The Address(82)

“My cousin invented the process, but it will be his lab that will be doing the testing. Someone has to pay for all that work.” His voice dripped with condescension.

Bailey had no way of knowing if he was speaking the truth. But it made sense that this kind of scientific process would be expensive.

The possibility of an inheritance appealed to Bailey’s practical side, sure. But that wasn’t the only reason for her brashness. The hunger of discovering the truth about her birthright gnawed at her, in a way that put her other addictions to shame. Although from the outside it probably looked like she was replacing one obsession with another, this wasn’t about sublimating harsh truths with intoxicants. The loss of her mother had put her on a dangerous path, and Bailey was certain that if she figured out who she really was, the future might be less treacherous.

“But if it turns out I am a Camden, I’ll be able to pay you back.” She was practically begging, and hated Renzo to see her this way. She avoided looking at him.

“No, darling,” cooed Melinda. “I can’t do that, you must understand. You have no proof, not really. Other than a letter from God knows who. You’re clutching at straws and I can understand why. You’ve been dealt a tough hand lately. But I know you’ll do fine. You always do.”

She stood no chance, no chance at all.

When she finally glanced over at Renzo, he looked angry.

She’d never wanted a drink more in her life.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE



New York City, August 1885


The new agent at the Dakota made good on the promise of a year of free rent. Sara had moved into the sixth-floor apartment, still furnished with the yellow velvet French settees and matching club chairs of the Rembrandts. The place offered a glorious view north, and she appreciated the cool shade during the hot August afternoons.

Sara had received a jubilant letter from Natalia a week earlier, saying that she’d been released and was living in Boston with her children, where she’d found work as a housekeeper for a kind widow. For that, Sara gave a silent thanks.

Mrs. Haines and Sara had talked in the office when she’d first arrived, right after Mrs. Haines had dashed around the desk and hugged her. A tear even dropped down Mrs. Haines’s cheek, an unexpected show of emotion after her previously cold visage. They didn’t discuss Daisy at all, or what had happened, but Mrs. Haines had gone out of her way to make sure Sara was well taken care of, sending up a maid with breakfast in bed for her each morning, her plate heaped with hot cross buns and baked eggs. Sara’s hair was thickening as she grew stronger, as was her waist, and her skin began to glow again. Every so often she’d still wake in the middle of the night, terrified and breathless, thinking she was trapped on the island again. But that seemed to be the only lasting vestige of her incarceration.

She enjoyed having a proper job, with her own desk and chair waiting for her each day. Unfortunately, for the past month, the only people to visit Theo’s office came under the ruse of needing an architect but in fact actually wanted to get a look at the woman who’d survived Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum. They never returned.

“Perhaps we should rethink our arrangement.”

Sara had been longing to say the words out loud for the past week now, and when Theo suggested they not go into the office but instead work from his apartment in the Dakota, she decided it was time. Even he couldn’t face the effort of pretending to work anymore. There was absolutely nothing to do. Theo had bills to pay, for the grand apartment and his wife’s medical care. She’d seen a letter to the Old Chatham Sanatorium that he’d inadvertently left out on his desk, asking for more time for the coming month’s fee.

Theo looked up at her and smiled. “Rethink the arrangement, in what way?”

“There’s no use in you having an employee when business is . . .”

She trailed off, reluctant to state the obvious.

“Bad? Disastrous?”

“I’m sorry, Theo.” She sat down across the table from him, where he’d been working on a speech to the West End Association. “But there’s no reason for you to pay me when I don’t do much of anything. I can find another job.”

Theo leaned back. “No one knows me; I’m just a lackey of Hardenbergh’s. I have to find a way to make a name for myself.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Not a thing, I’m afraid.”

She hated feeling so useless and out of step with him. They hadn’t touched since she’d collapsed in his arms upon reuniting. Even when she handed him a paper or letter, she made sure to place it on his desk first, so their fingers wouldn’t accidentally brush.

Theo got up and stood at the window, looking out. “Imagine what it will be like here in one hundred years, what this view will entail.”

“I can’t imagine. Flying bicycles, perhaps?”

“Now, that would be a sight. But the buildings, one after another, lined up block upon block. If we’re not careful, the city will fall into madness. A mishmash of styles, from Florentine Renaissance to Transitional Goth to Hispano-Moorish. What a mess. Here we have an opportunity to plan ahead, to decide the aesthetic fate of the city. Yet no one is leading the charge.”

“Why don’t you?”

He turned around and leaned back on the windowsill. “Who would listen to me? What have I accomplished?”