Disgraceful! She was never going to touch champagne again. Or Zeke Morrison either.
The thought caused Rory to pedal faster, as though the man were still in pursuit of her. She turned up Second Avenue, heading northward toward that part of the city where the warehouse of her balloon company was located.
As she cycled along, last night’s events took on the aura of unreality. It was like some sort of strange dream. Had she really dined at Delmonico’s, swayed to the music in the arms of a handsome stranger, been asked to become the mistress of a Fifth Avenue tycoon? She, Rory Kavanaugh, the hoyden of McCreedy Street?
It all seemed incredible in the light of day, back in her own part of New York. The streets she traversed were by no means part of Manhattan’s notorious slum district, but it was a very workaday world all the same. Wash was strung along lines running between fire escapes; children played stickball on the pavement; plump housewives lingered on their front stoops, shelling peas for Sunday dinner; men with their hair slicked back into a holiday shine, wandered into the local corner saloon.
In such familiar, simple surroundings, it should have been easy to dismiss all thought of Zeke Morrison, to imagine the entire episode had never happened. Easy and utterly impossible.
Her mind kept replaying that moment when he had breathed kisses and promises against her hair. Anything you want, Aurora Rose, anything. It had not been the words themselves that had moved her, so much as the raw sincerity in his voice, the yearning that had touched some answering chord deep within her.
That combined with the headiness of his kiss, and Rory was ashamed to admit that she had been just the wee bit tempted to yield to his desires. It was fortunate that Zeke had also been impossibly arrogant, dismissing her balloon company as though it were a child’s plaything. Otherwise she might have had more than missing mass to offer penance for at her next confession.
The best thing that she could do was just forget the man as surely as he must have forgotten her. Her fear that he would seek her out again now seemed absurd. A rich man like that, so handsome, so important. Likely he was already off on some other round of pleasure with his wealthy friends, such as that elegant Mrs. Van Hallsburg.
Instead of being relieved, the thought left her feeling as though her world had suddenly been deprived of all color and excitement. She tried to concentrate on her cycling instead, picking up the pace, steering round some horse droppings and taking care to avoid the path of an oncoming hansom cab.
She didn’t usually cycle to the warehouse, which was many blocks away, the distance from her flat a little over two miles. But after being cooped up indoors for the better part of the day, she was grateful for the exercise. A soft breeze fanned her cheeks, and she could feel her color being restored.
The farther north she headed, the less pleasant became her surroundings. Snug brownstones disappeared, dilapidated tenements with broken windows taking their place. Between the close-packed buildings, Rory caught glimpses of the East River, its dank smell assaulting her nostrils like the odor of stale fish. Overhead the El thundered, the rushing trains spewing ashes and sparks, the tracks casting sinister shadows on the street below.
The warehouse was not located in the best of places, dockside areas not being the gentler side of New York. But it was safe enough to travel there in the daytime. Rory had learned to turn a blind eye to the increasing number of cheap saloons or those other tawdry establishments with heavy curtains at the window, frowsy young women lingering about the stoop.
“‘Er, boarding houses for seamstresses,’ her Da had always told her, rolling his eyes heavenward.
‘Ha! Boarding houses for night chippies,”‘ Tony had whispered under his breath.
Whatever the case, Rory was prudent enough to suppress her curiosity about those brazen females. She always made purposefully for her warehouse and had never been bothered by any of the local denizens, except for a few occasional remarks.
Some of the lads who hung out at the billiard parlor across the street could never seem to resist shouting at her. Even on Sunday, there always were one or two who appeared to have nothing better to do than lean up against the lamppost, smoking and whistling at the girls.
As Rory wheeled her bicycle to a halt on the pavement and dismounted, one called across to her, “Hey, Rory! Purty ankles. Woo! Woo!”
Rory realized that she had forgotten to wear her gaiters again and had revealed too much when her skirts swirled upward. Her usual response would have been to shout back, “Aw, go chase yourself,” but she felt in no mood for such banter today.
To the boy’s obvious disappointment and confusion, she ignored him, groping in her pocket for the key to the side door. A large, weather-beaten structure, her warehouse was sandwiched in between a shoe factory and a textile merchant’s receiving dock. The Transcontinental Balloon Company’s wood frame showed evidence of rot. The sign her father had erected so proudly years before was chipped and faded, just like all of Da’s dreams would be, if she didn’t find a backer soon.
Rory thrust that depressing thought aside as she unlocked the door and wheeled her bicycle into the warehouse’s gloomy interior. It was one vast chamber, three stories high, large enough to inflate a balloon inside to test it if need be. The small, grimy windows far overhead let in little light, so that the bales of silk, the boxes of iron filings and coils of rope were all little more than mysterious shadows.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Rory could make out the form of the wagon and hydrogen generator where Tony must have returned it the night before. The bag of the Katie Moira had been spread out to dry.
The sight of the deflated balloon weighed upon Rory’s spirits. That and the unnatural silence of the vast, empty warehouse. It had been far different on other Sundays, when her Da had been alive. Then the warehouse had been all life and bustle, filled with her father’s booming presence, readying the balloon, packing the wagon. That had always been their day on which they had bundled up the Katie Moira and taken her out into the country, launched the great balloon for no other reason than that the skies were blue, the clouds beckoning like distant white-capped mountains waiting to be conquered.
It was always Sunday afternoons now that seemed the longest, the time she missed her father the most. A tiny sigh came from Rory, which seemed to echo round the great cavern of the warehouse. As though to escape the sound, she turned and hurried up a narrow flight of stairs.
They led to a small office that overlooked the rest of the warehouse. Rory had reached for the knob when she stilled. A noise carried to her ears, one that had nothing to do with the scrape of her own shoe on the stair. Holding her breath, she listened intently. All was silent. She must have been imagining things. Just as she released the air from her lungs, she heard it again.
A stirring on the other side of the office door. Inching closer, she stole a peek through the door’s small glass window. Someone was there. She could make out a masculine form sprawled on the floor behind her desk.
It would not be the first time some old vagrant had managed to sneak into the warehouse to sleep. Angelo was always so careless about locking up. Last time, Rory had gotten a realfright, tripping over a body at the foot of the stairs, but the poor old man had meant no harm.
All the same, Rory had prepared herself in case the like should ever happen again. Groping underneath a loose floorboard beside the door, she located a section of lead pipe she had squirreled away there. Hefting the heavy weapon, she inched open the door, her pulses racing.
This was foolish. She should go get help, summon a policeman. But if it was only that poor old tramp, she didn’t want him arrested. She would take just one peek, and if the sleeping intruder looked at all dangerous, she would retreat.
Steeling herself, Rory tiptoed inside the office. She craned her neck, weapon at the ready, until she could see over the desk. The interloper was definitely male, his long limbs uncomfortably disposed on a makeshift bed of silk material. Rory could just make out a profusion of jet-black curls.
“Tony!” Rory breathed.
