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A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO
By Alice Duncan
Book #3 in the series “Meet Me at the Fair”
A Bicycle Built for Two
Copyright © 2002 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Published 2002 by Kensington Corp.
A Zebra “Ballads” Books
Smashwords edition March 15, 2010
Visit aliceduncan.net
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
“But that’s outrageous!”
Alex English stared, aghast, at his fellow members of the World’s Columbian Exposition’s Agricultural Forum, the body of men in agricultural pursuits who had put together so many of the magnificent exhibits fair-goers daily flocked to see. Alex himself had donated the oats, wheat, and barley, grown on his own Illinois farm, that had been used in creating a reproduction of the Liberty Bell.
“We can’t have that sort of thing going on here. This Exhibition is meant to be an arena of education. It’s a place where families can see for themselves what a great country America’s become. It’s supposed to be wholesome and moral. It’s not supposed to be a—a—” But Alex couldn’t find words egregious enough to describe the disgraceful event that had just been related to him.
“True, true.” Gilbert MacIntosh, railroad magnate and weekend farmer sighed. “To be fair to the girl, she did ask the gate men to keep an eye open for the man, and to refuse him admission if he showed up. It’s not really her fault that he managed to get past them.”
“But to very nearly strangle his own daughter?” Alex could scarcely take it in. “What kind of family does the girl come from? Are we sure we want her sort working at the Exposition?”
All of Alex’s sensibilities rebelled at the notion that somebody could attempt murder—and upon his own daughter, by Gad—at the fair he’d worked so long and hard to create. He had no patience with people like this girl, this so-called “dancer,” this benighted “fortune teller.” He’d fought against admitting that dashed fortune-telling booth to begin with, believing such truck inappropriate for so high-minded an enterprise as his cherished World’s Columbian Exposition. Only reluctantly had he been coerced into accepting Madame Esmeralda’s trashy enterprise, and only so long as she confined it to the Midway Plaisance.
“What exactly is her sort?” Gilbert asked, an ironical twist to his voice.
But Alex entertained no such moral ambiguities as his friend seemed to possess. “The bad sort. Great jumping cats, Gil, you can’t honestly believe the girl is of sound character with a father like that, can you?”
“I think it’s her father’s character that’s in question here, Alex. Not hers.”
“Humbug. The acorn doesn’t fall far from the oak tree. No matter what the so-call psychologists that are popping up all over the place say, such moral laxity runs in families.” He pounded the table. “It even says so in the Bible. Unto the seventh generation!” The Bible was an excellent resource, and Alex felt no qualms about using it as a reference. Not even Gil, who occasionally entertained bizarre notions, would dare refute the Bible.
“I don’t think it’s as easy as that.” Gilbert rubbed a hand across his eyes, as if he were exhausted, which he probably was. “In spite of the Bible, her father isn’t her fault, Alex.”
“Bah. His sort breeds his sort, and she’s his daughter.” Alex knew it to be true. He was sure Gil did, too, but was being stubborn for some unfathomable reason. Alex had the Bible on his side, for crumb’s sake.
“You’re not being fair to her, Alex,” Gil insisted.
The Agricultural Forum members spent long hours, together and individually, overseeing events in the Agricultural Building and making sure displays inside were kept up to snuff. Alex had worked like a demon all his life to propitiate the farming enterprise his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father had begun and maintained. He’d added a genius for business, a far-sighted and creative mode of thinking, an interest in new ideas, farming methods, unique uses for his produce, and boundless energy and ambition to his inherited green thumb. He had, therewith, created the largest, most prosperous farming enterprise in the middle west. He wasn’t about to let a low-bred, low-class girl from Chicago’s worst slums disrupt his cherished Exposition.
“What do you mean?” he demanded of Gilbert MacIntosh. “If the girl is a menace to the rest of the Exposition, I say get rid of her.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Farley Pike, another wealthy Illinois farmer. “We don’t want her type soiling our project.
Alex nodded. “Exactly.” He didn’t much like Farley, considering him a stuffed shirt, a bore, and assuredly a hypocrite into the bargain, but he appreciated his support at the moment.
Gil eyed them both with a jaundiced air. “You’re not being just, gentlemen. It’s not the girl’s fault that her father is a drunkard.” He aimed a gaze at Alex that hit its target like a jab on the jaw. “She isn’t the problem. Her father is the problem. And she took the precaution of warning the gate keepers that he might well make trouble. I believe she ought to be lauded for trying to better herself and her foresight, not kicked in the teeth for having been cursed with a bastard for a father.”
A general gasp went up around the table. These gentlemen, these salt-of-the-earth farmers—granted, they were a good deal more prosperous than most farmers—weren’t accustomed to hearing profanity spoken in their presence. Somebody, Alex didn’t see who, muttered, “Well, really.”
Alex pressed his lips together briefly. He didn’t approve of cursing, either. However, it was Gil’s prodding of his conscience that irked him more than Gil’s unconventional language. He didn’t like to think of himself as the sort of fellow who would condemn a person out of hand. An urge to defend his stand assailed him. “Now, listen here, Gil, old fellow. We all know that there are certain types of people who can’t be helped.”
Gil eyed him without favor. “And how, pray, can you be sure this girl is one of them? Have you met her? Spoken to her? I haven’t, so I prefer to withhold judgment until I have. I know you’re a good man, Alex, but I think you’re not behaving like one in this instance. At least talk to the girl and determine her soundness of character and mind before you deprive her of the means of making her living.”
Scores of epithets, most containing words like “bleeding heart” and “soft touch” flitted through Alex’s brain. He knew he was being unkind to Gil. Gil was as hard-headed a businessman as any of them. And he was only being reasonable. Alex knew it, even though he hated acknowledging the truth, because the truth in this instance was not to his credit. He liked to think of himself as the reasonable one in any gathering of gentlemen.
After a longish pause, during which Alex pondered how he could get his own way and rid the Exposition of this girl, this Kate Finney, who was clearly devoid of morals or worth, without seeming, even to himself, irrational and ill-tempered, he said, “Very well, Gil. You’re correct.” He felt magnanimous admitting it. “I’ll visit the girl and talk to her. If I think she ought be kicked out, however, you may be sure I’ll recommend doing so to the Fair Directory.”
“Fine, fine,” Gil said upon a heavy breath of air. “That’s fair.”
“Thank you.” Alex rose. “Shall we retire to luncheon, gentlemen? I hear a hamburger calling my name.” He smiled and his co-agriculturalists laughed, and the men all left their meeting room in the Exposition’s Administration Building. He clapped Gil on the shoulder as the two men met at the door. “Would you care to visit Miss Finney with me, Gil?”
But the other man shook his head. “Can’t, Alex. I’ve got to see to my Guernseys. My man said one of them isn’t feeling well. Can’t have sick cows at the fair.”
“Good Gad, no!” The mere thought of a sick cow, a diseased cornstalk, or a patch of mildew on one of his pumpkins made Alex’s skin crawl. Once, several years ago, Alex’s mother had laughingly told him he was too much of a perfectionist, but Alex didn’t think it was possible to be too careful. It was his attention to detail that had increased his family’s fortunes so greatly. Besides, he knew his mother had only been joking.
Gil grinned at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Alex. If the cow’s sick, I’ll take care of her.”
Alex gazed sharply at his best friend. Was Gil making fun of him? He didn’t want to think so, but he frowned slightly. “Of course, you will,” he said more stiffly than he’d intended.
Placing a hand on Alex’s shoulder, Gil stopped his friend’s forward progress. Alex turned and gazed at him quizzically. “Yes, Gil? You want to say something?”
Gil looked troubled. Alex hoped nothing was amiss at home. Gil had recently married a charming woman. Alex had been best man at the ceremony, an event that had started him thinking about setting up housekeeping himself. His mother could use some help on the farm. Not that Alex didn’t provide her with a full household staff, but still, managing such a large home and grounds could be tiring to a lady no longer in the first blush of youth, especially now that his father had passed on to his just reward. “Is something the matter, Gil?”
“Yes. No. Aw, hell, Alex, I don’t know.”
Alex allowed his eyes to open wide for perhaps two seconds. It was unlike Gil to swear this much. In order to make his friend relax, he smiled. “Out with it, Gil. If something’s wrong, perhaps I can help with it.”
Gil’s smile slipped sideways and he chuckled softly. “Actually, you’re the only one who can help.”
“I don’t think I understand, Gil.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t.”
Alex was puzzled by Gil’s air of distress. Cocking his head to one side, he waited, figuring his friend would get to the point eventually.
“Alex . . .” Again, Gil stopped speaking.
More confused than ever, Alex said, “Yes?”
“Alex, you’re turning into a fussy old man before my very eyes, damn it!”
Alex blinked at him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what Gil meant, for that matter. “Um . . .”
Gil’s hand tightened on Alex’s shoulder. “Listen, Alex, I’m saying this all wrong, but try to understand.”
“I’m trying.”
“We’ve been best friends for years. I love you as I would a brother.” Frowning slightly, Gil emended his comment. “Actually, I love you a good deal more than I do Henry.”
At last Alex found a reason to smile, so he did. Henry was a stuffed shirt and a crashing dullard. Everyone who knew him agreed.
“But, dash it, Alex, you’re getting to be as bad as he is!”
“I beg your pardon?” Alex was certain he’d misunderstood.
“Take this girl, for instance.”
“I’d rather not, thank you.” A good deal put out with his friend, Alex felt himself tense until his posture was . . . well . . . rather like Henry’s, actually. The realization forced Alex to calm down and relax his rigid posture.
“But that’s just it, you see. You’re willing to condemn Miss Finney before you know her story. You’ve never even met her, yet you’re talking about forcing her out of the Exposition.” Gil’s eyes told an eloquent story that Alex didn’t want to read. “It’s not like you to condemn a person out of hand, Alex. At least, it’s not like the Alex English I grew up with. I hope to God you’re not turning into another Henry, Alex, or I might just be forced to take action.”
He said the last few words with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice, but Alex still read the truth in his eyes. A mixture of indignation, fury, and absolute, bone-deep hurt kept him speechless.
Gil took note of his silence. “Damnation, now I’ve wounded your feelings. I’m sorry, Alex. But, dash it, I’d hate to see you turn into an intolerant old fusspot before you’re even thirty. You used to be a generous, good-hearted fellow, old man. I know you’ve always worked like the very devil to achieve your success, but you used to have a sense of humor and an even deeper sense of honor and integrity.”
“Integrity?” Alex gaped at his friend. “Are you insinuating—”
”No!” Again, Gil passed a hand over his eyes, as though he wanted to clear them of fog. “You’re still full of integrity and honor. You always have been. But you used to care about other people, as well. You used to possess a gentle nature and a sense of fun. You used to possess a sense of good will and tolerance for those less fortunate than you.”
“Fortunate!” Alex knew that his anger was justified at last. He bridled. “Good fortune had nothing to do with my success, Gil. You know that as well as I do.”
Another sigh leaked out of his friend’s mouth. “I do know it. You’ve worked damned hard, and your success has been well-earned. But, dash it, Alex, you’re . . .” He hesitated again, as if he didn’t want to create a rift in their friendship. “Damn it, Alex, you’re losing your humanity!”
Alex fought a sneer and lost. “My humanity? Are you suggesting I’m wrong in wanting only wholesome and morally sound displays and educational entertainments at this fair, Gil?”
Gil slumped. “No. I’m not suggesting that. I’m only suggesting that your heart might be hardening with your success, old man. I hear that happens to people’s arteries. They get hard as the people get old, and their circulation stops. I don’t want your heart to get so hard around the edges that you can’t see the good in people of all walks of life, Alex. You used to be the most open-handed and open-hearted of men.” Gil shrugged. “That’s all.”
“I see. In other words, I’m turning into Ebenezer Scrooge before your very eyes, is that it?”
Gil ran a hand through his hair, then clapped his derby upon it. “Now I’ve offended you. I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Not at all,” Alex said, offended to his toenails. He drew his gold watch from his pocket and glanced at it for show. “But I see I must be going now, old man. Give my best to Suzanne.”
And he stalked off. Reflected in a window, he saw Gil staring morosely after him.
# # #
Kate Finney absently rubbed the black-and-blue marks on her throat as she contemplated the various jars, bottles, and boxes set out on the dressing table in Madame Esmeralda’s Fortune-Telling booth. The bruises hurt awfully, and Kate wasn’t sure her windpipe hadn’t been permanently damaged. The problem now, however, was how best to hide the bruises her father’s fingers had made on her throat so that they wouldn’t distract the people who entered Madame’s booth to get their fortune’s told. Kate grinned when she thought about a fortune teller who’d been unable to foresee an attack by her own father. The grin didn’t last long.
“You ought to see a doctor, Kate,” Madame said around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“Can’t afford it,” said Kate. She tried to accompany the words with a careless laugh, but it hurt so much to talk, she quit on the laugh.
Madame huffed and snorted, two things she did when disgusted or upset. Kate was used to it. She absolutely adored the feisty old Rumanian Gypsy lady who’d taught her how to read palms and crystal balls and the Tarot cards. As far as Kate could tell, neither one of them believed for a minute that a body could tell the future by gazing at any of those things, but that didn’t stop either lady from making as much money as possible purveying the dark arts.
Whatever it took; that’s the way Kate had learned to deal with life. And if it took misleading a gullible public, so be it. Far be it from Kate Finney to balk at the chance to earn a buck or two. Especially not now that her mother’s health was in such a catastrophic state.
“Ma needs medical attention more than me,” she added when Madame looked as if she were going to pursue the subject. “You know that.”
“Fah. You’re every bit as important as your mother, Kate Finney. If your health suffers, your mother will suffer, too.”
“Stop it,” Kate demanded, only partially in jest. “You’re making my blood run cold.”
“Huh. That girl should have killed that man when she had the chance.” After this semi-enigmatic comment, Madame stuffed another bit of bread and cheese into her mouth and followed the bite with one of the hot peppers she loved so well.
Kate understood Madame’s intent. She sighed and picked up a pot of light-colored facial paint as she thought about Belle Monroe. Belle had come into her booth as Kate’s father was in the process of strangling Kate, and had battered him with her parasol. “She tried. She might have, too, if her umbrella hadn’t broken.” It still made her grin to think of that most proper of all proper southern ladies, Miss Belle Monroe, trying to stab Kate’s drunken father with her broken parasol. “Too bad, that.”
“I should say.”
But wishing her father dead didn’t pay the rent. Or the medical bills. Kate knew her mother would get better if only she could keep away from Kate’s father. The doctor said there was no hope, that Hazel Finney had consumption in an advanced state, but Kate didn’t buy it. Hell’s bells, Kate herself had beaten tough odds. Who was the doc to tell her that her mother couldn’t?
Besides all that, the thought of her mother’s possible death made Kate want to curl up and sob. No, sir. Kate was going to fight her mother’s tuberculosis tooth and nail. And she was going to get her mother better one of these days, even if she had to take her out West, where lots of lung patients were going these days. Heck, Kate could work out there as well as she could here. She had faith in herself. Anyhow, the notion of singing or slinging beer in a wild, western saloon made her chuckle.
The chuckle only aggravated the pain, so hung it up and concentrated on covering the bruises without killing herself in the process. “Ow.” She winced when her fingers smoothed greasepaint over the livid bruises on her throat.
“I cursed him, you know,” said Madame in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
“Beg pardon?” Kate paused with her fingers on the rim of the paint pot.
“I cursed him.” Madame took another bite of hot pepper.
“Pa?”
“Umph.” Madame, chewing, nodded.
Kate caught her eyes in the mirror and grinned. “Yeah? Thanks, Madame. I appreciate it.” Getting back to her job, she murmured, “Only wish stuff like that really worked.”
Madame shrugged. “Sometimes it does.”
Kate’s gaze snapped back to the reflection of Madame in the mirror. Every now and then, Madame’s voice would take on an odd, mysterious timbre. When she spoke thus, Kate was never quite sure whether or not to believe her. According to Madame, she’d taught Kate only the rudiments of the Gypsy’s panoply of mystical arts. Such things as Madame believed to be out of Kate’s realm of comfort, she’d discreetly kept to herself. “Say, Madame, can you really curse a guy?”
But Madame only smiled at her and broke off another piece of bread. Kate sighed, knowing she’d get no further information from that source. Madame never opened up and spilled her guts unless she darned well wanted to.
The door of the booth opened, and Kate muttered, “Nuts.” She’d been hoping to get her bruises covered before she had to face any clients.
“I’ll see who it is.” Madame stood up, dusted crumbs from her brightly colored skirt, and slipped through the curtains to the front part of the booth.
Kate hurried with her makeup job. She had to get herself presentable now, because she wouldn’t have time to do so later. Pretty soon she’d have to leave Madame’s and go to her other job, which was dancing as a stand-in for Little Egypt. Although she probably made more money dancing, Kate preferred telling fortunes.
She’d learned when she was a tiny child to present a front of bravado to the world. That’s the main reason she, among all the girls who’d auditioned for the position, had been selected to dance: because she looked uninhibited. Inside, where no one could see, she didn’t enjoy exposing so much of her body to public view. Doing so made her feel cheap, and she didn’t like the feeling. She’d been fighting the image of a cheap slum girl all her life. It also opened her up to comments and rude suggestions from the gaggle of stage-door Johnnies who always flocked around the Egyptian Hall, lurking in wait for poor unsuspecting dancers.
They hadn’t reckoned on Kate Finney when they’d commenced lurking. Kate hadn’t been gullible since she was a baby, and she suspected pretty much everyone of pretty much anything. Especially men. She didn’t trust your average man farther than she could throw him. So far, she’d had no trouble ridding herself of hangers-on.
Long ago she’d decided that she’d do anything, except things she found morally repugnant, in order to help her mother. “Ah, gee, Ma, please don’t die.” The words slipped through her lips in spite of the pain in her throat, and they were as close to a prayer as Kate ever got.
“I’ll see if she’s available.”
Madame’s words penetrated the curtain to Kate’s ears, and Kate’s fingers stilled as they reached to put the lid on the pot of makeup. She tilted her head and looked into the mirror, wondering if Madame had meant herself, Kate Finney. Am I available for what?
The curtain parted, and Madame, casting a glance back at the booth, slipped in. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Man. Says he needs to talk to you.”
Kate lifted an eyebrow and reached for a damp towel with which to clean her hands. “What’s he want?”
Madame shrugged and headed to the small table where the remains of her bread, peppers, and cheese lay.
Understanding that she’d get no further elucidation from Madame, Kate checked quickly in the mirror to make sure her bruises were as invisible as she could make them—not very—grabbed a bright red-and-green-striped scarf and wound it around her throat to cover what the makeup didn’t, snatched up her multi-colored shawl and flung it over her shoulder, and headed for the curtain. As soon as she saw who awaited her, she stopped in her tracks. “I’ve seen you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
The tall, elegantly clad young man turned, frowning. Kate’s heart pounded out a threatening beat in her chest.
The man said, “Have you?” He finally removed his hat, and Kate realized he ought to have done so sooner. Her heart thudded faster when she understood that he hadn’t done so because he didn’t consider Madame or Kate Finney worthy of polite, gentlemanly gestures. Kate didn’t, either, for that matter, but she’d die before she admitted it.
“Yes. Around. Here at the Exposition.” She gestured vaguely, then straightened her spine. Blast it, nobody could treat Kate Finney like dirt and get away with it. “Did you have some business to discuss with me?”
“Yes, if you’re Miss Kate Finney.”
“I am.” He was being deliberately rude, or Kate missed her guess. Because she’d made it a policy not to take guff from anybody, even rich men, she snapped, “And you are?”
The bastard bowed. Kate, recognizing the irony intended by the gesture which should have been gentlemanly but wasn’t, didn’t open her mouth, but stared, hoping she appeared as rude as he.
“Alex English,” he said, straightening. “I am a member of the Agricultural Forum at the Exposition.”
Kate’s frown didn’t abate. “Oh. In other words, you’re a farmer.” She gave the last word a slight special emphasis and curled her lip.
He didn’t like that. Kate was pleased.
“More than a farmer, Miss Finney. I am one of the directors of the fair.” He walked farther into the booth.
The blasted man was tall and broad-shouldered, he had pretty blond hair that waved like Kate wished her own hair would do, and he took up too darned much space. Kate, who was short and slight of build, wished she’d spent more time cultivating her mystical-Gypsy presentation. If she couldn’t out-bulk him, she might have out-mystified him if she’d practiced more. She said, “Yeah?” in as insolent a tone as she could summon. She wished her throat didn’t ache so badly; it was difficult to be insolent when she could hardly talk.
Alex glanced around the booth, as insolent as Kate. Kate wished Belle Monroe would come back and hit him, as she’d hit Kate’s father. “So. This is where you perpetrate your trade, is it?”
Perpetrate your trade? Kate continued to stare at Alex, thinking what an ass he was. It was too bad, too, because he was a fairly good-looking man. Unfortunately, he was also a stuffed shirt. “This is where Madame Esmeralda and I tell fortunes,” she corrected.
“Same thing.” Alex waved a hand at the mystical hangings on the wall. “Do these symbols mean anything?”
Kate watched as his gaze went from a picture of the Hanged Man to the Three of Cups to the Emperor. Kate had asked Madame to remove the picture of the Devil, because she didn’t want any clergymen taking umbrage, and Madame had done so. Now Kate was particularly glad that Madame was such an easy-going spiritualist. And she also wasn’t sure how to answer Alex’s question, mainly because she didn’t know why he’d asked it. Her sense of self-preservation was a finely honed instrument, and she smelled a rat here.
Instead of answering him, therefore, she said, “Why do you ask?”
“Curious. That’s all.”
“I doubt it.”
His smile held no amusement. “Do you mind if I sit, Miss Finney?”
“That depends. You want your fortune told?”
“No.” He said the word gently, as if he were humoring a lunatic.
“Then state your business, please. I have work to do.”
“Yes. Well, that’s the difficulty, you see.”
Oh, Lord. Kate felt it coming. He was going to kick her out, because of her damned bastard of a father. As if the lousy son of a bitch was her fault. Because her knees felt shaky, she pulled out a chair and sat herself down in it. “Sit down and get to the point,” she commanded sharply.
To her surprise, Alex did so. She’d expected him to refuse to do anything she suggested. Even sitting, he took up too much room. “I’ve come here today because of the incident that happened yesterday.”
“Yes. I’d already figured that one out.”
His smile was short and cynical. “Ah, I see. Well?”
“Well, what?”
“It was a very unfortunate incident.”
“You said it.” She resisted the impulse to finger her bruises. Her heart screamed that none of this was her fault, and that if Alex English had a shred of human compassion in his soul, he’d be nice to her. But that was silly. Kate knew better than to expect compassion from rich businessmen.
In the face of her defiance, Alex seemed to be getting annoyed. Kate hoped so. His cynical smile vanished, his eyebrows lowered, and his frown looked more heart-felt. “Miss Finney, I’m sure you realize that we can’t have such things happening at the World’s Columbian Exposition.”
“Yeah? Well, I can assure you that I’ll never try to strangle anybody, if that’s what’s got you worried.”
His lips pinched together briefly. “I never expected that you would.”
“And,” Kate went on, “I’ve never once stolen anything from anyone or tried to gyp anybody out of anything. If that’s what’s bothering you, you can forget it. I earn my money honestly.”
Another sneer marred the clean lines of Alex’s face. “By telling fortunes and dancing in a lewd costume?”
“Lewd?” Kate, who’d had her own qualms about dancing in her version of Little Egypt’s costume, did a creditable job of gawping at Alex. “You’d better not tell any of those Egyptians that you think the costume’s lewd. That’s the way they dress. I don’t think they’d like it if you accused them of being lewd—and they all carry really big scimitars.” She smirked at him. “That’s a kind of sword. And those Egyptian fellows are really protective of their ladies, too.” She wished American men were more like them.
“You know very well what I mean,” Alex growled.
Kate stood up. “Yeah, I know what you mean. You don’t want my kind working at your precious fair.” She pointed a finger at Alex. “Well, let me tell you something, Mister. I may have been born poor, and I may have a disgusting drunkard for a father, but I’m not my father. I’m a hardworking girl who’s only trying to make a living for my mother and myself.”
“Now see here, Miss Finney, I—”
“No, darn it! You see here! I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not my fault my father’s an ass! If you want to punish somebody, punish him. I didn’t ask for him to be my father. Believe me, if I could have chosen, I’d have chosen to be born to a nice family with lots of money and a pretty little farm somewhere in the country. I didn’t get the choice.”
“Really, Miss Finney, there’s no call for—”
”No call for me to say these things? Like heck, there isn’t! You come sauntering in here like a king, sneering at me and what I do for a living. You treat me like dirt, and—”
”Now, see here! I didn’t—”
”You did so! You sneered and smirked and wrinkled your nose and acted like Lord Whosis who just discovered ants on his salad plate! Well, for your information, Mr. Alex English, I’m not a darned ant! I’m a girl who’s trying her best to overcome her beginnings and create a life for my mother and myself. And if you dare try to kick me out of this Exposition, I’ll—I’ll—”
But Kate didn’t know what recourse she’d have should this awful man try to expel her from the Exposition. The realization was so bitter, and her need to keep her jobs at the fair so great, that she actually, almost, came to within an inch of crying. She’d never be so weak. Rather, although tears welled in her eyes and her throat ached as if her father’s fingers were still tight squeezing it, she slammed her fists on her hips and glowered at Alex.
Alex rose from his chair and clapped his hat on his head, thereby covering all of his pretty blond waves. “There’s no need for this hysteria, Miss Finney.”
“Hysteria! Hysteria? You come waltzing here, threatening my only means of income, and you accuse me of being hysterical? You’re a louse, you know that, Mr. English?”
“Really, Miss Finney, I didn’t intend to—”
”Like heck, you didn’t!”
Alex squared his shoulders. Kate might have been impressed by the broadness thereof if she didn’t feel so utterly desperate. “I can tell that you’re not fit to undertake a polite discussion at the moment, Miss Finney, so I shall leave you now.”
“Good.” She was glad to see his eyes snap with anger.
“I’ll be back.” And, upon that dire warning, Alex English left Madame Esmeralda’s fortune-telling booth.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Kate collapsed into one of the chairs at the table holding her crystal ball, shaking like a leaf on an aspen tree in autumn. She’d used the ball only the day before to bash her father over the head. The memory of that awful incident, and the possible repercussions thereof as represented by Mr. Alex English and his ilk, made despair flood her. She buried her head in her hands and prayed for some sort of miracle.
“Or even a fair shake, God. Can I have maybe just one fair shake for once?”
As usual, she didn’t hear a word from God, and her innards told her that, as usual, fair shakes were not handed out to the likes of her.
Chapter Two
Alex was more disturbed by his encounter with Kate Finney than he’d expected to be. In truth, he hadn’t expected to be disturbed at all. After all, it was he who was the rich, successful fair backer, not she. She was a mere nothing. A girl of questionable moral character who owed her continued presence at the Exposition to his good will.
Dash it, she hadn’t been at all what he’d anticipated. As he’d approached Madame Esmeralda’s fortune-telling booth, he’d expected to find a woman who more nearly resembled what he’d pictured a low-class girl like her to be. He’d anticipated encountering a disreputable-looking specimen, a blowzy degenerate, a hussy. In short, he’d expected to find the real Kate Finney’s antithesis.
The real Kate Finney hadn’t fit his assumptions at all. Not one little bit. Well, except for her sassy attitude and disrespectful manners. But she hadn’t used poor grammar. And she hadn’t been painted up like a scarlet woman. And she hadn’t worn anything particularly scandalous. Granted, those silly-looking Gypsy garments had been outrageous, but they had covered her from top to toe. She’d even had a violently colored print scarf draped around her neck. Alex shook his head, frowning and thinking about that slender, delicate neck.
It was difficult to imagine a drunken man’s hands encircling the small white column and attempting to squeeze the life out of it. And the girl’s father, at that. Thinking about it gave Alex a sick feeling in his middle, which was most unusual. What was it Gil MacIntosh and Kate had both said? Her father wasn’t her fault? In spite of himself, a reluctant laugh escaped Alex’s mouth. Kate Finney had spunk; he could give her that much at least.
Still and all, he didn’t think her sort belonged here, at his precious fair. He walked down the Midway Plaisance away from Kate’s booth, and glanced with satisfaction at all the wonders presented therein. The Libbey Glass Works exhibit was a particular favorite of his. He’d stood for over an hour one day, watching the workers blow glass into gorgeous pieces of art. He’d bought a couple of them for his mother. And he and Gil had dined more than once in the Polish Village, where a fellow could get a good Polish sausage sandwich, complete with sauerkraut and mustard, and wash the whole mess down with a pint of delicious light-colored beer.
And hadn’t the fair introduced the delectable new treat, Cracker Jacks, to the public? And the hamburger? Why, there were new innovations everywhere here, even when it came to food! This was what education was all about. This was what the Fair Directory aimed to present to the public. And if Sitting Bull’s camp surrounded an ostrich farm that drew interested people by the thousands, wasn’t Buffalo Bill’s Wild West an educational enterprise? In a manner of speaking? Granted, the fair directors hadn’t allowed the great Colonel Cody to occupy space within the fairgrounds itself, still, the Wild West had become an integral part of the total fair experience.
Then there was the art and music that proliferated everywhere. J. P. Sousa was performing his rousing marches daily in the White City. Flags waved everywhere, and patriotism was rampant. This was America’s fair. This was the culmination of two hundred years of American ingenuity and cultural and industrial prowess.
And then there was the Street in Cairo. Alex permitted his smile to fade. He had no quarrel with Egyptians or their culture, no matter what the pert and saucy Kate Finney claimed. If such scanty costumes were part of the Egyptian heritage, so be it. Alex might consider such costumes an indication of a backward and morally corrupt culture, but he knew that Americans found it both interesting and educational to witness the backwardness of other nations. Indeed, viewing such sights was good for American morale, because doing so could make a man proud of how advanced his own culture was.
The problem was that unlike the venue in which Kate worked, there were no scanty costumes worn by women on the Street in Cairo. One had to go out of one’s way to see the scandalous dancing of Little Egypt. And Kate Finney. Alex discovered his hands bunching into fists as he recalled Kate, and forced them to relax.
Imagine! A little person like that getting his goat. Such a thing had never happened before. Nobody talked back to Alex except his sister Mary Jo, because he was the most reasonable and considerate of men. And Mary Jo only did so because she was fourteen years old.
He remembered sneering at Kate and not removing his hat when he entered her booth, and he cringed inwardly.
Very well, he’d made a mistake there. He ought to have approached her differently. But how could he have known that she was such a— Firebrand? Outrageous bit of goods? He couldn’t find the precise phrase to describe her. This was due in part to her very unexpectedness. She hadn’t looked cheap and she hadn’t sounded like the product of the slums. Rather, she was fairly short, perhaps five feet, two inches or thereabouts, and as slim as a boy. She had dark brown hair that she’d dressed neatly in braids which, he presumed was a Gypsy style of hair dressing or something. The hairdo made her look like a small girl, not at all like the conniving harpy Alex had assumed her to be.
And spunky? He got angry just thinking about how impertinent she’d been to him. He hadn’t anticipated that quality. He’d expected cringing and crying, not overt belligerence. Gil’s accusation came back and socked him in the jaw. Alex stopped walking and grimaced.
Had he been too hard on the girl? He didn’t like to think so. He liked thinking of himself as a good man, a tolerant one, a man who didn’t judge people without evidence. The fact that he’d judged Kate before he’d met her didn’t sit well with him, and he wondered now if he’d hoped to have his preconception of her confirmed by his visit.
“Dash it.” Alex scuffed the toe of one of his brand-new, hand-sewn, French-calf walking shoes, for which he’d paid the extravagant price of five dollars, and pondered the intricacies of life. Perhaps Gil was right. Perhaps Alex had become the tiniest bit complaisant as his fortune had grown. Maybe he was becoming stodgy. Maybe he was developing into an intolerant man, unwilling to give the Kate Finneys of this world a chance to earn a living. He didn’t like to think that, either.
Lifting his chin and straightening his spine, Alex came to the conclusion that he was being much to hard on himself. It was, after all, his responsibility to see to the wholesomeness of the World’s Columbian Exposition. If the presence on the premises of Kate Finney threatened good taste or public morals, it was his duty to rid the fair of her besmirched presence.
With that in mind, and feeling generous and forgiving, he decided to visit the troubled and troubling Kate again. Perhaps he’d even watch her dance. Maybe he was being too critical of her. If he were to be absolutely honest, he’d have to agree that she wasn’t responsible for her father being a drunkard. However, if Alex discovered that she was a disruptive influence, and if he found her to be a magnet for the kinds of unruly behavior of which neither he nor his fellow Agriculturalists approved, then she’d have to go.
He felt better about himself after that, and his step picked up as he walked toward the Polish Village. He felt the need for a restorative sausage, kraut, and, most particularly, a glass of beer.
# # #
Kate tied a wide black velvet band around her throat and gazed into the mirror, dissatisfied. Darn her father, anyhow. It was bad enough that he refused to shoulder his responsibilities for his family, but to interfere with her efforts on her family’s behalf was too much of him. Not that she expected anything better from that source. He’d always been a louse. She wished he’d fall down drunk in front of a milk wagon someday and get himself run over and killed. But Kate knew he’d never do anything so obliging. Why didn’t justice prevail in this stupid world, was what she wanted to know. It wasn’t fair that her mother was sick and her father, who was as worthless a specimen of humankind as ever lived, thrived.
Philosophical questions only confused her so she chucked them out. She had more important things to do. Getting ready for her dance number, for instance.
“That looks sort of funny, Kate, that black band.”
Kate turned to grin at Stephanie Margolis, one of the legion of women hired to sweep up and mop out the exhibits on a daily basis. “I know it, but it’s better than black-and-blue marks.”
Stephanie didn’t grin back. “I’m awful sorry about what happened, Kate. If you need any help, you just come to me, all right?”
Touched by the offer of generosity from a woman in Kate’s own low station in life, Kate nevertheless gave Stephanie the response to offers of help that had become natural to her. “Thanks, Stephanie, but I’ll be all right. And so will Ma.”
The older woman smiled at last. “I’m sure you will. You have heart, Kate, and that’s the important thing.”
“Thanks, Stephanie.”
Stephanie moved on, plying her broom, and Kate adjusted the black ribbon, trying to make the velvet strip cover all the bruises. She gave an internal snort. Why was it, she wondered, that poor folks like dear old Stephanie offered to help, and rich folks, like that ass Alex English, offered to kick her in the butt? “It’s the way of the world,” she muttered.
Giving up on adjusting her black ribbon—maybe nobody would notice the bruises peeking out from behind it—she picked up her cymbals and fitted them onto her fingers. She clanged them during her dance whenever she remembered to do so.
No expert in the art of the so-called “genuine native muscle dance,” Kate nevertheless knew how to perform when she had to. She’d watched Little Egypt often enough, and practiced long enough, that nobody else knew she was a faker. They might suspect something this evening, however. She frowned at her reflection and again fingered the black band. The lights were dim when she danced. Maybe nobody would notice the bruises.
As a rule, Kate wore a short, strapped top with beads and tassels dangling therefrom, along with a gauzy skirt that was split up the side to reveal her left leg—shocking, that—which was encased in black stockinette ending just above her knee. Thus, people could occasionally catch a glimpse of her naked upper thigh if they stared hard enough. She figured they were even more titillated by the white garters she tied about her thigh to keep her stockings up. They’d be a darned sight more titillated if she danced as she’d heard real Egyptian ladies did: Barefoot and bare-legged. That would call the Purity League down on the fair in a heartbeat. Alex English would never hear of it. She sniffed at the thought of the stuffy Alex.
She’d unbraided her hair, and it now waved over her shoulders, as formerly braided hair will do when left to its own devices. She wore a metal head ornament that reminded her of chain mail and that covered the top of her head. Dangly ornaments depended from the chain mail and jangled around and banged against her forehead when she was particularly energetic, which she tried not to be because it hurt to be banged by bangles. The head piece was so outre as to divert people from her blue eyes.
Little Egypt herself, who was actually Syrian and whose real name was Fahreda Mahzar, had once told Kate in an accent so thick Kate could hardly understand her, that nobody paid attention to a girl’s face when she was dancing. Kate, who chose her alliances carefully, believed her.
The saving grace of the outrageous costume, to her mind, was the sheer scarf she waved around as she danced. It was probably a provocative item of drape, but Kate used it more to cover her assets than to reveal them. She was sure Alex English wouldn’t agree. But, then, he was too proper, too much of a decorous gentleman, too much a blasted snob, to visit her performance. Drat the man.
She wished she could stop thinking about him, but he worried her. A lot.
Alex English, however, was neither here nor there. She had to prepare for her act, and that dratted black velvet band around her neck looked stupid. “Oh, who cares?” she said at last. Better an article of clothing that looked out of place than a series of black-and-blue finger marks. Besides, she was pretty sure none of her American dance-watchers would know an Egyptian costume from one from outer Mongolia or even Mars.
Turning, she picked up her scarf, a pretty peacock-blue number that shimmered like fish scales in the electrical lights. The whole effect of her clad as she was, when combined with those weird bagpipes and drums of the native musicians, was exotic, to say the least.
The peculiar wailing of the Egyptian music had irked Kate when she’d first heard it, but she was becoming used to it. She’d learned, much to her sorrow, that a person could get used to darned near anything if her livelihood depended on it. Therefore, she walked from the dressing room to the stage and waited behind the curtain, tipping winks and grins to the people working behind the scenes. They all liked her. Kate had made sure of it.
The bagpipes which, Kate had been told, were made of goats’ bladders, at last squealed out a familiar tune, the drummers started whacking on their drums, and Kate took a deep breath. She was always nervous before she danced, although the state didn’t last long. Her cue came rattling at her on a drumbeat, and she whirled out on stage, making sure her scarf did its duty. Thunderous applause greeted her. Kate didn’t take it personally. The fools all probably thought she was Little Egypt herself instead of Little Egypt’s American stand-in.
Kate danced her heart out, as she did every evening, and left the stage as she’d arrived upon it, in a whirl of peacock-blue scarf to the sound of cheers and claps and funny, squealy, Egyptian music. “Phew!” She winked at one of the drummers, who grinned back at her.
At first, she knew, she’d shocked these men who took their art so seriously with her free-and-easy ways. Those guys didn’t know they were from a backward nation. All they knew was that they were sharing with interested American persons their culture, which they loved every bit as much as any American loved his. Kate identified with them strangely. Often she felt as though she were participating in an American culture with which she had little, if anything, in common.
She went to the dressing room and took a glass of water because dancing made her thirsty. She danced twice on a typical evening, in order to give Little Egypt the opportunity to have a little supper. Or a lot of supper. Little Egypt was a meaty dish. She was a lot meatier than Kate, but nobody watching seemed to mind.
By the time she’d told fortunes all day and danced half the night away, Kate was always tired. After her second performance this evening, she was particularly worn out, probably because of her ordeal the day before and her constant, nagging fear for her mother’s health. Not to mention the possibility that her only source of income might be cut off at the whim of that idiot Alex English. She washed every smidgeon of makeup off and gladly exchanged her costume and dancing shoes for more comfortable garb.
Clad in a dark skirt and jacket, white shirtwaist, and neatly tied ascot, she left the Egyptian Pavilion. She’d knotted her hair up and plopped a hat on top of it, and looked like neither Gypsy fortune teller nor Egyptian dancer. Thus clad, she was seldom recognized by the public she served, which was the whole point.
Kate was, therefore, startled, when a small boy ran up to her and shouted, “Miss Kate Finney?”
Taken aback, she said, “Who wants to know?” which was the question people in her neighborhood always asked before admitting identity. After all, the person asking might represent a bill collector or an officer of the law.
The boy said, “Jerry O’Hallahan, but I don’t really care who you are unless you’re Kate Finney. If you’re Kate Finney, your brother told me to give you this.” He thrust a grubby wad of paper at Kate.
At once, Kate’s heart gave a painful spasm. If one of her brothers was trying to get in touch with her, it probably meant that something was wrong. Jerry O’Hallahan, the urchin, held tight to his prize until Kate fished a penny out of her handbag. “Here, kid. Now get lost.”
The boy saluted smartly, accustomed to such pleasantries from the gentry, and sauntered off, whistling “Daisy Bell,” one of the latest popular songs. With trepidation in her heart, Kate unfolded the paper, which was damp with sweat from Jerry’s fists.
Her heart sank like a boulder in a pond as she read the words: “Took Ma to hospital. Come quick. Billy.” She whispered, “Nuts,” and wished she wasn’t too tough to cry.
She very nearly shrieked when she heard a voice come to her out of the dark.
“Miss Finney? I need to speak with you.”
Whirling around, she beheld none other than Alex English. She frowned, sensing more trouble. “What do you want?”
“To speak with you.” He looked grim.
His looks were nothing compared to the savagery roiling in Kate’s own bosom. “Yeah? You got a carriage, Mr. Rich Guy?”
He blinked, obviously surprised by this reaction. “A—a carriage? Why, yes, but—”
“All right. I’ll talk to you. But it’s going to be in your carriage, because you’re taking me to the hospital on Fourth and Grand Oaks.”
Kate wasn’t surprised when Alex’s mouth opened and closed a few times, making him look like a particularly elegant variety of the trout family.
But he led her to his carriage, which is what Kate needed.
# # #
Alex wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but not five minutes after he’d spoken to Kate Finney on the Midway, he was directing his driver to make haste to Saint Mildred’s Hospital. Although he told himself he didn’t really want to know, he said, “Are you ill, Miss Finney?”
“No. I’m fine. What do you want to talk to me about? My morals? My father’s morals? My Aunt Fanny’s morals.”
Alex frowned. This woman was very difficult to talk to, perhaps because she seemed to approach all conversations as a soldier might approach a deadly battle. Her attitude offended Alex, who had been feeling put-upon ever since Gil McIntosh told him he was turning into a fussy old man.
“Really, Miss Finney, there’s no need for such an attitude.”
“No?” She kept glancing nervously out the window.
Alex got the impression of tremendous energy trapped in Kate’s small body. He sensed that she’d like to get out and shove traffic out of her way so that his carriage could make better time. She was definitely worried. Deciding it might behoove him to discover the source of her trouble before telling her his impressions of her so-called “dance,” he muttered, “If there’s something the matter, Miss Finney, I’d like to know what it is. Perhaps I could help.”
That got her attention. From staring out the carriage window, her head whipped around, and she commenced staring at him. Her scrutiny made Alex uncomfortable even before she spoke.
“You? Don’t make me laugh.”
After her words smote him, his discomfort turned into ire. “Now see here, young woman, I don’t understand your hostility. I only asked a civil question.”
“Yeah? Why do I get the impression you’re only asking because you think you have to? Sort of a gesture, you know? Before you kick me in the teeth, you’ll lull me into thinking you care.”
“Now, really! There’s no call for that sort of thing.” Why was it that every time he encountered this woman—which, he realized, had only been twice so far—she outraged him? What had he ever done to her that he should earn such enmity? Well, except for questioning the propriety of her working at the World’s Columbian Exposition.
“No?” She tilted her head and surveyed him from top to bottom. Alex felt like squirming. He hadn’t felt like squirming in his entire adult life, and he found the sensation extremely unpleasant. “Listen, Mr. English, why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about? If it’s about my father, I can’t help you. I don’t know where he is. If I’m lucky, they’ve got him locked up, but I’m not usually lucky.”
Good Lord. Alex had never heard anything like this before in his whole life. He couldn’t imagine so young a woman being so hard and cynical. “It’s not about your father. It’s about you.”
She seemed to slump for no more than an instant, then straightened her spine again. “Yeah? What about me?”
Drat the woman. A person would think he was the one at fault here, when it was she who was the one performing salacious dances and telling fortunes. Everyone knew fortune-tellers were no better than criminals.
“I saw your performance this evening.”
“Yeah? Pretty good, aren’t I?”
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Finney! That dance is scandalous!”
“It’s not scandalous. It’s Egyptian. How come you’ve never talked to Little Egypt about how scandalous she is? How come you’re telling me I’m a hussy?”
“A hussy?” Alex felt himself flush and could only be glad the carriage was dark inside. “I said no such thing.”
“You thought it,” Kate said baldly. “And I’m not.”
“Of course not.” He didn’t believe it. He thought she was a hussy. The truth smacked him like a blow. Gil’s accusation taunted him, and he tried to shake it off.
“Listen, Mr. English. I’m only trying to make a living however I can. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you were—”
”Now see here—”
”Darn it, listen to me, will you? I work hard. Very, very hard. And it’s not easy, what I do. I’m trying to support myself and my mother, and believe me, the world isn’t kind to women who are trying to support themselves.”
“You ought to get married. That’s what you should do.” Alex was sure of it. Marriage and motherhood were the roles established for women, no matter how poorly this present example of femininity might fill the roles. Until her face set like granite, he hadn’t believed she could look any harder.
“Yeah? My mother got married. See the result?” She yanked at her scarf, and Alex winced when he saw the dark, brutal bruises thus exposed. “Marriage isn’t for me, thanks anyway.”
“You know very well such a—a marriage as—as that is uncommon, Miss Finney.”
“Not where I come from, it isn’t. I’ve got better things in store for my life than marriage, believe me.”
“You sound like a suffragist,” Alex said stiffly. He didn’t hold with woman’s suffrage. What did women know about the world and politics?
“Suffragist, my foot,” Kate scoffed. “I don’t give a hang about suffrage. I don’t have time to think about suffrage. All I’m trying to do is put food on the table. And I won’t let you stop me, if I can help it.”
“I’m not trying to stop you from putting food on your table.” He was becoming annoyed. This little chit was trying to make him out to be some kind of ogre. “What I’m trying to do is maintain a proper tone at the fair I helped to create.”
“Yeah? Well, somebody said it was all right for Madame Esmeralda to set up a booth on the Midway, and somebody else said it was all right for Little Egypt to dance there, so I guess we don’t really have anything to talk about, do we? I guess everybody else thinks our tone is proper enough.” She turned and resumed looking out at the street.
Alex saw that her fingers were tapping out a nervous tattoo on her handbag. He got the impression her state of anxiety didn’t concern herself, but someone else. The person at the hospital? “Are you worried about someone at the hospital, Miss Finney?” He was surprised when he heard the question, since he hadn’t intended to ask it.
Again, she turned and gave him a look that told him what she thought of him. Not much. If anything.
“Yeah,” she said sarcastically. “You might say so.”
“May I ask who it is?” That was polite, wasn’t it? He’d sounded as if he cared, even though he didn’t, really.
“You can ask. I don’t choose to answer.”