M. Donice Byrd - The Warner Saga Read online

  “Before she disappeared, she became involved with a bunch of bluestockings who got together to talk about politics. She actually suggested that women should be able to vote. Can you imagine? They brought politicians in from all around the country to speak to the group. I think she went south to try to bring an end to slavery – she may even be running a safe house for runaway slaves.”

  The engineer shuffled uncomfortably, his eyes shifting downward. “If she was spotted here, then I believe your theory is invalid. Have you considered that if people around you are suggesting a man could be involved, maybe they are too polite to tell you they know there is a man involved? I’m sure statistically, the odds favor that theory over any other. How long has she been gone?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “I was speaking to my brother, Allan, and he suggested you should send your investigators into the schools looking for a child. If she’s been gone eleven years she might have a child as old as ten.”

  William Warner narrowed his eyes at the man. “There’s just no evidence of her being involved with a man, Ben.”

  The engineer wanted to point out no evidence suggested she ran a safe house either but held his tongue. “My brother lives near Chicago, would you mind if he snoops around on your behalf?” he asked.

  William Warner’s mouth tightened into a mulish line. “I can’t say no to anyone trying to help me find her but I can’t imagine he’ll have any luck.”

  Ben nodded and clapped the older gentleman on the shoulder. “I’ll send word before the train pulls out. Let’s get aboard before we freeze to death.”

  William Warner stood on the porch of the two-story townhouse with a stern look on his thin aged face that neither his investigator nor lawyer was unfamiliar with since they informed him of his daughter’s death. His hand pressed against his belly as a pain from the cancer stabbed his gut while they waited for the locksmith to open the door. He had demanded proof when Allan Pinkerton informed him that his sweet Elizabeth died months earlier and he had a ten-year-old grandson somewhere in the world.

  It felt wrong that the sun shone so brightly in spring when his task of authenticating his daughter’s death loomed over him and he would soon join her.

  “This was their home. Her name is on the title and the house is paid for. As far as we can tell, the house was locked up the day she died and no one has been here since. No one knew what to do with it or its contents. You and the boy are her only relatives, so it’s really up to you.”

  A look of irritation crossed William Warner’s usually kind face. “If,” he said forcefully. “If this is my Elizabeth Warner.”

  Allan Pinkerton sighed. How many Elizabeth Ursuline Warners were there? The man lived in complete denial about his daughter.

  “It’s open,” the locksmith said as he pushed the door ajar.

  The investigator thanked the man and instructed him to present the bill at his office before leading his client and the lawyer inside.

  The stench of rotting food assailed them as they entered.

  “Criminy! No one thought to clear out the perishables?”

  “Apparently not.”

  As they wandered from room to room, William Warner looked for proof. “No one knows what happened to the boy?”

  Allan shook his head. “Everyone assumes he’s with his father.”

  “Assumes,” William said, the word leaving a foul taste in his mouth as he remembered the little boy he met at the train station the last time he was in Springfield. Criminy! That boy could have been his grandson and he had done nothing to help him. He racked his brain trying to remember if he’d asked the boy his name.

  Light streaming in through diaphanous curtains of the cozy parlor illuminated the shelves of books and figurines that flanked the dark fireplace. Furniture was arranged around the hearth with a small desk tucked away in one corner. William sat down in the upholstered chair behind the desk and began rifling through the drawers.

  He pulled out a few report cards and thumbed through them. “Blake Warner,” he read aloud as if testing the name despite the fact that Allan Pinkerton had already told him the boy’s name. “Smart kid it looks like.”

  He tossed them onto the desktop. The boy would be in the fifth grade now according to the dates on the report cards. “The boy’s not enrolled in any of the schools currently?”

  “No, sir. I even checked the surrounding towns. Nothing. He’s not at the orphanage either.”

  He removed a packet of papers and began wading through them. “Property deed,” he murmured. There was his proof. His daughter’s signature adorned the papers. He lightly touched it as if he touched her for the last time. “It’s her,” he said sounding tired. “Do we know how she died?”

  Allan Pinkerton cleared his throat, feeling like a failure. “They sealed the coroner’s report. I’ve been unable to find out. Her man must possess political power to get it sealed like that.”

  “You think he murdered her?”

  “It would be speculation on my part. I really don’t know why they would seal it.”

  William Warner handed the deed to the attorney. “I’ve seen enough. Sell the house and put the money in a trust fund for my grandson. Change my will, remove my daughter’s name and replace it with my grandson’s name.” He turned to Allan Pinkerton. “Keep trying to find him and his father. That man better hope I die before you find him.” The threat went unspoken but everyone in the room knew William Warner had the means to ruin the son-of-a-bitch who led his daughter astray and the anger to kill him. “Go through this house with a fine tooth comb. If you find any likenesses of Elizabeth or her son have them shipped to me.”

  1

  July 8, 1862

  Chicago

  Blake Warner entered the plush lobby of the exclusive Regent Arms Hotel through the Dearborn Street entrance. When he spotted Agnes Donavan standing behind the front desk looking in his direction, he quickly averted his eyes hoping to avoid her.

  Agnes folded up her balsa wood and paper fan with a flourish as she slapped it gently against the palm of her hand. She stepped around the desk and crossed the lobby to intercept him. “Oh, Mr. Warner…Mr. Warner, a letter came today,” she said snapping her fingers at the maid behind the desk. “Franny, fetch Mr. Warner’s letter.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Donavan,” he said in a light flirtatious voice that wasn’t reflected in his eyes.

  Franny located the thickly stuffed brown envelope and carried it across the lobby to her aunt. As she handed the letter to Agnes, her eyes were fixed on the tall, handsome man standing on the bottom step of the staircase. His blue eyes caressed her and his warm friendly smile drew her to him like a cobra mesmerizing its prey before it strikes.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met your new girl, Mrs. Donavan.”

  Agnes made an unladylike harrumph as she patted her unnaturally red hair. “Well, Mr. Warner, this is Franny and I’m hoping to keep her longer than her predecessors.”

  Agnes could see the same placid, mooning look in her niece that she’d seen in the other girls and snapped at Franny to get back to work.

  “She seems like a very nice young lady,” he commented pleasantly, undaunted and slightly amused to see Agnes was still annoyed with him.

  “She is. Franny is my niece. I would hate to see anything happen to her.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do, Mr. Warner. My workers are not here to serve as your personal…chambermaids.”

  Blake smirked at the euphemism. “Now, Mrs. Donavan, why won’t you believe me that I didn’t invite those girls to my room. I came back to my room to find Ginger in my bed naked but I never touched her. And I have no idea why Opal quit but it wasn’t anything I did. Maybe it was just the fact that I wasn’t interested in her.”

  Agnes made a face that showed she didn’t believe him.

  “Why would I bed your maids when you’re who I truly want?” he flirted with his wide politician’s smile. “I’ve heard the naughtiest rumo
rs about women with red hair but I’ve always been afraid to find out for myself if they’re true.”

  She shook her head and tapped him with her fan. The man had a way of making her forget her anger. “If I were twenty years younger, Mr. Warner, I might think you were serious.”

  A slight blush touched Agnes’s cheeks and her mood lifted as she toyed with the possibility in her mind.

  “I believe you said that was my letter,” he said drawing her out of her wayward thoughts.

  Reluctantly, Agnes turned it over to him. He examined it momentarily and started back up the stairs.

  “Is it from your family?”

  “Agnes, when are you going to realize no one at the Chicago Daily Journal is going to pay you for information about me? I’m no one of importance. I just have lots of important friends.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you think so little of me or of yourself. You were mentioned in Mrs. X’s column again today.”

  “You mean someone with my initials was written up again,” he parried, knowing the news of his break up with Caroline Preston had made the column. At least the columnist claimed Caroline had broken it off with him so she could save face.

  “The letter is from a business associate,” he said over his shoulder but not stopping. “Thank you, Mrs. Donavan.”

  “Wait. Another one of those children came in here looking for you. Really, Mr. Warner, you have got to keep those urchins out of here. This is a nice place and you’re going to chase business away if you keep giving these ragamuffins money and food. They’re like stray cats, if you feed them once you can never get rid of them.”

  Blake’s neck turned red and voice became tight and cold. Rarely did his anger show but at times like this he couldn’t contain himself.

  “No, Agnes, they are not like cats,” he said in an overly controlled tone. “They are children who are hungry. Showing them a little kindness cost next to nothing but means the world to them. Would it have killed you to give an older girl a job instead of your niece?”

  “They would steal the guests blind.” Her voice betrayed how appalling she found the notion.

  He clamped his mouth shut. Of course that was always a possibility but it was with any employee who cleaned the rooms. He, himself, had had a pair of onyx and diamond cufflinks vanish from his room.

  “They could work in the kitchen washing dishes. You know I’d make sure they had proper clothing and a bath.”

  “There are plenty of lesser hotels where they could work,” she countered, her lips tightening into a line.

  “If anyone would give them a chance,” he said. “I’ve made arrangements at the Holy Family Church over on Roosevelt Road to distribute food at noon five days a week. Send them there if I’m not here.”

  Blake Warner casually tucked the missive into his pocket and climbed the stairs as if he didn’t have a care in the world, when he knew the envelope could contain his future. He’d been waiting a month for some kind of decision to be made and apparently he had his answer. He hoped the thickness of the envelope was a good sign. As soon as he was inside his room, he cut open the packet using the straight razor from his pocket. He skimmed the letter quickly then read it again more slowly to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath. This wasn’t an answer at all. They were paying him a hundred dollars a month and instead of using his talents in the manner he was being paid, they were asking him to deliver the enclosed envelope to Minnesota of all places. It was ridiculous.

  What else could go wrong today? Less than an hour earlier, he’d had a run-in with Caroline Preston. She’d intentionally sought him out trying to rekindle their courtship and made a dreadful scene in the middle of a public restaurant. When she wouldn’t let it rest, she forced him to be deliberately cruel to put an end to it. He didn’t like saying the things he said but he’d long since tired of her and she sounded like poor Amy Applegate.

  It had been a long time since he thought of Amy and wondered what happened to her. When he returned from his last semester of school, he heard she left abruptly not long after he departed. She’d been his first real involvement and from her, he learned not to dally with one girl too long. They became too attached. Since then, he’d rid himself of more clingy females by showing his dark side than he cared to count.

  He hated showing that side of his personality. Although always there, just below the surface, he alone seemed to know that was the real Blake Warner. It was the legacy of Beth as he sardonically thought of it. The pleasurable moments spent in the company of a beautiful woman seemed to chase away the memory of her for a short time but he could never allow an attachment to get serious. He’d never give a woman the power to rip out his insides again. If he spent too much time alone, the dark thoughts and nightmares reared their ugly heads and he forced himself to seek out another woman to distract him.

  The time he spent living on the streets hand to mouth taught him a great deal about human nature; as a result, he could read most people like a book. He should have known better than to get involved with Caroline but it wasn’t as if he had been her first. His heartless reputation was well known in Chicago but for some reason, he never seemed to run out of women willing to go to his bed. Her friends must have warned her. Why did she think they called him Blake the Rake? What made her think she was special? She might have been a little prettier and her father might have been richer but when had that made a difference to him?

  Going out of town for a fortnight or two might be just what he needed, he thought as he retrieved his carpetbag from the corner and began to pack a few essentials. Agnes wouldn’t mind if he left his trunks with the rest of his belongings in her care. She’d probably have a heyday going through his things. No opera or theatre to attend, no women to avoid – no women, period.

  He should probably go by Rebecca’s townhouse to tell her he was leaving and let her know when he’d be back. If it wasn’t so important, he would just send a messenger. Rebecca would be glad he was gone and wouldn’t be complicating her social life for a while.

  Blake tossed the thick missive on the bureau next to a dividend check he received the day before and wondered, as he had countless times, if his mother’s parents would have been please or displeased to know their daughter’s bastard son continued to benefit from their investments so many years after they died.

  It had been a shock the first time his initials appeared in the paper to have a pair of lawyers and an investigator show up at his hotel room door asking questions about his mother. His grandparents were dead by then also but he was their sole heir. He wished he had met them and wondered if they would have taken him in when his mother died if they had known about each other. There was no point in wondering about it now. He would never know the answer.

  2

  Minnesota

  August 1862

  The solitary man rode the black mare along the dual ruts that somehow qualified as a road to the inhabitants of this wooded wilderness called Minnesota. A sense of relief filled him when he spotted the split-rail fence in the distance. If there was a fence, it meant he must be closing in on civilization. After speaking to the locals in the last collection of buildings they pretended was a town, Lt. Sheehan pointed Blake in the direction of New London and rode off in search of the minister who serviced the spiritual needs of several area towns.

  Content to ride alone, he began wondering if he missed a turnoff when he spotted the four foot high fence. On the other side of the fence, someone planted a row of pine trees. Whoever planted them had not taken into consideration how much the trees would grow and now they crowded together forming a near wall of vegetation—or perhaps that was the idea.

  It didn’t matter. He was so deep in thought about the grim task ahead; he gave little thought to it or the sounds of someone riding a horse on the other side.

  A frown marred his face as he contemplated the strange way fate reached out and touched him. He travelled to Minnesota, go
tten lost and came upon a man and woman murdered by Indians. He assumed they were murdered for the horses conspicuously missing from the wagon.

  The Indian troubles were supposed to get better after Minnesota earned its statehood four years earlier but one of the soldiers at Ft. Ridgely had confided he knew the Indians were not being given the provisions they were promised and now that so many soldiers were being sent south to fight against the seceding Southern forces, the Dakota Sioux were becoming blatant in their disregard for the treaties. But this murder—this was not stealing cattle or horses—this was a new terrifying development.

  Blake placed the bodies in the back of the wagon, hitched his mare to the harness and took their bodies to Ft. Ridgely where a trapper recognized them despite the fact he’d not seen them in a decade. The last time he saw them; they had a small girl of five or six and were expecting their second child.

  Fate placed those people in his path so he would see to their children. He knew that as well as he knew his name.

  Some might dismiss it as coincidence but he needed to believe his life was more than fancy parties and balls; that he lived through a harsh winter eating scraps and nearly freezing to death so he would see the need that existed; and he inherited a huge fortune so he could financially bear the cost of helping out as many children as he could find.

  It was the only thing in his life that fulfilled the emptiness.

  The sun beat down on Meredith as she put her mount through his paces, driving him hard and recklessly. The hot breeze, stifling with humidity, made her aware of how hard she worked her horse. Abruptly, she decided to cut the ride short. Enticed with visions of a cool dip before she performed her chores, she shifted her body weight and increased the pressure of her legs as she drove Viper in the direction of the pond.

  The pond was on the opposite side of their property, nestled in a copse of sugar maples and elm trees and the water was always deliciously cool, even on scorching days like this.