The Cavalier, page 4
Oscar's expression softened somewhat. "Took some doing, sir. But yes, I reckon it is solid. Seen enough carriages in my time to know how they ought to run... and how they break down." He wiped his hands on a rag.
Noah smiled. "Experience, it seems, is the best teacher." He paused, letting his gaze drift over a particularly elegant, if slightly battered, phaeton in the corner. "I knew a man, years ago, who swore by his driver more than his horses. Said a good driver was worth his weight in gold, knew the streets better than any map, anticipated trouble before it happened."
Oscar nodded slowly, a flicker of something – memory, perhaps pride – in his eyes. "A good driver is that, sir. Seen plenty myself. Know the rhythms of the city."
"Indeed," Noah said, stepping closer to a workbench scattered with tools. "I imagine you've seen a great deal in your time. Philadelphia has changed some since... well, since before the mix-up," he said, referring obliquely to the war. It was a gentle nudge towards the past. One he hoped would help the aging negro to open up a bit.
"It has," Oscar agreed, picking up a hammer absently. Plenty changed. Some things... some things just fade away, I suppose."
Noah leaned against the workbench, adopting a casual posture. "Fading away... yes. Businesses come and go. Some houses... well, they change hands, don't they?" He kept his tone conversational, almost wistful. "There was a particular house... over near Rittenhouse Square, I believe it was? Well-known. Run by a Miss... Ashley? Knew someone who... occasionally had dealings there. Heard it was quite the establishment."
Oscar paused his work. His gaze became distant for a moment, then returned to Noah, assessing. The casual mention of Allison Ashley, the "well-known establishment," clearly registered. Noah held his breath, maintaining his relaxed stance.
"Miss Allison's place," Oscar confirmed quietly. "Yes, sir. It was well-known." There was no judgment in his tone, just a simple fact. "I... I worked for Miss Allison for many years. Was her driver."
"Ah," Noah said, a carefully calibrated expression of dawning recognition on his face. "So you were! The gentleman I mentioned spoke very highly of her driver. Said he was discreet, reliable."
"Miss Allison valued discretion," Oscar said simply. "And reliability."
"Must have been a busy place," Noah mused, looking out at the falling snow through the shop door. Lots of coming and going. Saw all sorts, I imagine." He let the statement hang, a question, unasked, implied.
Oscar gave a short, dry chuckle. "That's true enough. Saw plenty. Knew plenty... or enough, anyway."
"A place like that," Noah continued, circling back gently, "must have had... a complicated life within its walls. People coming and going." He let his voice drop slightly, making it sound like a hesitant question, a probing into something perhaps sensitive but widely known. "I heard faint whispers... about Miss Ashley having a daughter? Emilia, was it? Or am I mistaken?"
Oscar's gaze sharpened slightly, but not with suspicion, more with a quiet understanding that this was where the conversation was heading. "You're not mistaken, sir. Miss Emilia. Yes, Miss Allison's daughter." His voice softened now, carrying a note of genuine affection. "She grew up in the house, mostly."
"Must have been difficult raising a young girl in such a place," Noah ventured, carefully choosing his words.
Oscar nodded slowly. "Miss Allison tried her best, sir. Absolutely, the best she could. Kept her away from... from the business end of things, as much as possible. Had a good nanny... like a second mother to Miss Emilia. Did her level best to give her a normal kind of upbringing in abnormal circumstances."
"A commendable effort," Noah agreed. "But impossible to shield completely, I imagine?"
"Hard as she tried," Oscar confirmed. "As Miss Emilia got older... it got harder. Couldn't keep her stabled forever." He paused, a pensive look on his face. "That's when Miss Allison made the decision. Sent her away. To a finishing school in London."
Noah kept his expression neutral, merely nodding as if this was information he half-expected. "London."
"Yes, sir," Oscar confirmed. "A good school, Miss Allison made sure of that. Six years she was there. Through the whole... the whole war."
"Six years," Noah repeated, picturing it. A young girl sent across an ocean as a nation tore itself apart. "A long time to be away from home. Especially with the times being what they were."
"It was," Oscar said, his gaze distant again. "Miss Allison missed her something awful. But she knew it was for the best. For Miss Emilia's sake."
Noah leaned back slightly, his hand resting on a seasoned piece of wood. "And then... the tragedy?" He lowered his voice, signaling respect for loss.
Oscar's face clouded over. A deep sadness, unresolved grief, settled in his eyes. "Yes, sir. An accident. Terrible thing." He hesitated, then his voice grew quieter. "Was riding with... with Mr. Sinclaire."
Noah nodded slowly, as if recalling the name from old rumors. "Mr. Sinclaire. A prominent gentleman, I believe?"
"Very prominent, sir," Oscar confirmed, a complex mix of emotions – respect, perhaps a touch of resentment or confusion – playing on his features. "Tragic indeed." He looked away, towards the back of the shop. "Still bothers me. Why was she out with him driving instead of letting me take them? Always drove Miss Allison myself. Always mum about what I saw and who..." He trailed off, the question clearly still haunting him.
Noah didn't push the point, respecting the man's obvious pain. Instead, he offered a quiet observation. "Life has a way of taking turns we never expect." He then steered back gently. "That name... Sinclaire. I seem to recall some whispers from way back... about Mr. Sinclaire and Miss Ashley. Rumors about... a child? The sort of thing people use to try to bring a man of status down to their level."
"Rumors followed Miss Allison like a shadow, sir. That one stuck around longer than most, though." He didn't confirm it directly, but the implication hung heavy in the air. "Whether he was her father or not," Oscar continued, speaking slowly, deliberately, as if sorting through his own thoughts, "Mr. Sinclaire... he did what he could for Miss Emilia while she was growing up. As much as he could, given who he was. Couldn't exactly... claim her, straight out. So... yes. Rumors were about all there was."
He paused to collect his thoughts, maybe to decide how much detail he wanted to go into.
"After his wife passed," Oscar began again, seemingly wanting to get something off his chest. "He started spending more time around Miss Allison. After his own wife passed and with Miss Emilia away in London, I suppose that made things easier for them. Not as much talk now, I suppose."
Noah let the information settle. Sinclaire looking out for Emilia, the history with Allison, the timing after his wife's death, and the constraints of his position. It painted a clearer picture of a clandestine relationship that was beginning to come out into the open as Sinclaire aged. Something that spoke of something well beyond a business arrangement.
"So," Noah said, transitioning to the present, or the recent past. "After Miss Ashley... passed. And Miss Emilia returned, I assume?"
"Yes, sir," Oscar said, nodding. "She came back. Took news about her mama pretty hard, but she didn’t really see the place as home and was never cut out to run the business. After London, the whole thing was disgusting to her."
"I guess she sold the place?" Noah asked, keeping his tone gentle, guiding the narrative.
Oscar gestured around the shop, a flicker of pride returning. "That’s how I got this. Miss Emilia... she sold the house. Didn't want it, not that way. And she... she bought this for me. The whole business. Said it was what her mama would have wanted. Said I knew more about carriages and driving than anyone." He looked at Noah, a depth of gratitude and perhaps sadness in his eyes. "It was an extraordinary kindness, sir. From such a young lady."
"A remarkable gesture, indeed," Noah said with complete sincerity. It spoke volumes about Emilia's character. "So, the house is gone. Is she still in the city? Running this business with you?"
Oscar shook his head slowly. "No, sir. Not here. She took the train. Headed west."
"West?" Noah's internal alarm didn't show on his face. "A long journey."
"Very long," Oscar agreed. "Took her mama's nanny with her. Miss Clara. Good woman. Like I said, more of a mother to Miss Emilia than her own mama in many ways. Miss Emilia always called her Nanna. Miss Emilia and her mother already had plans to head west. Wrote about it in their letters. Miss Allison was ready to get away from the house, too, and wanted a fresh start. I heard talk about San Francisco, but I didn’t ask questions."
"San Francisco," Noah repeated, as if contemplating the distance. "Quite the undertaking. I heard it is expensive to travel between Nebraska and Nevada, and a bit dangerous too.”
“I wouldn’t know nothing about that, sir,” Oscar responded.
He stepped away from the workbench, signaling the end of the conversation. "I appreciate your time and company on this miserable day. You will surely be on the top of my list whenever I need a ride or carriage repair.”
He made his way toward the door, and when he reached it, Noah turned and waved his hand in reference to the shop. “You got something to be proud of here."
Chapter Five
The recent snow had given way to a dull, gray thaw. Puddles reflecting the gaslight glow on Chestnut Street and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carts were echoes of Philadelphia's relentless, post-war pulse. Inside the opulent, brownstone headquarters of Sinclaire Steel, the air was significantly warmer, though the atmosphere was still frigid in its own way.
Dillon Sinclaire leaned back in his chair, a masterpiece of mahogany and etched leather before a desk that could seat a committee of six. He was a striking man in his late thirties, dressed in a meticulously tailored suit of dark wool, a crisp white shirt, and a silk cravat the color of dried blood. His features were sharp, almost too perfect, framed by dark, slicked-back hair. More than one member of the fairer sex had swooned at the sight of him. He was one of Philadelphia society’s most sought-after bachelors. The fact that the family holdings he had inherited made him one of the richest men on the East Coast only added to it all. However, his only interest in women was as playthings.
A faint smile danced on his lips as he considered the situation he found himself in, a calculated expression that could melt into genuine charm or twist into something predatory in an instant.
The transcontinental railroad, an anthem of American progress, was for men like Dillon Sinclaire, a symphony of ringing registers. Steel, mountains of it, were needed for rails, bridges and locomotives. His family's company, built on generations of shrewdness and a willingness to crush anyone in their path, should have been riding the crest of this wave effortlessly. But demand had exploded faster than even he, with all his inherited arrogance and ambition, had anticipated. His own furnaces roared day and night, the men worked until they dropped, but it wasn't enough. Not for Dillon. Not for his vision of Sinclaire Steel dominating the Eastern Seaboard... and beyond.
He needed more capacity, and he needed it yesterday. Building new facilities? Years. Re-tooling? Months he couldn't afford. Buying was the only option. His gaze fell upon a file lying on his desk, bound with a ribbon, frayed at the edges, like his patience. The file contained the details of Hartley & Sons Steel, a smaller operation based in Cleveland, Ohio. An upstart compared his own operation, but with decent furnaces and a skilled workforce already producing 20,000 tons of steel each year.
Up until recently, its proprietor, Albert Hartley, had seemed amenable to a reasonable offer, but he’d gotten wise to what was taking place, recognizing that Sinclaire needed his added production and needed it badly. He’d decided to change his definition of reasonable.
Reasonable. Dillon scoffed internally. For him, “reasonable” involved Hartley walking away with enough money to retire comfortably and Sinclaire Steel absorbing his assets without a fuss. Hartley, it seemed, had a different definition, one that involved clinging to the company his father had built with a stubbornness that Dillon found utterly contemptible. The whole thing was a ruse, of course, his father had barely ventured into the steel business, most of what had become Hartley & Sons Steel had been accomplished by Albert himself.
They’d exchanged letters, telegrams and emissaries. Dillon had started with slick, all gentlemanly overtures and generous figures. When Hartley demurred, citing loyalty to his workers and a sentimental attachment to the business, Dillon had sweetened the pot, adding clauses about retaining staff and guaranteeing pensions. Still, Hartley had refused.
Sentiment was a liability in business. Loyalty was a weakness. Albert Hartley had proven himself both sentimental and weak. Negotiating was getting him nowhere. It was time for persuasion of a different kind.
A knock at the door invaded his thoughts.
“Enter.”
“Mister O’Leary and his brothers are here,” Ms. Wilkes announced, opening the door only far enough to push her head through it.
“Send them in.”
She pushed the door open and signaled to the hulking figure with a face that looked carved from granite and eyes that held the wary intelligence of a street brawler. Patrick O'Leary wasn't alone; two younger, equally formidable men stood slightly behind him – his brothers, Sean and Liam. These were the kind of men polite society pretended didn't exist. They operated in the city's shadows, their skills honed by docks, alleys, and a chilling disregard for consequence. Sinclaire Steel didn't just build fortunes; it occasionally required... adjustments. The O'Leary brothers specialized in helping with adjustments.
Dillon didn't stand, didn't offer pleasantries beyond a curt nod. "O'Leary." His voice was low, devoid of the refined lilt he used with peers. This was business, stripped bare.
"Mr. Sinclaire." Patrick's voice was a gravelly rumble.
"Your work in New Orleans helped bring about the objective hoped for,” Sinclaire said, allowing an appreciative smile to brush over his features before continuing. “I have another matter requiring discretion and prompt resolution," he said, tapping the Hartley file. "Albert Hartley. Operates a steelworks in Cleveland. He is proving somewhat obstructive regarding a proposed acquisition."
Patrick’s expression remained impassive. "Obstructive, sir?"
"Stubborn," Dillon clarified, leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixing on Patrick's. "Refuses to sign the contract I have offered in order to buy out his company. I've wasted enough time with pleasantries and offers."
He slid a thick envelope across the desk. "The contract, drafted by my lawyers, is ready for his signature. Also, funds to cover your... expenses."
Patrick picked up the envelope, his fingers testing its weight. He nodded, glanced at his two brothers, who were more like statues than men in the uncomfortable setting.
"Mr. Hartley needs to understand the... urgency of this matter," Dillon continued, his voice dropping further. "He needs to be convinced. Thoroughly. No witnesses, obviously. Make it look like... a robbery gone wrong, perhaps. Or simply ensure he signs before... difficulties arise." He paused, letting the unspoken implications hang in the air like smoke.
Patrick met his gaze. There was no shock, no hesitation. This was their language. "And if he... remains reluctant?"
Dillon's mouth formed the semblance of a smile again, but it was utterly without warmth. "Men can be much easier to persuade when their... well-being is contingent upon striking an agreement. Get them signed, sealed, and delivered back to my office within forty-eight hours if possible. I'll arrange for their transport."
"Cleveland's a ways off," Patrick noted calmly.
"The railways run fast," Dillon said, a glint in his eye that suggested control over more than just steel delivery. "Speed is of the essence. I have other... matters to attend to."
"Consider it done," Patrick confirmed, his tone final.
"See to it," Dillon said, dismissing them with a slight turn of his head.
The O'Learys left as silently as they'd arrived, the office feeling colder in their absence. Dillon settled back, the thin smile returning. Albert Hartley's sentimentality would be his undoing. The needs of Sinclaire Steel, the needs of the railroad, and Dillon's own insatiable ambition would brook no further delay.
The O'Leary brothers were efficient in their grim work. They located Albert Hartley's home, a modest, even comfortable, house set back from the industrial sprawl of his mill. They waited for dusk, for the city's sounds to soften before making their move.
Hartley was a man worn thin by worry, the strain of fighting off Sinclaire's offers etched into his face. He was seated by the fire, reading, when the door burst open.
There were no polite introductions, no preamble about offers or contracts. Patrick held up the envelope, the papers inside crisp white in the dim light. "You need to sign these, Mr. Hartley."
Hartley stared, bewildered, then his eyes widened with dawning horror as he took in the cold, implacable faces of the men towering over him. "What is this? Get out! I'll call the...!"
Sean moved with brutal speed, a hand clamping over Hartley's mouth, cutting off the cry. Liam grabbed his arms, pinning him to the chair.
"Just sign the papers," Patrick repeated, his voice almost gentle, a terrifying contrast to the force holding the man.
Hartley struggled violently, muffling cries behind Sean's hand. He writhed, kicked out.
Patrick sighed, a sound of weary inevitability. "Seems he needs a little... encouragement."
The brothers went to work. It wasn't quick or clean. They weren't trying to kill him, not outright. Just to break him. They used their fists, their boots. Not on his face, not overtly, but on his ribs, his stomach, anywhere that inflicted crippling pain without causing disfigurement or immediate fatality. They smashed objects around the room, creating the tableau of a desperate robbery.
