The Pilgrim Song, page 2
As Arlen headed for the dance floor, Lewis said darkly, “I don’t see why you had to drink tonight, son.”
“I just had a couple, Dad. Don’t start preaching.”
Lewis shrugged his shoulders. “Why don’t you go up and talk to Hannah. See if you can get her to come down. It is Jenny’s birthday, after all.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Josh took the steps up the curving front stairway two at a time as Arlen threaded his way across the dance floor. He tapped Fred on the shoulder, and when the young man turned, he said, “Cutting in, Fred.”
Fred Simpkins said sourly, “I thought you would. Thanks for the dance, Jenny.”
“You’re welcome, Fred. Ask me again.”
Arlen took Jenny in his arms and swept her around the floor. “I like this better than the Charleston.”
“Nobody does the Charleston anymore,” Jenny said.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He spun her around, then said, “You’re looking very beautiful.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“How did you know?”
“You always say that.”
“Well, you’re always beautiful.”
Jenny laughed. She couldn’t help liking Arlen Banks. She had begun seeing him only six months earlier, and he was fun to be with. He had plenty of money, as his father owned a number of factories that manufactured farm equipment. But Arlen was ten years older than Jenny—far too old to take as a serious suitor.
As they danced Arlen asked, “You know what I’m wondering?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering, if you were a little older, what kind of a married couple we’d make.”
“Arlen, that is the most unromantic thing a man has ever said to a woman!”
“What do you want me to do?” Arlen grinned. “After all, you’re only seventeen. I’ll have to wait at least another three or four years before you’re old enough to get married.”
“Well, it won’t be to you!”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll be too old then.”
Arlen laughed. “I suppose you’re right, but I can always dream. What’s your father going to get you for your birthday?”
“He’s already gotten it. A new mare. She’s gorgeous!”
“You’re going to break your neck one of these days riding those spirited horses.”
Without warning, Arlen leaned forward and kissed her square on the lips without missing a step, then laughed. “There. Happy birthday.”
Caught off guard, Jenny smiled and giggled as she shook her head. “You are the most unromantic man I have ever known! I would never marry you in a hundred years!”
“What if I learned to write poetry and play the guitar? How would that be?” He continued to tease her, and as they danced, she thought about how much she liked him and wished he were five years younger.
****
As soon as Joshua tapped on Hannah’s door, he heard her say, “Come in.” He went inside and glanced around, thinking how different the room was from Jenny’s. Stern, utilitarian, with few decorations. A massive rolltop desk dominated one wall, and across the room a set of enormous bookcases packed full rose to the ceiling. It was almost like an office, except for the mahogany bed with the lace canopy and the cherrywood antique washstand. The few pictures on the wall were original oils by well-known painters in the city—very expensive, Joshua knew. Even her choices in artwork were rather severe, he thought—traditional gardens and architecture, nothing splashy or modern. Hannah rose from the desk.
“You’re not dressed,” he said.
“Yes I am.”
Hannah Winslow, at the age of thirty, was attractive, with large brown eyes and shiny, thick auburn hair, though she insisted on pulling it back into a bun as a much older woman would wear it. She was not as beautiful as Jenny, but her features were stronger. Her eyes were expressive and her mouth firm. But there was a vulnerability about her that Josh had never been able to pin down. She’d had a happy childhood but then had disappointed her family. They had all expected her to marry well and have children. Instead, she’d broken her engagement to Preston Banks and had confined herself to the house, refusing most social invitations. She read constantly and helped to manage the large house and servants but was little more than a recluse. She cared nothing for stylish clothes. Instead of the maroon evening gown Jenny had bought her for the party, she was wearing a plain light blue day dress that did not suit her.
“I thought you might come down for Jenny’s party.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
“But Jenny said she bought you a new gown for the occasion.”
Hannah shook her head, and Joshua saw that gentle persuasion was not going to work. He stood there uncertainly and said, “You used to come to the birthday parties.”
“Just when it was the family.” Something changed in Hannah’s face. “I remember how wonderful it was when Mother was alive. We didn’t have a lot of money. Remember the house we grew up in?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“It was a home, Joshua. At times I wish Father hadn’t made so much money.”
“I don’t wish that.”
“Josh, why did you give up on college?” Hannah’s voice was quiet, and there was a soft pleading in her eyes. She put out her hand and touched his arm. “You could have done anything you wanted to, but you just quit.”
Josh cringed at the stinging words. “It didn’t seem to matter anymore. We had plenty of money. I didn’t see any sense in working myself to death.” Then he made a remark he would not have made if he had been completely sober. “Why did you give up? I may be a drunk, but you’re a hermit. Neither of us can face life.” As soon as the words were out, Josh was repentant. “I’m sorry, sis,” he said. “It’s the liquor talking.”
Hannah whispered, “It’s all right, Josh, but you go on. There’s nothing down there for me.”
****
Leo Daimen was a tall, heavyset man of sixty. He had all the marks of the wealth he’d accumulated in railroads. He was very opposed to his only daughter’s marriage to the much older Lewis Winslow and had done all he could to talk Lucy out of it but without success.
“It’s a nice party, isn’t it, Father?” Lucy asked him.
“I suppose,” Leo replied gruffly. “But a bit ornate for a seventeen-year-old, I’d say.”
“Just between you and me, this party is as much for Lewis as it is for Jennifer. I want Lewis to come out of himself more, and I believe he will once we’re married.”
“I worry about this family, Lucy. They’re not stable. Why, just think of that older sister. She’s nothing but a hermit—something’s not normal there. And Joshua is becoming a fall-down drunk.”
“I’ll get them all straightened out once we’re married. They just need the influence of a sophisticated woman in this house, that’s all.”
At that moment Kat came along, and Lucy said brightly, “Oh, Katherine! Are you having fun?”
“Yes, actually I am.”
Lucy’s face fell as she spotted Kat’s shoes. “Why, you’ve got dirt all over your shoes.”
“I went outside for a bit.”
Lucy shook her head. “You should go to the kitchen and clean them off.” She looked at the paper bag in the girl’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, now. We have no secrets. Let me see it.”
“Do you really want to, Miss Lucy?”
“Of course I do.”
“Are you sure?”
Lucy laughed. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, all right.” Kat handed the woman the sack, and Lucy opened it. She froze as a small green snake stuck his head up out of the sack. She screamed and dropped the bag, and Kat whisked it up, grinning. “Don’t you like snakes?”
“Get it out of here! Take it away!” Lucy cried as she ran to the other side of the large room.
Lewis had just entered the room, and he came over and asked his daughter what happened.
“She wanted to see what was in my sack,” Kat said innocently.
“And you gave it to her?”
Kat shrugged. “She insisted. I don’t think she liked it much.”
Lewis tried to conceal a grin. “Most ladies don’t like snakes.”
Kat looked up at him and said seriously, “I like snakes better than I like some people.”
Lewis laughed and hugged her. “I’d have to agree with you, but don’t tell anybody.”
He went to find Lucy to make his apologies, but she was highly upset and would not be consoled. He listened to her patiently, then shook his head. “She’s a little bit like her mother.”
“Well, she’ll have to change.”
“I suppose so,” Lewis said, and for the moment he tried to look ahead, thinking what changes would come when he and Lucy were married. Marrying Lucy had seemed like a good idea, but lately he’d been having some doubts. Maybe we’ll be all right, he tried to assure himself. I certainly need help from somebody. . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Jailbird Gardener
Lewis Winslow spread the paper out on his desk, glanced at the date, September 20, 1929, then ran his eyes over the stock market report. He shook his head and muttered sourly, “This is insane! It can’t go on. . . .”
He checked the Dow Jones Industrial Average, wondering if the whole country had lost its mind. Buying stocks had become a national mania. Even the poorest of working people were pooling their funds and buying five shares of some stock, without the least idea of what they were buying. He read an article that said more than a million Americans had bought stock and that three hundred million shares of stock were being carried on margin, meaning on credit. The papers were replete with stories of people who’d made fortunes. Lewis himself knew of a broker’s valet who had made nearly a quarter of a million in the market. He’d also heard of a nurse who had made thirty thousand dollars by following tips given her by grateful patients. With a gesture of disgust, Lewis shuffled through the paper, catching up on the other news of the day.
He read with interest about the travels of Charles and Anne Lindbergh, who had married in the spring and were now flying to many foreign lands together. He also read of the explorer Richard Byrd, who was waiting in the Antarctic darkness at his base named Little America for his chance to fly to the South Pole. In sports, the colorful American tennis player Bill Tilden had won his seventh amateur tennis championship, Bobby Jones ruled the world of golf, and Babe Ruth was still hammering out home runs.
The door opened quietly, and Lewis’s secretary, Miss Handley, stuck her head inside. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Fred Davenport.”
“Fred Davenport? Well, show him in.” Lewis got up from his chair and moved across the room. When a diminutive man wearing an outdated light brown suit entered the room, Lewis said, “Fred, it’s good to see you!” He took the man’s hand, noticing that it was hard and calloused. “Where in the world have you been?”
“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Winslow.” Davenport’s apprehensive expression was replaced with a relaxed smile at Lewis’s greeting. “I hated to bust in without an appointment—”
“Never mind all that. Come in and have a seat.” Lewis waved at the chair, and as his guest sat down carefully, holding a worn derby in his lap, he went to the door and said, “Could we have some coffee please, Ellen?” He shut the door and said, “This is fine! I haven’t seen you in—oh, I don’t know how many years.”
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Winslow.”
“Oh, never mind the ‘mister,’ Fred. Lewis was good enough for us in Cuba.”
“Well, yes it was, but things have changed.”
Lewis pulled his chair closer to Davenport’s and began questioning him. Davenport had been in his squad in the Spanish-American War. They had been under fire together, and Davenport had once saved Lewis from getting hit by pulling him back just as a fusillade of shots rang out. Lewis had later distinguished himself in that war by winning the Congressional Medal of Honor.
The coffee arrived, and for twenty minutes the two men exchanged their stories. Finally Davenport said, “Well, I’ve come asking a favor. That’s the way it is with old acquaintances, isn’t it? You don’t see ’em for years, then suddenly there they are with their hands out, wanting something.”
“Why, don’t worry about that, Fred. What is it?” Lewis knew that Davenport was a workingman, though he did not know what kind of manual labor he had worked at recently.
“Well, it’s not for myself, Lewis. You see, I have one sister. We grew up together on a farm in Tennessee. She married a man named Longstreet and had a family, but he died several years ago, and the farm played out. One of her boys, Clinton, has given her a little trouble. He’s a restless sort. He worked the farm until a few years ago, when his mother married again. Evidently the boy didn’t get along with his new stepfather, so he hit the road and has been just about everywhere in the country. He went to sea about a year ago shovelin’ coal, but he didn’t like it. He came back about a month ago to stay with me and hasn’t been able to get work.”
“I take it he’s in some kind of trouble?”
“He got in a fight over a girl down on Water Street. It was a fair fight, but Clint got the best of it. Handy with his fists, he is.”
“Did he get arrested?”
“That’s the problem, Lewis. He beat up the wrong fella. You know James Garvey?”
“You mean the attorney general?”
“That’s him. It was his boy Clint beat up, and Garvey’s gonna press charges. He’s got the judge on his side, of course.”
“Which judge?”
“Name is Ramsey. I been to talk to him, and he says he’s gonna give Clint some time in jail.”
“I see,” Lewis said. “Why don’t you let me work on this. Garvey’s a friend of mine—and I supported Ramsey in the last election.”
Relief washed over Davenport’s face. “That would be great if you could get him off, Lewis, but Judge Ramsey says Clint has to have a job.”
“Well, I’ll find him something.” He stood up and when the other man rose with him, he clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we can work this out. Don’t worry about it, Fred.”
“That’s like you, Lewis. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“We old soldiers have to stick together.”
Lewis waited until Davenport left, then checked a number in his address book and picked up the phone. “Operator, give me 6617. . . .”
****
Kat swung her mallet sharply and struck the wooden ball. It made a straight path through the wicket, and she threw her mallet into the air, shouting, “I win—I win!”
Jenny laughed as the mallet cartwheeled and came down in the grass nearby. “Yes, you do. You’re too good for me.”
“Let’s play one more game, Jenny. Bet I beat you again.”
“Well, maybe just one more. . . .” She paused and turned to look at the vehicle that had pulled into the driveway. “That’s a police car,” she murmured.
“A police car? Have they come to arrest us?” Kat’s eyes were big.
“I doubt that.” Jenny smiled. “They’re probably lost and looking for an address.” She watched as the door opened and a bulky officer got out and opened the back of the paddy wagon. A tall lean man wearing rough-looking clothes and a worn fedora stepped down. She heard the officer say, “Come on, this is where you get off.”
Jenny waited until the policeman and the other man approached, then asked, “Are you lost, Officer?”
“I don’t think so, miss. This is Mr. Lewis Winslow’s place, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I’m his daughter.”
“Well, Miss Winslow, I’m turning this fellow over to you.”
“You’re doing what?” Jenny stared at the muscular man. His sandy hair crept out from beneath the fedora, and he had steady gray-green eyes. His nose appeared to have been broken at one time, and he had a scar on the right side of his chin along the jawline. He had a heavy lower lip, high cheekbones, and very large hands with oversized knuckles. “What do you mean? Who is he?”
“His name’s Longstreet. Your father asked us to deliver him here. Is Mr. Winslow home?”
“No, but you can’t leave a prisoner here.”
“He’s safe enough.” The man grinned. “Would you sign right here, miss?”
Jenny protested furiously, but in the end she gave in at the officer’s insistence that this was her father’s instruction. He took the clipboard back, obviously finding something amusing in the situation. “You two enjoy yourselves,” he said as he returned to the car. He waved out the window as he pulled away.
Kat had hardly taken her eyes off of the tall man. “Are you a criminal?” she demanded.
“I guess I am.”
“Are you a murderer?”
A smile turned up the corners of Longstreet’s mouth. “Maybe I am. You’d better run.”
Kat stared at him calmly and shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you. What’s your name?”
“Clint Longstreet. What’s yours?”
“Kat Winslow. I’m twelve.”
“You come with me, Mr. Longstreet,” Jenny said brusquely. She turned and marched away, leading Longstreet around the side of the house. Kat fell back and twisted her head up, studying the stranger as he strolled along. He had very long legs and adjusted his pace to stay behind Jenny. Kat looked down at his right hand and noted that the tip of his little finger was missing.
“What happened to your finger, Clint?”
“Bear bit it off.”
Kat laughed. “That’s a story!”
“Yes, it is. Got caught in some machinery.” He held it out for her to examine, and she continued to put questions to him.
“Stop asking questions, Kat,” her sister demanded. “I don’t want you talking to him.”
