Page 5 of Kidnapped (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #1)

“ T hank you, Mr. Everly,” Virginia said as he helped her into her chair in the elegant dining room of the new Barnum Hotel. She leaned forward as his fingers lingered near her shoulders. She nodded to his mother seated across from her. “Good to see you, Mrs. Everly.”

“Yes, of course,” the woman replied, her hand flitting up in the air, releasing an overwhelming sweet fragrance. “You’re not looking very healthy, although Altimus did say you were feeling sickly a few weeks ago.”

Mrs. Everly was a large-bosomed, stocky woman, draped almost entirely in black silk. There was an inch or two of a white, stiffly starched shirt visible above the neckline of her mutton-sleeved jacket.

“I’m feeling quite recovered. Thank you for asking.”

“You really must take better care of yourself. You’ll need your strength to birth children. The Everlys have large families.”

“Mother!” Everly said and glanced sheepishly at Virginia.

“It’s true, Altimus. I’m sure you have plans for a large family, and Miss Wiest must be healthy. She’s far too thin.”

Virginia looked at Mr. Everly and turned to his mother. “I’m sure Mr. Everly will have this conversation with the woman he marries and that it is a private matter between them, whomever she is.”

Mrs. Everly was about to launch into a speech, Virginia could tell, when the waiter came to their table. Virginia smiled up at him as he handed out their menus and offered to bring drinks. The woman chattered on through the soup course but finally quieted when the chicken croquettes were served.

“I was told, Mr. Everly, that one of our cannery employee’s houses burned down last year and that the company saw to rebuilding for them. Is that something you oversee in your capacity?”

“Miss Wiest! Ladies do not discuss business! We know nothing about it,” Mrs. Everly said, her face reddening.

“I discuss business, Mrs. Everly. Wiest Cannery will be mine when my father passes on.”

“Surely there will be a board of directors to manage the company. And, of course, your husband will oversee everything.”

Virginia smiled at the woman and turned. “Mr. Everly?”

Everly glanced from his mother and back to her. “I have some involvement when an employee is in dire need, but your father handles most of it on his own. He is far too generous, miss, if truth be known. Anyone with a sad story!”

Virginia was well aware that her father was softhearted, but she also knew he was an astute businessman who dealt with legislators and councilmen—not all of them honest or forthright, unscrupulous competitors, transportation issues, and poor harvests to keep Wiest Cannery profitable. He considered his employees to be part of his family, most likely why so many had worked there for years, even decades, even aside from the good wages.

“How does he find out about these sad stories?” she asked.

“Employees who’ve been with the cannery for a long time find no issue walking directly up to him when he’s on the packing floor. It’s unconscionable, really. They have no business speaking to him. Otherwise, there’s a floor manager who sends him particulars, although I don’t know which one it is. All of these requests should filter through me first so I can sort the truly needy from those looking for a quick—and likely false—handout.”

“Miss Wiest, you must learn to trust men to do the right thing,” Mrs. Everly said. “You must trust your father and Altimus to make these sorts of decisions. You really must.”

“I do trust my father,” Virginia said before thinking of the impact of her words. She had no intention of marrying Everly, but he was part of her father’s inner circle, and she would inevitably have to deal with him.

Mrs. Everly placed her fork back on her plate, still holding a rather large piece of dumpling. “Miss Wiest! You must view Altimus in the same way! Women’s brains are not made to deal with numbers and decisions and all the other disagreeable parts of business. We are built to manage a household and raise children, ensuring our menfolk are comfortable.”

Virginia glanced at Everly, who was studying her, and not in a pleasant way. He finally looked away, took a long drink of his wine, and signaled the waiter.

“The ladies may want dessert. I’ll have a bourbon. Then bring the check for me to sign to my account,” he said.

“Nothing more for me,” Virginia said and smiled at the young man. “Everything was so delicious.”

Mrs. Everly declined dessert, and Everly downed his drink in one swallow. Virginia was exceptionally glad she’d had Mr. Turnbull bring her rather than riding in the Everly carriage. She thought she may have finally gotten through to Everly that she was not going to marry him and could avoid an awkward trip home to Shellington.

Phillip had just fixed the one of the chains that lowered the canned oysters into the steam pit and was wiping the grease from his hands when Rufus Manto stopped him.

“Everything all right, Rufus?”

“Come look at this machine, boss,” he said in a loud voice.

Phillip followed him, and both squatted in front of a massive iron lever.

“Nothing the matter with the machine,” Rufus said as quietly as he could over the sounds of machinery. “Just had to tell you to be careful. There’s some that’s looking to cause you trouble.”

Phillip laid a hand on the lever. “Where did you hear that?”

“Georgia Club. Something to do with that gang who sells the poppy.”

Phillip had helped put Enrico Bucciarelli in prison the previous summer. He would likely die in jail, but his lieutenants were still very much in control of gaming halls, prostitution, and opium dens across the city.

Rufus stood up, and Phillip followed. “Must be fixed now, boss!” he said.

Phillip nodded at Rufus and turned away. Bucciarelli was a very dangerous man, and prison had not stopped him from running his Baltimore gang, who engaged in every type of crime, often by the most brutal means imaginable. Phillip had found out by chance about a meeting Bucciarelli was having with his New York opium supplier, and he and his childhood friend who served on the Baltimore police force, Timothy Sweitzinger, had listened in on the meeting. Tim had had him arrested on the spot by his fellow police officers, who had come to aid them.

Bucciarelli had promised retribution, and Phillip took him seriously. He watched for strangers and insisted Sarah, Eliza, and Jenny always went to the market or wherever they were going with someone, although now that he thought of it, they’d become lax. He would not be surprised if Greta was connected to it all, but he didn’t know how. He did know that he held regrets, deep ones, for getting involved with Bucciarelli and his gang. Uncle Patrick had scolded him as if he were a small boy and had barely spoken to him for weeks afterward.

“You put your family, your own flesh and blood, in danger. There was no need for you to go with Tim that night. Not that Bucciarelli isn’t a menace, but it wasn’t your job to nab him,” he’d said. Phillip remembered vividly the shame he’d felt at his uncle’s words, especially as he was right.

After work that evening, Phillip found Uncle Patrick in the back garden where the privy stood, a shovel in hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cleaning out the privy. Better now than when it stinks in the summer.”

“Except the ground’s frozen.” Phillip shrugged. “Rufus Manto said someone at the Georgia Club told him that someone is looking to cause me trouble.”

“Maybe so,” Patrick said. “Maybe that’s why there’s an unconscious woman on your doorstep.”

“He said it was somebody who sells opium.”

Patrick stopped stabbing the icy dirt and looked at him. “Bucciarelli.”

“Maybe.”

His uncle shoveled with more vengeance than necessary. “You better warn the women,” he growled and turned his back.

Phillip found his sister, Jenny, and Eliza in the kitchen. Sarah and Eliza were talking and laughing as they peeled potatoes while Jenny had her head down, eyes on the carrots in front of her.

“Heard there’s someone around looking to cause me trouble. Don’t be going to the grocer alone, or anywhere else for that matter. Or have Uncle Patrick or I go instead.”

Sarah stopped her peeling. “Does it have something to do with Greta?”

“Don’t know yet. You have to be on your guard until I figure this out.”

“Or forever,” Eliza said. “You’ll always be putting yourself out there, you ain’t changing at your age.”

His sister smiled, and Jenny kept her head bowed. “I guess you’re probably right, but I’ll always make sure you’re safe. You too, Jenny,” he said to the top of her head. She nodded without looking up. She laid down her knife and raised her shaking hands to her mouth.

Sarah glanced at him and then Jenny. “Don’t you worry. You don’t have to go anywhere. And you’re safe here.”

Jenny nodded again, swiped a sleeve at her eyes, and picked up the small knife. Phillip wondered again what had happened to this terrified woman and if she would ever recover. He never wanted to see his sister—or any woman—as frightened as Jenny was.

Phillip left the house early the following morning and caught the streetcar that would take him to Peale’s Museum on Holiday Street, where the city council met. He’d been told Mr. Finkle worked there, along with a few other councilmen’s assistants. He went inside the busy building, thankful for the warmth after the bitter-cold ride across town, unwrapped his woolen scarf from his neck, and took the small-brimmed bowler off his head. He climbed the stairs, busy with men hurrying up and down, after speaking to a young woman seated at desk near the doors.

The door to the office he was directed to stood open to six desks lined up, three on one side and three on the other. He knocked on the door frame and waited until a young man looked up.

“Do you have the packet?” he asked.

Phillip shook his head. “No. I’m not here about a packet. I’m hoping to speak to Mr. Finkle.”

A dark-haired man seated at a desk near the windows looked up. “I’m Finkle. What do you need?” he said.

“Can we talk privately?”

Finkle shook his head. “Can’t you see I’m buried in work? Just tell me what you need.”

Phillip heard some chuckles from around the room and smiled himself. “Certainly, Mr. Finkle. What can you tell me about a female you’re involved with named Greta Adamsen?”

Finkle’s cheeks bloomed red. “I don’t know any woman named Greta.”

“What would Miss Bellweather say about you being involved with another female?” a young man across the room asked to much guffawing and chuckling.

Finkle jumped out of his chair and hurried past Phillip into the teeming hallway. Phillip followed to a small unoccupied office.

“Who are you?” Finkle demanded.

“Greta Adamsen was dropped onto my front stoop before daybreak over a week ago. She was nearly frozen, has a nasty gash on her head, and has yet to wake up. My name is Phillip Brown, and you can thank my family for taking such good care of her.”

Finkle whitened. “Will she be all right?”

“The doctor thinks so.”

“Did you speak to her employer? What did Miss Durmand say?”

“She was . . . unconcerned.”

“Poor Greta,” he said and dropped into the wooden chair behind him.

“So you do know her?”

He blew out a breath and nodded. “I’ve stepped out with her a few times.”

“Who is Miss Bellweather?”

“My fiancée.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Brown,” Finkle said sharply. “I’m not the first man, nor will I be the last, who keeps a piece on the side.”

“I wonder what Miss Bellweather will say about that.”

“Are you threatening me?” He jumped up from his chair and stepped close to Phillip. “You’d best not!”

“I have no intention of telling her anything. I am trying to find out who beat Miss Adamsen and dumped her on my doorstep. Stands to reason you may want to make sure she’s quiet. Others have said you weren’t afraid to use your fists on her in the past. Maybe she threatened to talk to Miss Bellweather.”

Finkle stared at him blankly. “I never hit Greta. Never. And she would have no chance to speak to Mary. Greta’s just a servant.”

Phillip stared at the man, and waited until he looked away. “You stepped out with Miss Adamsen while affianced to another woman. Did Miss Adamsen know you had plans to marry another?”

“She could have hardly imagined I’d marry her, could she?”

“I don’t know. She’s unconscious and can’t answer my questions.”

“She should have realized,” he whispered.

“Had your relationship with Miss Adamsen gone any further than stepping out?”

Finkle shrugged. “No.”

“ Not yet is what you should have said. Am I right?”

“Why is this any of your business?” Finkle blustered.

“Do you have any sisters, Mr. Finkle? Girl cousins? Nieces? If you do, you already know the answer to that question. I hate to see a woman being taken advantage of, but more than that, I want to know who hurt her and why. I have a sister. I’d hope if she was hurt that someone would keep her from freezing to death.”

“I didn’t do anything to Greta. In truth, I like her very well. But circumstances are . . . complicated.”

“Miss Bellweather’s family can provide you with means?”

“Her family is wealthy and well connected.”

“And Miss Adamsen is a maid.”

“Yes. But I would have never hurt her. I didn’t hurt her. I can’t imagine who did.” He looked at Phillip. “I’m telling the truth.”

Phillip wrapped his scarf around his neck and put on his hat. He stared hard at Finkle. “I’ll find who did this. No need to worry about Miss Adamsen.”

Virginia opened the plain envelope just delivered to her from Wolfe Street. She was eating her luncheon alone in the small dining room, reading her correspondence and the morning’s Baltimore Sun .

Miss Wiest,

Our patient is awake and beginning to recover. I thought you would like to know.

Sarah Brown

It was not long until Virginia was seated in the coach, Colleen beside her, with hot bricks at her feet. Her arrival was noted as the door on Wolfe Street opened even before Mr. Turnbull had a chance to rap.

“Come in,” Sarah Brown said. “Another bitter-cold day.”

The shy young servant took coats and gloves, and Sarah escorted them up the stairs to the small bedroom at the back of the hallway.

“Has she spoken much to you?” Virginia asked.

“Very little other than confirming her name is Greta Adamsen.”

“She’s not asked to send a message to a relative that she is safe?”

Sarah shook her head. “No. I find it strange, but then I think she is too terrified to say much. Maybe you will have better luck with her than I did.”

Miss Brown knocked softly on the door to the room and opened it a few inches. “Miss Adamsen? Are you up for some company?”

There was no reply, but Sarah opened the door wider, and Virginia followed her inside. Greta Adamsen was an attractive woman, although very thin, with golden-blond hair and large dark eyes. She was propped against a mound of pillows in a long sleeve, high-necked nightgown. Her fingertips were wrapped around the edges of the blankets covering her, as if they were her shield.

“Hello, Miss Adamsen,” Virginia said. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts, but not terribly.”

“That’s good. You took quite a blow according to Dr. Prosperi,” Miss Brown said.

“Dr. Prosperi? Who is that?” Miss Adamsen asked, glancing from Miss Brown to Virginia. “Does he know who I am?”

“He does,” she said. “He’s been our family’s doctor for years, and his father before him. He’s completely trustworthy.”

“I don’t want to bring trouble to this house,” she whispered.

“Trouble? What trouble?” Virginia asked.

“Why don’t you sit for a chat?” Miss Brown said and moved a ladder-back chair close to the bed. “I’ve got to check on our noonday meal.”

Miss Adamsen watched her go and glanced at Virginia. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“Miss Brown’s brother told me how they’d found you on their stoop and that they had no idea who you were,” Virginia said. “I felt terrible for you, with no one knowing who you were. I wanted to help. That is all. And then when we visited here, my maid recognized you as Miss Durmand’s maid.”

Miss Adamsen’s face whitened. “Miss Durmand knows I’m here?”

“She does, although she was . . . not concerned.”

Miss Adamsen covered her mouth with shaking fingers and took a shuttering breath. She looked at Virginia. “Can you help me get out of here? I need to leave here as soon as possible. The Browns have been very kind, and I have no wish to put them in danger.”

Virginia stared at her. There was real terror in her eyes. Something, or more likely, someone was threatening her.

“I’m not sure you’re strong enough to leave. And where would you go?”

“If I could get to the train station, I have an aunt who lives in Philadelphia. She would take me in.”

Virginia looked long at Miss Adamsen. There was no doubt that the fear on her face was real, that there was some reasoning behind her panic. “Who is threatening you?”

Miss Adamsen faced her quickly, tears gathering in her eyes. “It’s best you don’t know. For your own safety.”

Miss Brown came back in the room at that moment. “Miss Adamsen wants to leave as soon as possible, Miss Brown. She wants to get to the train station so she can get to a relative.”

“Miss Adamsen, you are not well enough to travel. We will not let anyone bother you. Especially my brother. He and my uncle will keep us safe.”

The woman just shook her head, tears tumbling down her cheeks. “No one can keep us safe.”

“Us? From whom, Miss Adamsen? Please tell us so we can help you,” Virginia said.

“Mr. Finkle?” Miss Brown asked. “Phillip went to see him. He said he had stepped out with you and that he hoped you were going to be well. Did you know he is engaged to be married?”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I knew. Matthew was never going to marry the likes of me, nor would I have been interested in marrying him.”

Virginia glanced at Miss Brown, who wore an astonished look that matched how Virginia felt. She had assumed this mésalliance was only a benefit to Mr. Finkle, while Miss Adamsen’s heart had been engaged. She was quickly understanding that whatever Mr. Finkle’s interest was, Miss Adamsen was never taken in. She knew she was not marriageable for someone like Matthew Finkle. She knew. Why would she continue to see him?

“Just looking for an evening out? Some supper? Maybe a dance hall?” Miss Brown asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but I think you should talk about it. You were dumped on our doorstep, not on any of our neighbors’, hurt and unconscious.”

A sob tore from Miss Adamsen’s throat, and she shook her head. “It will only make it worse. You have no idea how brutal he can be.”

“Who is ‘he’? Phillip cannot guard you or us if he does not know who he is up against.”

She pounded the mattress with clenched fists. “Bucciarelli! It’s Bucciarelli, and he has my son! My baby! May God guard my poor baby! He’ll kill him!”

Virginia sat back in her chair, as if she moved away, she could separate herself from this mother’s hysteria. Greta Adamsen had curled herself into a tight ball, her sobs and wails bringing tears to Virginia’s eyes. This poor woman!