say in person and draw his own conclusions.
“I take it you haven’t seen him for a while.”
Scott bowed his head, savouring the joy fizzing inside him. Then, after a moment, he looked up. “I’ve never met the gentleman, sir.”
“Never?” The businessman raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“No, never.” Scott smiled—as broadly as it was possible for a man to smile.
“But it’s time I did.”