Under a Gilded Moon(75)

“Village is going to hell, if you ask me. That help?”

Beside Farnsworth was the framed crest on the desk Kerry had spotted earlier. Now, though, she looked more closely. In its swirl of embellishments was a fleur-de-lis and, inside its central shield, a silhouette that looked like her own King Lear posing above the hens at the break of dawn.

A rooster.

“A Gallic rooster?” It was only a guess, an impulse, a flash of recalling the fleur-de-lis in the issue of the Atlantic Monthly that depicted symbols of national pride, including of France. But she’d said it aloud before it occurred to her that caution might be in order in dealing with Farnsworth.

The telegrapher lifted his head. Narrowed his eyes.

“Edward Farnsworth,” she continued. “Not exactly a French name.”

Farnsworth’s lips did not part, but one half of his mouth lifted in almost a smile. Like a chess master finally finding a worthy opponent.

“So the Ligue Nationale Antisémitique . . .”

An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips—just like on the night of the attack. “What the hell is it you’re trying to ask?”

“On the night of the murder here, you’d disappeared, too, just before the reporter—the Jewish reporter—was killed.”

Farnsworth lifted an eyebrow at her, as if daring her to go on.

Kerry’s insides clenched.

From a few feet away, the stationmaster strode over and shook his head at the telegraph operator. “Farnsworth’s been a real ass lately. More than usual, even.”

The telegrapher pressed his thin lips into a line and held Kerry’s gaze. She could see nothing there. Not guilt. Not an attempt at denial. Only . . . what was it? A kind of pride. A viciousness, maybe, too. And a challenge.

“As it happens, Kerry,” the stationmaster offered, “I can answer your question. Hadn’t seen Dearg myself since he got back from Whitnel—day after the attack it was that his train come in. But I heard the Tate brothers took up at a boardinghouse, 48 Spruce over to Asheville. Lived there myself when I first moved here, which is how I’d know. Keep up some with Mrs. Reynolds, lady that runs it.”

“That’s kind. Thank you.” Kerry glanced at the sun. She’d have to ask the chestnut to run if she wanted to cover the three miles to Spruce Street from the village, talk briefly with Dearg—if she could find him—pick up the Biltmore order, then get back to the house in the span of time Mrs. Smythe would expect. And also before dark. The thought of the dark and Dearg together made Kerry queasy.

But, then, so did the thought of standing here with Edward Farnsworth and his crest.

Farnsworth. Now new images joined the others still jerking and flashing through her mind: The telegrapher circling behind the station. Wrenching the rail dog from its hooks. Hauling it high above his head. Bringing it down in one vicious arc on the newspaper reporter.



“He’s here,” Mrs. Reynolds pronounced. “Oddly enough. Because he rarely is.” She sniffed, censorial and disapproving. She squinted at Kerry. “You may meet with him in the parlor just here.” She gestured to the left, a room crowded with overstuffed chairs and fringed lamps. “Or you may go up to his rooms on the third floor. Depending.”

On what type of woman you are went unsaid. But Kerry heard it clearly.

That was the wonderful thing about being from a class of people already suspect. You were free to do as you liked, since no one expected much from you.

“I’ll just be a few moments. So I’ll trot on up.”

The landlady smirked. But Kerry was already mounting the stairs as fast as her skirts would allow.

Dearg opened at the first knock—apparently expecting someone else. At the sight of Kerry, his eyes rounded.

With a flicker of fear, Kerry thought, before the defiance set in again.

Even as he stepped back to let her inside, saying nothing in the way of greeting, his face had already shut down to defensive. Walled off.

He motioned to a chair. But remained standing himself. So Kerry did, too.

“I won’t keep you long, Dearg.”

He crossed his arms over the wide breadth of his chest.

“It’s good to see you,” she began. The truth was she’d have rather chewed rusty nails than come here to ask what she had to ask.

His voice came hoarse, more emotion behind it than he would let show. “Good to see you, too.”

“Dearg, I’m not here to challenge your decision to sell your land. I know as well as anybody how hard it is to hang on. Especially now, with so few of us left.”

His face relaxed a bit. Again he motioned her to a chair, and this time they both sat.

Kerry let her eyes roam over the room. Just a small, iron-framed bed and wooden dresser, and an army cot in one corner—no doubt for Jerome, who must be at school. Dearg had brought little with him from his homeplace, his mother’s spinning wheel and churn and loom probably all left for the workmen who would surely dismantle the cabin now that the land was part of Biltmore. He’d brought three guns, though: his great-grandfather’s old flintlock hung over the bed, the Winchester stood propped near the door, and a pistol sat on the small table. As if he needed to be ready for some sort of violence that could arrive at his door any moment.

Her eyes moved from the door and its rifle back to him.

“Ain’t a safe world anymore,” he said.