“The demonstration will be perfectly safe. We’ve decided to take the balloon out of the city this time, launch it in the countryside past Morningside Heights.”
“And where will you end up? Back in the ocean again? Or maybe impaled upon some farmer’s fence?”
“Not all my flights end in disaster. In fact, very few of them do.”
“It only takes once. Damn it, Rory—” It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t permit his bride to keep risking her neck in those damned fool balloons. But one look at the stubborn tilt to her chin told him how little effect such an order would have.
Perhaps the time for words was past. Action was needed. Leaning back in the carriage seat, he steeled his jaw, knowing what he had to do. He averted his face from Rory, fearful she might be able to read his intention.
He didn’t know precisely what she would do when she discovered his plan. He was only sure of one thing. She wasn’t going to like it.
Eighteen
The morning after the funeral, Rory awoke to the sound of a commotion on McCreedy Street. She had left her windows open the night before, these first few days of May already proving unseasonably warm, with the promise of a long hot summer to follow.
She awoke feeling miserable, her hair damp with perspiration, her muscles stiff, still aching with the tensions of yesterday. Although she had not been acquainted with Mr. Addison, his funeral had proved a sad affair, and sadder still the way she had parted from Zeke.
He had left her at the door to her flat, brushing her lips with a brusque kiss, a curt promise that he would call upon her tomorrow. She was surprised that Zeke had said nothing more about the balloons. She could tell how much he had wanted to forbid her going up again and had braced herself for a terrific row. Knowing how forceful Zeke could be about getting his own way, his forbearance had been astonishing, almost disturbingly so.
Equally astonishing was the fact that he had not continued to press the idea of marriage upon her. It occurred to her that perhaps he was beginning to have second thoughts. Shehad sensed his impatience with her after the funeral about the disagreement they had had over Mrs. Addison’s suggestion.
Perhaps Zeke had good reason to be annoyed. She had no right to be so disappointed because he showed no inclination to pick up Addison’s cudgels, run as a reform candidate for mayor. And it wasn’t as though she meant to plan his life for him. She only knew that she hated it when Zeke talked as though nothing mattered but self-interest and the power of money. He was capable of entertaining feelings so much finer than that.
Yet never had the differences between them seemed to yawn so wide. If they were that unsuited to each other, it was better to realize it now, but it had been hard to convince herself of that after spending a lonely night in her bed, aching with the need to feel Zeke’s arms around her.
With a low groan, she shielded her eyes from the stream of sunlight pouring through her window. As she sat up, coming more fully awake, the clatter in the street below seemed to have intensified. She sprang out of bed, her heart skipping a beat. She had told Zeke that she had to go to the warehouse today, that if he wanted to call upon her, he had best be up early. Wouldn’t it be just like him to come pounding at her door before she was even dressed?
Yet when she rushed to the open window, her mouth drooped with disappointment. It was not Zeke’s fancy equipage rattling down the street that had caused Finn McCool to set up such a wild barking and all the children to abandon their balls and hoops and come running.
It was nothing but a delivery van, drawn by a set of matched bays. Even pulled up to the curb, it still blocked off half the narrow street. Despite her disappointment, Rory couldn’t help gawking herself as she glimpsed the fancy monogram on the van’s side. B. Altman and Co., a very exclusive Fifth Avenue department store.
No wonder some of the housewives broke off stringing up their wash to cluster together, pointing and speculating. As for poor Miss Flanagan, she nearly fell out her front window, straining for a better view as two smartly uniformed attendants swaggered around to open up the back of the van.
Not in living memory had anyone on McCreedy Street received a delivery from Altman’s. Like Rory, most of her neighbors shopped on the ground floor at Stern Brothers. As she watched a considerable array of bandboxes being unloaded, Rory wondered whose rich uncle had died, when she was beset by a sinking suspicion.
The van attendants, their arms overburdened, were struggling up the walk leading to her building.
“Oh, no,” she murmured. “He didn’t! He couldn’t—” She ducked back from the window and scrambled to find her dressing gown. She was just shrugging into it when she heard the rap at her door.
She fought off a cowardly inclination to pretend she wasn’t at home. Tying the sash about her waist, she trudged to answer the summons.
Inching the door open, she said, “Yes? What do you want?”
“Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh?”
She could hardly see the little man who inquired after her name, the boxes balanced all the way up to his chin. When Rory acknowledged his greeting, he grinned with relief.
“Delivery for you.” He edged his way past her into the flat. She opened her mouth to protest, tell him it was some sort of a mistake, but the poor man’s arms were fairly breaking with the need to set down his load. The other attendant, who followed right behind, was equally strained.
Besides she knew it was no mistake. Nor did she need to see the arrogantly scrawled name on the order slip to guess whose signature it was.
Damn the man! Now what was he about? She supposed she should feel relieved. At least this proved that Zeke was not that angry with her. Yet with each fresh load of boxes that was carted into her flat, she became more dismayed. She wanted to tell the attendants to stop, but she felt much like a sorceress who had forgotten the words to the magic spell and could find no way to get the genie back into the lamp.
By the time the two men had tipped their caps to her and departed, her settee, the parlor table and all her chairs were stacked to overflowing.
Distractedly running her fingers through her hair, Rory opened a few of the boxes, but soon she had no desire to pursue the activity any further. She winced at the sight of the costly silks, luxurious furs. Good God above! There had to be enough here to outfit every debutante on Fifth Avenue for the season.
Her parlor was crammed so full, she could barely find room to walk across the carpet, and she would have been prepared to wager that half of McCreedy Street still lingered outside, peering up at her apartment window.
