A gilded lady, p.5
A Gilded Lady, page 5
No, that wasn’t quite right. It was better to think of her as a colleague for whom he had professional regard and nothing more. The other feelings that sometimes tugged at the edges of his awareness needed to be ignored.
Which was challenging today. Caroline stood only two feet away from him as they waited for the elevator, and her upswept hair exposed the curve of her neck, making it difficult to concentrate. The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside with Caroline.
“Going up?” the uniformed attendant asked. Nathaniel nodded, making a note to check the credentials of the elevator attendant who would be on duty the day of the event.
The luncheon would be held in the exhibition hall, a cavernous room with a domed ceiling. Their footsteps echoed as they entered the huge chamber.
“Each of the senators’ wives will have a special keepsake from Mrs. McKinley placed at her seat,” Caroline said. “I’ll make arrangements for the gifts to be delivered the morning of the event.”
She continued outlining how the tables would be arranged, the timing for the event, and how the servers would deliver and clear the meal, but Nathaniel’s attention kept drifting to the art on the walls, a collection of Renaissance engravings on loan to the museum for the rest of the year.
Renaissance engravings were his Achilles’ heel. His love of engraving dated back to his art school days in Chicago, when he used every dollar he could save to be trained in the creation of steel-faced copper plates used for making prints. Engraving merged artistic skill with attention to detail, and he loved it. It required hours of exacting concentration to make the plates that could produce designs on a grand scale.
He wandered over to admire Albrecht Dürer’s woodcut of The Prodigal Son. Dürer had perfectly captured the desperation in the young man’s clasped hands as he prayed for redemption. Nathaniel had always longed to be capable of portraying human emotion with such mastery. He was a good artist, but he’d long been reconciled to the fact that he would never compete on this level. Now he simply stared in silent admiration at the work of a long-dead genius.
Caroline came up alongside him. “That man looks like he’s seen better days,” she quipped with a nod to the prodigal son.
“Dürer changed my life,” Nathaniel said quietly.
What had made him say that? Caroline had no need to know of his long-ago visit to the Chicago museum where Dürer’s work set his adolescent imagination on fire.
“How so?” she asked.
He backed away from the truth and used a safer answer. “His engravings use similar techniques to those for printing currency. I went to art school and studied the process.”
“You can do art like this?” she asked, gaping at the exquisite woodcut before them.
To his mortification, a blush started to heat his cheeks. “No,” he rushed to say. “Albrecht Dürer is the holy grail of engravers. I’m only an amateur.”
“But it was your engraving skills that got you hired to sniff out counterfeit?”
He nodded. “Engraving is the foundation for creating the most lucrative counterfeits. Currency is the most popular, but stock certificates, land deeds, and even postage stamps can all be faked. It’s actually not that hard for me to spot anomalies in engravings.”
The Kestrel Gang he had sought for so long had mastered dozens of types of engraved forgeries, and his hand instinctively trailed to the kestrel clip holding his tie in place. Caroline noticed.
“Any luck tracking them down?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll find them someday. It’s only a matter of time. What’s frustrating is that forgers disappear quickly, but their work slips into circulation and can go years without anyone noticing. In fact, there’s one in this very building. Do you want me to show you?”
Her eyes widened. “Absolutely!”
He’d spotted the Vermeer painting two years ago and was almost certain it was a fake. His footsteps echoed on the marble staircase as he headed down to the room of seventeenth-century European masters. He strode past the old-world paintings of grim-faced Dutch merchants and epic battle scenes to stand before the barefoot peasant girl with a rabbit on her lap. She sat on an overturned barrel in a rustic barnyard so perfectly rendered that he could almost smell the hay and dust.
The painting was enchanting, with the girl’s fingers splayed to clutch the rabbit poised to jump from her lap. An open window in the farmhouse behind the girl showed cooling loaves of bread on the windowsill.
“It’s charming,” Caroline said.
“Yes.”
“I love how it looks like the girl is holding her breath, as though she knows that rabbit is about to make a leap for freedom.”
He smiled, for that was exactly the expression on the girl’s face. “Yes. Sadly, I think it’s a forgery.”
“How can you tell?”
There were only around forty known paintings by Vermeer, so it was hard to establish a pattern. Most of Vermeer’s paintings were of domestic scenes inside well-appointed homes, but not all. Most of his subjects were people of means, but not all. That made this painting atypical on two fronts, but the other details, like the mastery of light and shadow, were classic Vermeer.
“I can’t be certain,” he said. “I notified the museum director of my suspicion and asked to study the back of the canvas, to look for clues of its age and construction, but he denied the request. So there it hangs.”
“What does it matter?” Caroline asked. “It’s a charming addition and just as good as any of the other paintings here.”
He strolled to a real Vermeer several paces away. The Woman in Green wasn’t particularly interesting, showing a plain-faced woman reading a letter in a lackluster room. But it was real, and that vaulted it far above the girl with the rabbit.
“A painting is more than the arrangement of pigment on canvas,” he said. “A real Vermeer is centuries of history and a chance to step into an earlier time and place. It’s a chance to be in the Dutch master’s studio, look over his shoulder, and glimpse what had him so entranced. He knew that woman reading the letter. Who was she? Why did he choose to memorialize her for all time? Does the letter contain good news or bad? A fake will never capture that aura of mystery and authenticity. It’s flawed from the start.”
Caroline glanced back at the girl with the rabbit, skepticism on her face. “I hear what you’re saying, but I disagree. If I could have one of these paintings on the wall of my home, the rabbit wins every time. The woman with the letter is hopelessly dull and frumpy.”
He was torn between laughing and tearing his hair out in frustration. The rabbit painting was a fraud, and he knew it in his bones but couldn’t prove it without the museum’s cooperation. And why would they? The privately owned museum had probably paid a fortune for that fake Vermeer, and the government had no jurisdiction over them.
“Somewhere out there, a con artist is wallowing in ill-gotten riches from that painting.”
“And that bothers you?”
It drove him insane. “I don’t like cheaters. The artist is to be commended for his talent, but why did he have to cheat?”
This was probably the point at which she was going to call him a Puritan and a killjoy. But she surprised him.
“He cheated because he understood the value of Vermeer’s style and knew he could never create one to surpass it. You should pity him.”
And just like that, she forced him to consider the rabbit painting and its artist in a new light. “The rabbit painting has more charm,” he conceded. “But the woman reading the letter has more heft.”
“And you like heft?” she teased.
“I like heft.”
“And I like laughing girls and impish rabbits. Does that make me hopelessly frivolous in your eyes?”
As she spoke, she slid next to the counterfeit painting to look back at him, her countenance alive with laughter and charm. She was breathtaking, and he’d be a fraud if he pretended otherwise. He’d been attracted to women before, but this felt different. Beyond her obvious beauty was a luminous spirit that drew him like a lodestone. She had intelligence and humor, and he longed for more time to bask in this magnetic attraction.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He had a job to do, and Caroline was a distraction.
“We should return to the White House,” he said.
“Must we?”
He had a duty, and so did she. “I’m afraid we must.”
“Why did I suspect that was exactly what you’d say?”
Without changing his expression, he cocked an elbow toward her, and she immediately curled her palm around it and smiled.
The oddest thing was that she didn’t seem disappointed. Quite the opposite. It was almost as though she’d been hoping he would adhere to his staid, pedantic routines.
And that made him want her even more.
Seven
Caroline sought out the best criminal attorney in the city to help her file the paperwork for a presidential pardon. Jeremiah Alphonse was also the only attorney to have won a pardon from President McKinley. Every window in his law office was open, and a ceiling fan slowly rotated overhead. Mr. Alphonse had a massive salt-and-pepper mustache but kindly dark eyes as he let her know what she was up against.
“McKinley has granted only one pardon after almost four years in office. Ever since I successfully petitioned for it, my office has been swamped with people hoping to repeat the miracle. Presidential pardons are as rare as hummingbirds in the Arctic. They take years and have only a minuscule chance of success. Who do you want pardoned?”
“I’m only asking hypothetical questions. No one in particular.” News of Luke’s arrest hadn’t yet been widely circulated, and she intended to guard his privacy.
“Hypothetically, then,” Mr. Alphonse said with a knowing tip of his head. “It all depends on the severity of the offense. How bad was the hypothetical crime?”
“Pretty bad,” she admitted. That was an understatement. Short of murder, treason was the worst crime imaginable.
“That’s a problem,” the lawyer replied. “Presidents are willing to extend a second chance for crimes of youth, cowardice, or perhaps trifling financial indiscretions. The man I won the pardon for had been found guilty of blasphemy. Still, even such minor offenses are hopeless this close to an election.”
She blanched. She couldn’t bear the thought of Luke sweltering in jail until after the election in November. Even worse, if President McKinley lost the election, she would have no hope whatsoever. Her shoulders sagged, and it felt like she’d just aged fifty years.
“Miss Delacroix, you just plunked down a fortune to purchase my services and complete confidentiality. I can’t render effective counsel unless I know the details of the offense and the identity of the perpetrator.”
How could she keep her chin up and admit that her twin brother had confessed to treason against the United States? Luke was only six minutes older than her, but he’d always been her hero. He was utterly and completely fearless. Not like Caroline. When she was a child, she was afraid of everything. Of the dark, noises in the attic, unfamiliar foods, even caterpillars.
Luke never made fun of her. He simply gathered up a bunch of caterpillars and let them crawl all over his arms, his neck, the top of his head. Then he spoke calming words as he carefully lowered one onto the back of her hand so she could see that it would be okay.
On their fifth birthday, her father arranged a treat by shipping in artichokes from California. She’d been leery of the odd-looking vegetable, mistrusting its scent and tough outer layers. Coaxing from her father and Gray did no good. It wasn’t until Luke gamely ripped off an artichoke petal and pretended to relish the mushy, strange-tasting food that she dared try it.
Every year after that, Luke presented her with a perfect artichoke in memory of her newfound courage. It didn’t matter that sometimes he was away at college and once traveling in Spain. On her birthday, Luke made sure she received a basket of artichokes, one for each year they’d been alive.
His example taught her to outgrow childish fears, and soon she was tromping alongside him as they searched the countryside for Indian arrowheads and buried treasure. They snuck out of the house after dark to watch the flurry of bats careen wildly about the trees in their backyard.
The problem was that as they got older, she continued to embrace Luke’s daring outlook on life. Together they set Washington society on fire. There was never a party they didn’t attend, never a race they didn’t run. Once when her father was overseas, she and Luke arranged a wild birthday party for themselves aboard a barge in the Potomac. They lit off fireworks and drank champagne straight from the bottle. Caroline borrowed a sword from a naval officer to cut the birthday cake. It was the sort of daring caper that made them the most celebrated people in town. She’d always thought it was harmless, but Luke eventually started crossing the line into real trouble.
She would have to confess everything to Mr. Alphonse if he was going to help her.
“My brother was arrested for espionage and treason in Cuba,” she admitted quietly. “He was consorting with Cuban revolutionaries who are trying to force an end to the American occupation of the island.”
Mr. Alphonse let out a low whistle of incredulity.
“He’s not guilty,” she rushed to say. “He confessed, but I think maybe he was tortured or wasn’t in his right mind. This doesn’t sound like my brother. Luke was always a little wild, but he was never evil. He doesn’t have any interest in politics! I have no explanation for how he could have gotten mixed up in this.”
“Miss Delacroix, no man guilty of treason will ever be pardoned by a sitting US president. Is Mr. McKinley aware of the pending charges?”
“He knows. I told him the day I learned of it and offered my resignation. He wouldn’t take it.”
“I think it would be best if I return your retainer,” Mr. Alphonse said. “I see no possibility of winning a pardon for your brother.”
“I won’t take it. I’m going to get that pardon.”
“Not before the election. Even if McKinley wins a second term, I don’t see him endangering his reputation until his very last week in office. You are in for a long wait.”
Caroline swallowed hard at the news. She couldn’t risk Luke’s freedom on the outcome of an election. If Mr. Alphonse wouldn’t help her get a presidential pardon, she would pursue one on her own.
The only person Caroline completely trusted to help with Luke’s situation was her older brother, Gray Delacroix. He was in charge of their family’s spice company, which had given him the freedom to go to Cuba several times over the three months since Luke’s arrest. He had returned from his latest visit only a few days ago, but duties kept Caroline trapped in the White House until Sunday afternoon, when she hired a carriage to take her to their family’s townhouse in nearby Alexandria.
“How’s Luke?” she asked the moment she took a seat across from Gray’s desk. With his dark coloring and serious face, he was practically a replica of their father. At forty, Gray was twelve years older than Caroline and Luke and the natural leader in their family.
“He’s being difficult,” Gray said bluntly. “He fired the attorney I hired for him and insists on maintaining his guilty plea. He also rejected my attempts to get him transferred to the American prison.”
Luke had been arrested for siding with Cuban rebels to oust the American presence that had been on the island since the conclusion of the Spanish-American War two years earlier. The island had been ravaged during the war, but the American government had flooded Cuba with money, supplies, and soldiers to rebuild the infrastructure. Most Cubans welcomed it, but a rebellious minority distrusted the American occupation and wanted them to leave. By siding with the Cuban rebels, Luke had made enemies of the local population who wanted the reconstruction of their island. He had been arrested alongside a group of rebels and had been sweltering in a Cuban jail ever since.
“I want him out of that jail,” Gray said tightly. “I toured the American military prison in Havana, and the conditions are better. Luke would be better off there, but he refuses to permit a transfer.”
“Can we pay the attorney to keep working on the transfer, even if Luke won’t cooperate?” she asked.
A brief smile flashed across Gray’s face. “I’ve already paid him to start the paperwork. There’s a hospital at the American jail, and decent medical care too.”
She sucked in quick breath. “Has Luke been ill?”
There was a long pause as Gray’s face darkened and he glanced away. “He got beat up by a couple of the guards the other day. I didn’t want to tell you, but we can’t keep secrets from each other. He looks bad. He’s lost weight.”
She flinched. The feeling of helplessness was strangling, but she couldn’t give up. “If the Cubans hate him, why won’t he ask for a transfer to an American prison?”
Gray had no answer, and it was just one of the many questions that swirled in her mind ever since hearing of Luke’s arrest.
“How are his spirits?” she asked.
Gray shrugged. “You know how he is. He always puts a bright face on everything.”
Caroline made no comment. From the time Luke was in long pants, his behavior had been outrageous. He indulged in endless pranks, broken curfews, overspending, and pushing the limits. He loved flirting with disaster and running risks. No matter how wild his behavior, he seemed to know exactly how far he could bend the rules before the hammer would crash down, and he usually managed to scramble back to respectability just ahead of the law, the debt collector, or the outraged father.
And the one time he hadn’t, Caroline was the only person he let know how deeply he’d been wounded. It was when he’d been expelled from the Naval Academy. His grades had been exceptional, but his demerits left him teetering on the edge of expulsion for three solid years.
His balancing act came crumbling down a month before graduation when he was sent home in disgrace. All they knew was that his final offense involved an admiral’s daughter, but Luke remained tight-lipped about the details. That night was burned into her mind. She’d huddled outside this very study while her father raged at Luke. Gray was overseas, managing their East Indian holdings, but she doubted he would have had any more luck in prying the story from Luke.
