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  SILVER DREAMS

  Cynthia Thomason

  Copyright @Cynthia Thomason

  SILVER DREAMS

  Chapter One

  New York City, 1893

  "Papa, be reasonable. It’s the nineties. Many people are saying we’re approaching an Age of Enlightenment.”

  Winston Sheridan folded his copy of the New York Courier News and dropped it beside his plate. “Who, Elizabeth? Exactly who is saying that? I believe I would have heard about it.”

  “It is spoken of in nearly all the lecture halls at university.” Elizabeth knew how far she could go with her intractable father, and she had not nearly reached that limit yet. “Besides, you act as if women are delicate hothouse blooms that need constant nurturing. It’s just not so. And not fair.”

  Winston cast a forbidding glance at his daughter before picking up his newspaper again and snapping it open.

  "I'll tell you what's not fair, missy," Winston declared. "It's when a man who happens to be the editor-in-chief of the city's largest newspaper can't sit at his breakfast table on a Friday morning and read the product of his labors in peace!"

  Elizabeth crossed her arms and frowned. "You'd be paying more attention if Ross were talking to you about this instead of me."

  "And rightly so. Your brother is a grown man." Then lowering his voice, Winston added, "Though he gives me reason to doubt that fact nearly every day of his life. But it would make a lot more sense for Ross to come to me with such demands than it does for my daughter who is barely out of hair bows and bloomers!"

  "Hair bows and bloomers! I'm twenty-three years old, Papa, whether you accept it or not! Besides, why in heaven's name did you send me to university if you didn't intend for me to use my education?"

  Winston removed his spectacles and waved one of the earpieces at his daughter as if it were a weapon. "You know damn well why, Elizabeth. I had it in my mind that you'd meet some nice young man and settle down so before my days on this earth are over, I'd have a couple of little shavers to bounce on my knee. Lord knows I can't count on Ross to reproduce. And I thought I'd end up with a daughter schooled in music and art, not one who badgers me to roam the back alleys of Manhattan in search of headlines!"

  Elizabeth gave her father her sternest glare. His ideas belonged in the Middle Ages, as did many of the columns in his newspaper.

  "So if I devoted my life to being the perfect hostess in your drawing room, and if I entertained you by playing Chopin on your piano, you'd be happy, is that right?"

  Winston cast his eyes to the ceiling and sighed wistfully. "Elizabeth, my dear, I would be ecstatic."

  She swept her arm around the formal dining room, encompassing the buffet covered with gleaming silver trays and the twin china cupboards filled with the finest European porcelain. "Don't you think this apartment has entirely too much bric-a-brac as it is, Papa? If I were the person you claim you want me to be, then Bridey would just have to dust me as well, and she already has far too many trinkets to keep clean."

  His jaw muscles quivered. Elizabeth knew that smiling was the absolute last thing her father wanted to do, but in spite of his efforts, his gray handlebar moustache twitched. "You're not going to let this go, are you, Elizabeth?"

  She thrust out her chin. His simple question let her know that her persistence was wearing him down, and she took full advantage of this slight victory.

  "You know I'm not. I want to be a reporter, Papa. If not with the Courier News, then with another paper." She stood and went around the corner of the table to take his hand. "I'll work my way up. Just give me a chance.” Pausing for effect, she added, “Or I’ll go to another paper, one that will appreciate my talents and ambition.”

  His shoulders sagged and he exhaled a deep breath. Threatening to get a job with his competition was working.

  "If I agree to give you an assignment, Elizabeth,” he said, “you'll take it without questioning me? I'm the editor, remember."

  "Absolutely, Papa. You're the boss." Suddenly suspicious of her father's capitulation, Elizabeth bit her lower lip to keep from blurting out her total submission. It might not be wise to give in too easily before she had all the facts. "You do mean a reporter's assignment, right? You're not trying to trick me into filling ink pots?"

  "As if I could," he grumbled. "No, I'll give you a real assignment. In fact, I have one in mind for tomorrow night."

  "Tomorrow?" Elizabeth clasped her hands under her chin and felt a rush of pure excitement. "Where is it? Water Street? The harbor? The Bowery?"

  Winston looped his thumbs in the slits of his vest. A smile of triumph lit his face. "Seventh Avenue," he said.

  "Seventh Avenue? Nothing worth writing about ever happens on Seventh Avenue."

  "Not so, my dear. The Dorchester Hotel is celebrating a grand reopening after the kitchen fire last December. It promises to be a glorious affair, and since you refused to go with that nice young Carl Fleet..."

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. The reference to Casanova Carl had fired her anger again. “Believe me, Papa, you wouldn’t want me to go anywhere with Carl Fleet.”

  "Don't be unkind, Elizabeth. Carl is considered a fine catch and you'd do well to encourage him instead of turning down every offer he gives you. Like me, his father is just as anxious to have grandchildren."

  "If that's the case," Elizabeth snapped back, "then all Stanley Fleet needs to do is take his carriage to the lower east side and look for all the children with curly orange hair and a hook nose like Carl's. He'll discover he already has more heirs than he'd like to lay claim to."

  "You're incorrigible, Elizabeth. I don't know why I ever take you seriously."

  Feeling the ground she’d gained with her father slipping away, Elizabeth softened her approach. "I'm sorry, Papa. Tell me about the assignment."

  "No arguments? You'll take it with good grace?"

  She nodded. "No arguments."

  "You can cover the hotel opening for the Lady's Page of the Courier News. I was going to send Ira Rothstein, but I'm sure he'll be happy if you go instead. So what'll it be? Shall I tell Ira he has a night off?"

  Elizabeth made this decision like she made most of them in her life - quickly and decisively. Within seconds she considered her limited options, knowing that she couldn't turn down this sweetcake assignment or her father would have her right where he wanted her. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of calling her a prima donna.

  "You go right ahead and tell Ira, Papa. I'll take the assignment and any others you give me. I'll show you that I can make a darn good story out of even the opening of the Dorchester Hotel."

  Bridey Haggarty removed the curling iron from the last of the finger curls cascading from Elizabeth's crown. The maid then fluffed the rippling spirals until they flounced like a red-gold halo around her mistress's face.

  "'Tis like a vision you look, Miss Lizzie," she said in the thick Irish brogue that had been as soothing as a cozy blanket for all the years Elizabeth could remember.

  Elizabeth wasn't convinced however. "My hair's really too red, Bridey. This summer I'll just add a bit of lemon juice to the ends and sit on the balcony. The sun will make it lighter."

  "You do and you'll answer to me darlin'. I'll not have you messing with what the good Lord gave you as a special blessing." The maid placed a small tiara in back of Elizabeth's slightly off-center widow's peak and looked at her reflection in the mirror. "Like diamonds on a bed of soft velvet, and you'll not be changing your hair to satisfy a silly whim."

  Elizabeth tugged at the low cut bodice of her dress and adjusted a shimmering shawl to hide her cleavage. "This gown is entirely wrong, Bridey. I don't look anything like a reporter."

  "But you do look like an angel. And besides, dress
ing like this you're sure to get the inside scoop from all those society types."

  Elizabeth smiled thinly and spoke with the lack of enthusiasm she felt for the project facing her. "Thanks, maybe so. Anyway, Papa told me to dress up, so I have. And now I'll go to the hotel in Papa's carriage with Papa's driver looking out for me. Oh, Bridey, isn't anything exciting ever going to happen to me?"

  At one o'clock in the morning, five hours after arriving at the Dorchester, Elizabeth gathered her wrap from the cloakroom attendant and stepped outside to a quiet Seventh Avenue. Just a few couples walked the gas-lit sidewalks of the fashionable thoroughfare. "Are you ready for your carriage, Miss Sheridan?" the doorman asked.

  I was ready hours ago. Elizabeth stifled a yawn and nodded politely. "Yes, thank you."

  A shrill whistle and an authoritative wave brought the Sheridan coach to the marquee of the hotel. The doorman assisted Elizabeth inside.

  "Did you have a nice evening, miss?" the driver asked from his outside perch.

  "Yes, Jasper, nice enough I guess." She settled back against the soft squabs and took her notebook out of her reticule as the carriage slowly moved away from the entrance. She intended to review her notes detailing who came with whom and other supposedly interesting tidbits of gossip. The party-goers had been only too willing to provide Elizabeth with material for her article. Everyone liked to see his name in the Courier News.

  Knowing that the women subscribers would want to read about the latest fashions, Elizabeth had paid special attention to describing the ladies' gowns. Thinking about it now, she grumbled with exasperation. "How many times did I write 'tiny seed pearls adorned the bodice...trimmed with delicate Battenberg lace...an original Worth of Paris gown'...blah, blah, blah." She tossed the notebook onto the seat beside her, leaned her head back and watched the multi-storied Dorchester slide by her window.

  They had just entered the next block when a commotion from behind drew Elizabeth's attention to the hotel again. She looked out the rear window of the coach and saw a figure dart from between two buildings and run toward them. His legs churned with ferocious intensity as if the devil were chasing him, and for good reason. Hot on the man's heels was a motley mob of perhaps a half dozen men, all waving their fists. Their angry voices carried down Seventh Avenue, though Elizabeth couldn't make out the words.

  Her sympathy naturally went to the underdog who was pitifully outnumbered. What in the world has that poor man done, she wondered, knowing that if his pursuers caught him, the hapless individual was doomed.

  The man stopped for a fleeting second and glanced up and down the avenue as if evaluating his choices. Then he continued in the direction he'd been running which brought him closer to the Sheridan coach. When Elizabeth estimated that he had pulled even with her carriage, she peered out the side window, expecting to see him charge past.

  A sudden rocking motion thrust her back into the seat. Before she could catch her breath, the carriage door flew open, and the escaping individual plunged headfirst onto the seat beside her. He sprawled across the bench, his head landing face down in her lap. Elizabeth screamed and raised her arms to keep from touching any part of him.

  "Wh...what do you think you're d...doing?" The words almost stuck in her throat.

  "Getting away, I hope," he muttered into the folds of her gown. He immediately pushed himself up from his prone position, slammed the carriage door shut, and stared out the back window. "Damn, they're gaining on us."

  Jasper pulled sharply on the reins. "Whoa, horses," he said, craning his neck to see into the carriage. "Now s...see here," he blustered at the intruder. "You can't..."

  "No, you most certainly can't!" Elizabeth cried, pushing the man toward the door with one hand. He was as immovable as a Central Park statue. "Get out, now!"

  The man ignored her and shouted a command of his own to Jasper. "Don’t stop. Get this buggy moving!"

  Elizabeth was suddenly more angry than scared. "You'll do no such thing, Jasper." She glared at her uninvited companion. "How do I know you're not a criminal?"

  He crooked his thumb at the men behind them. "How do you know they're not? Trust me, lady, you'll have no trouble from me unless it's an upset to your delicate stomach from seeing my body parts splattered all over Seventh Avenue!"

  Elizabeth winced at the graphic threat and glanced out the window. The angry crowd was dangerously close. She had to make a decision.

  "I think the fellow’s right, miss,” Jasper said. "I’d advise moving forward without delay."

  "All right then, Jasper, go!"

  The coach lurched down Seventh Avenue, Jasper's practiced commands to the horses mingling with the curses and shouts of the throng in the street. When she noticed the retreating figures, Elizabeth finally took a breath to steady her nerves. It didn't prevent a horrifying thought from occurring to her, however, and she blurted out her newest terror. "Do they have guns?"

  "They don't," the brazen stranger assured her.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because if they did, I'd have either been dead in the street by now or the wind would be whistling through holes in your buggy."

  "That makes sense, I guess," she said. She'd seen enough to know that the pursuers considered her passenger a mortal enemy, and they would have done away with him if they'd had the means to.

  Since Jasper had put a safe distance between the carriage and the chasers, Elizabeth risked a long look at the man who'd invaded her privacy. The dim light from the interior coach lantern was sufficient for her to realize that he hadn't escaped the wrath of the mob entirely. A dark purplish area had formed on his cheek, and a thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "You’re injured,” she said. “Doesn't that hurt?"

  He touched his cheek and winced. Then in a slight brogue, he said, "Well, it doesn't feel good." His tongue tentatively explored the damage to his lip. "Have you got a handkerchief I can borrow?"

  She pulled her Irish lace kerchief from her sleeve and handed it to him. He applied a smidgen of spit to the center and swiped at the wound. When the blood was gone from his face he held the soiled cloth out to her.

  She wrinkled her nose. "No, please, you keep it.”

  He stuck the handkerchief in his pocket, looked out the back window again, and then settled more comfortably into the seat.

  The men had stopped chasing them. In fact, Elizabeth could hardly pick them out as individuals since several blocks separated them from the carriage. It did appear, though, that they were flailing their arms in frustration.

  Her companion tapped the back of Jasper's bench. "It's okay, buddy," he said. "You can slow down now."

  The coach settled into an easy gait. Elizabeth leveled a stern look at the man who, for all she knew, could have gotten them all killed or, for that matter, could be every bit as dangerous as the men pursuing him. "Don't you think you owe me an explanation?" she asked.

  "Probably."

  He didn't really look like a criminal. He was dressed in a modest suit which fit him well enough, though it had suffered from the apparent brawl. The jacket sleeve was torn at the shoulder and smudges of soot and grime spotted the front. He picked up a black coach hat from the floor and rubbed his forearm across the brim to remove street dust. He settled the hat over a thick crop of dark wavy hair and stuck a dirty hand out to Elizabeth. The knuckles were scraped and bloody. "My name's Max Cassidy," he said.

  Elizabeth shook his hand and stared intently into deep blue eyes. "Have you broken the law, Mr. Cassidy?"

  He smiled with the side of his mouth that wasn't split. "No. I'm a reporter for the True Detective Gazette. I was covering the reopening of the Dorchester Hotel tonight."

  "A reporter!" She'd heard of the Gazette. Her father called it a disreputable rag that sensationalized every story to sell issues. It came out twice weekly, and Elizabeth had seen copies in the newsstands. She'd never bought one though she’d been tempted.

  "I'm a reporter, too, for the New York Courier News," sh
e said. "I didn't see you at the Dorchester tonight."

  "That's because you were probably in the ballroom."

  "And you weren't?"

  "Nope. I was covering the craps game in the cellar. The guy who supplied the seafood to the Dorchester is a friend of Frankie Galbotto's, and Frankie operates the biggest floating craps game in the city. Tonight they played in the hotel and dined on the finest flounder I've ever tasted." Max sniffed the lapel of his damaged jacket then held it out toward Elizabeth. "You can still smell it."

  She jerked her head away. "I'd rather not. So you were there to report on a craps game?"

  "Only partly. Mostly I was investigating the story of a poor mick who landed in Bellevue a couple of nights ago blinded in both eyes and with two broken legs. He's the husband of a lady who works in my office. The hard-luck bastard got mixed up with Galbotto and ended up owing him a lot of money."