Thought it couldn’t hurt to drum up some traffic for a dear friend.

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A Desire to Hide Part Seventeen

This time it was Ms. Seay who answered the door, not her mother. That was a huge relief for Peter, who had been worried about what he might say to her parents, if he was faced with either one. He could not separate from his mind the image of Mr. Seay with a gun, even though it had been Charles Hendely who had placed the image there and he would be far happier if he could forget everything that Charles had ever said to him.

“I have no wish to speak to you,” said Charity Seay, beginning to close the door again once she saw who it was. Peter hurriedly swept off his hat and rushed to say what he had come to say before she could close it completely.

“I beg to speak to you for a moment, only a few moments of your time, please Ms. Seay,” he added plaintively. “I know that you have little reason to trust me but I assure you that it will be well worth it for you to hear me out.” Perhaps it was his tone of voice but Charity Seay did indeed pause on the door step rather than close the door completely. Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out several of the scraps of the letters. “I have come to return these letters to their rightful owner, and beg your forgiveness for ever threatening you with their existence.” Charity Seay took one of the scraps of papers from him and stared at it for a long moment, as if doubtful that what she was seeing was real. Finally she turned to head back into the house and for a moment Peter was terrified that that was going to be all of the thanks he would get for having lost so much.

“You had best come in, Mr. Wells, so we can talk,” she said, and his heart gave a bound. It strangely felt as if a life long ambition had been for her to invite him in. He found himself once again in the parlor of the house, the scraps of letter piled on the table between them, and Charity staring at them. She was clearly unsure of what to make of these events. What she finally did say was so unexpected and vicious that it shook Peter entirely out of the warm haze he had been enjoying since she had asked him in.

“What is it that you expect from this day’s work, Mr. Wells?” she asked.

“Nothing,” stammered Peter.

“I doubt that Charles Hendely will thank you.”

“I have given him my notice,” Peter said, though it was not something that he had meant to divulge. The last thing that he wished was to do was to make her think that he was in some way trying to make her feel guilty.

“That will not place food on your table,” she pointed out. It was almost as if she disapproved of him doing what he considered to be the right thing. It goaded Peter into saying something that he had certainly not intended to say.

“I thank you for your concern, but I have done what I did out of my esteem for you. I should like nothing more than you have permission to call on you more often. I would be your friend.”

“You read the letters, Mr. Wells?” asked Charity, her voice cold.

“I am sorry, but yes, I did,” said Peter, ashamed, and bewildered by what she meant by the question after his deceleration of loyalty.

“You are entirely mistaken if you think me a woman of easy virtue, Mr. Wells. The only reason why I allowed my honor to be compromised was because he promised me marriage, and while I was foolish then, I have no intention of being so foolish again.” The realization of what Charity thought of him hit Peter and he found that he was amazingly angry. He had done so much, probably far more than he ought to have, and she thought that the entire reason was because he had read the letters and had thought that she would sleep with him.

“If you doubt my intentions then introduce me to your father,” said Peter, the blood rushing to his head and making him bold and impulsive, though it was not as if either trait was foreign to him in any case. For years he had been keeping some control on his impulsive nature by thinking of his sisters, but now he had another consideration. He had realized himself in love, and just with all other things in life, he wished it to go as he pleased as quickly as possible. He had no shortage of energy. “I will ask for your hand from him, and put an end to all of your doubts about my intentions.”

“You would not,” said Charity, looking taken aback.

“Where is he?” asked Peter, standing and looking about as if he expected her father to appear from behind the drapes. While the whole thing might have been a shock to Charity, it had been building somewhere in the back of his mind almost as soon as he had met her, and now it exploded. “Do you have a church that you attend? We can go today to ask the minister if he will marry us.”

“The priest,” corrected Charity, sounding dazed.

“You are Catholic?” asked Peter, and he gave her a dazzling smile. “An amazing coincidence, so am I.”

“I fear you are having great fun at my expense,” said Charity.

“I assure you, I would not dare. What man would dare make such an offer, if it was not good in faith, to a woman already suing one gentleman for breach of promise. Your reputation would not be likely to suffer more for a second suite. As I could not afford any lawsuit, having thrown my career in little scraps of paper at your feet, I assure you that I am earnest. I humbly beseech you to become my bride. I have my mother’s ring, we can use that. Oh, and I suppose you will need a week or so to get your things together. I know very little about such things but my sisters assure me a woman must have household goods that she brings with her. Oh, yes, my sisters, you will have to meet my sisters,” Peter added, it was almost an after thought.

A Desire to Hide Part Sixteen

A storm rolled across the city as Peter walked the short distance from the office to Charles’s rooms, in the esteemed company of that gentleman. It did nothing to add to the comfort of the day, which was oppressively hot again, as the last several days had been. Instead the water steamed on the streets, and on the people it drenched. Peter could feel his cotton undershirt become itchy, and almost unbearable, but if he excused himself to go home now, he was concerned that he would not get another such opportunity. Neither he or Charles had brought an umbrella, it having been so dry the several days previous that no one had even considered rain a possibility. Charles did not seem any more comfortable than Peter, and they half ran to his rooms where Charles excused himself into his bedroom for a moment to change. Peter, who did not have such a chance, was forced to stand in the parlor and wait. He was not willing to sit down and risk spoiling the fine upholstery on the chairs next to the unlit fireplace.
“Here you are, old chap,” said Charles, coming out finally in a smoking jacket and carrying a bundle of letters. Peter, still not daring to sit in one of the chairs, instead stood at the mantel to read them. Charles himself lounged in on of the arm chairs and looked amazingly smug. Peter tried his best to ignore him, he was worried that if he paid him too much attention he might want to punch him.
Peter had dreaded the contents of the letters, being much afraid that they might be so scandalous that he would find he could no longer think of Charity Seay in the manner in which he had since meeting her. This was not the case however. It was true that they were very incautious, and certainly likely to cause a scandal if they were printed, but they were all written to her dearest, and first love, Charles. They were not the letters of a fast woman, or a woman after money and power through Charles’s family. Instead they were all of the proof that Peter needed, had he needed any additional proof, that Charity had truly believed that she was going to marry Charles, that she had been in love with him while he had toyed with her. As Peter read each letter he was careful to not refold them or place them in their envelops. Instead he placed each one flat in a stack on the mantel. As he finished reading the last one he could not help himself he turned and grinned at Charles.
“Good, are they not? I am rather fond of the one where she speaks of how she enjoyed our time together in the parlor, about how I gave her such happiness, she could hardly contain it. The whore,” Charles added. Peter nodded, he had read that passage several times before putting that letter with the others.
So Charity had been indiscreet, the letters made that very plain. He had thought that learning such a thing might cool his ardor for her, and had promised himself that if such was the case he would walk away from it all and pretend none of this had ever happened. Instead however, he found the fact only made him more angry and determined. She had thought of Charles as her husband, and she had given him everything, and he had betrayed her. Yes, she had been innocent, naive, and over eager, but then she was practically at an age where she was destined to be an old maid, and suddenly a wealthy man had shown an interest in her. That was something that stories were made of. Peter made his decision, he snatched up the letters from the mantel, and before Charles could stop him, he ripped them in half. Having stacked them as he had, by the time that Charles was out of his seat, Peter had shredded them even more. Bits of them floated through the air, but most of them he shoved into his pockets. He would have been happier had there been a fire that he could throw them into, but that could come latter. What was important right now was that Charles knew the letters to be destroyed.
“I shall give my notice to your father tomorrow,” Peter said. “My month is up in two weeks time however, and I will stay on until then. Be assured that if you in any way interfere with me during that time, or attempt to prevent your father from giving me references, I will be forced to tell him about what you intended to do with these letters. He is an honorable man, and I doubt he would condone either your use of the letters, or what they contain in them. I remember that you have a younger brother, it might be well to insure that he is not the only one remembered in your father’s will.”
“You resort to blackmail then?” said Charles, sinking back into his chair now and looking at Peter with great scorn.
“When I am dealing with a blackmailer,” said Peter, trying to make an equal show of outward calm. He wished that he could simply resign from his position and leave, but references were important and he would never get them if he left suddenly. He did have sisters to support after all, and he already had some doubts about his ability to get an immediate job. The gauntlet had been thrown however, and the challenge issued. He supposed he could only consider himself lucky that he was not of Charles’s social set, or a far more formal challenge to duel might have been the response. As it was however, Charles would never duel a man who was so much lower than he was. Charles would never consider Peter to be a gentleman.
Charles had meant to return home after the meeting with Charles, and to write to Charity Seay the next day to tell her what he had done. He found he could not stand the idea of more waiting however. No matter how improper it might be, he needed to see her. He suspected that he would have to resist the urge to throw himself at her feet, the way that men did in some of the romantic books Ann did, and beg her for forgiveness. His mind rebelled at that image, but at least he could hold out the scraps of her letters as an offering, and perhaps she would look on him with some favor. He wished it was something more appropriate, like a necklace.

A Desire to Hide Part Fifteen

The first thing that Peter had to do, he realized on consideration, was to befriend Charles again. It was a distasteful thing. He had already decided that Charles was the scum of the earth, but this might well be called for a higher cause. A lady’s reputation was on the line, and that was a valuable and fragile jewel indeed. It was only if he and Charles were friendly that he would be able to get his hands on the letters that were hanging over Charity Seay’s head, and destroy them. It was with this in mind that Peter swallowed his pride and stopped Charles on his way to supper. Mr. Hendely and his son had not eaten together since Mr. Hendely had found out about Charity Seay, and they now staggered their suppers so they did not even leave the office at the same time. It was therefore the best time to speak to Charles without his father overhearing the conversation and this was certainly not a conversation that Peter wished Mr. Hendely to hear. Mr. Hendely had morals, and standards, unlike his son. Charles very much doubted that Mr. Hendely was aware that his son was threatening a young lady’s reputation. It did not seem like the sort of thing that he would stand for.
“It would seem that Charity Seay was more taken with me than I had believed, I have heard from her again, sir,” said Peter. He could not decide which had been more painful. To refer to Ms. Seay in such a casual manner, or to call Charles Hendely sir. Both had hurt. “Is there a more private place that we can speak?”
“Is it important?” asked Charles, looking slightly scornful. Peter had to struggle to keep his temper.
“I believe it is, sir,” said Peter. “The manner in which she writes tells me that we might have the opportunity to convince her to leave the case be after all.” Charles seemed to consider this for a moment.
“Come to supper with me and we will talk,” he said finally.
Peter hoped that he did not stand too quickly, or with too much apparent eagerness. This was exactly what he had hoped for, and it was difficult for him not to show how pleased he was by his success. Peter felt no shame in lying whatsoever, every time he introduced himself as Peter Wells he was lying after all. A lie in a good cause could hardly be considered a sin. He snatched his hat from the stand and followed Charles out of the door.
“Since Father has already been to supper, we may as well go to my regular restaurant,” commented Charles once they reached the street. Peter agreed, though it would hurt his budget badly on top of the money he had already given to Mary before he had left the house that morning. It was well that he had savings or he might find himself greatly embarrassed in the matter of rent for that week.
“I had thought that I had not gotten on with the young lady, sir, so imagine my surprise when I received her letter yesterday evening after I returned from work,” said Peter as they walked.
“What did it say?” asked Charles.
“Well, sir, I am afraid Charity Seay has no wish to ever see you again, indeed she refuses to even speak to you, she is however willing to throw her pride aside a deal with me. I gave her the impression, when we were introduced, that I was a disinterested party you see. She has no idea that I am working for you. It is in this way that I have gained her confidence.”
“I was under the impression that you had given it up,” said Charles. “Indeed I thought that you rather looked down on me for this scandal.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Peter, opening the restaurant door for his boss. He knew where Charles always ate, and had not needed to be guided. It was the restaurant attached to a somewhat modest hotel, but it was far nicer than where Peter generally ate. At least the waiter knew Charles and so they got prompt and respectful service. On the few occasions that Peter had entered the nicer sort of establishment the waiters had noticed his clearly store bought suit with some scorn and had not treated him well enough for him to make such dinning a habit.
“So she has taken a liking to you has she,” said Charles once they were seated. He was leering and Peter felt sick with the implication. Still, he made himself smile in a suggestive manner.
“I suppose I come across as an honest man,” he said. Now that Charles was making such indecent comments he felt comfortable enough to drop the sir he had been so carefully including thus far. It looked as if he were friends with his younger boss again.
“Even after you told her that we had the letters?” asked Charles.
“She seems to believe that you are the one making such threats. I am not, since I am simply the moderator after all,” said Peter, still smiling. “She does not care for you at all however, and there lays our problem I am afraid. She is willing to make a deal, but only on the occasion that she has proof that you do still have her letters in your possession. That is the problem I have had all along you see. She simply does not entirely believe in their existence.”
“What sort of proof does she desire?” asked Charles. “I am hardly likely to go into her neighborhood carrying them. I would be set upon by her people instantly I imagine, and the letters would be destroyed.”
“I think it would do if I, as an independent moderator of course, was able to swear that I had seen them,” said Peter. This role was beginning to grow painful, but he persevered. He was so close to victory after all.
“So swear it, old boy, and let us have this done with. Make sure to have her sign a paper promising that she is dropping the case against me.”
“I am willing to tell lies, Charles,” said Peter, growing serious for a moment. “Especially for someone I consider to be a friend. I am not so willing to foreswear myself. What harm should it be for me to see her letters in any case,” he asked and now he was grinning again. “They ought to be entertaining.” Charles laughed out loud, one of the most suggestive laughs Peter had ever heard, and in such a crowded restaurant.
“You should have said, they are entertaining indeed, old chap, but I had not had you pegged as the type. Come home with me to my rooms and you shall see them.” Peter supposed that his smile of triumph was read by Charles as joy at getting to read his most intimate correspondence with an girl who had thought he would marry her. That was fine however, so long as he got what he wanted.

A Desire to Hide Part Fourteen

As Mary had supposed, their good work cut short, the other girls wanted to go to the shops in the nicer end of Broadway. Mary had left the house looking forward to it, but now she felt she had no appetite for shopping at all. She endured the first store, but she did not buy anything. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk again, the other girls already speaking excitedly about where they wanted to go next, Mary came to a decision.

“I am afraid I am feeling poorly. Perhaps I have what Ann complained of this morning. You will have to excuse me.” This was not a lie, she told herself, she suspected that she had exactly what Ann had, self respect.

“I will see you home, Miss,” said the detective who had thus far paid her such unwanted attention. “As we have left the less savory parts of town, I find that my time is my own.”

“That does not seem a universally held opinion,” said Mary, her voice acidic. She was watching the other private detectives dance attendance on Laura.

“They hope for a tip, Miss,” said the detective, frankly.

“And you do not?” asked Mary. “I tell you frankly, you will not get one from me.”

“Allow me to see an ill young lady home without being suspected of an ulterior motive, Miss,” said the detective. Mary thought that she had offended him, but he was grinning.

“It is gallant of you, sir,” said Mary, realizing that he was entirely serious. “It is out of your way entirely however I am certain, and I mean to walk. Perhaps the fresh air will mend my headache.”

“Consider it my thanks for your swift thinking earlier, Miss.”

“No thanks are necessary, sir. It was in my interest as well, you ought remember.”

“All the same, please allow me to see you home, Miss. As a token of my esteem.” There was little Mary could say to protest that, so they set off down the street together, Mary having given polite excuses and farewells to the other girls who were present. It was appalling to realize how little they had been affected by their near miss and Mary could not help but wonder if a large part of it was that none of them realized just how near it had been. That in its self puzzled Mary however, after all, there had been many anti-catholic, or anti-protestant, riots over the years. They had come very close to starting one, and she and the detective who now walked beside her seemed to be the only two who understood that. It made her almost feel companionably towards the detective. It certainly made her nicer to him when he tried to make conversation.

“A lucky thing for you, Miss, that there had been someone in those parts who had been named Mary Finnegan. It might have gone poorly had there not been.”

“I used the most common Irish name that I could think of, sir,” said Mary. “It is of the sort of name that appears often in the papers when they speak of washerwomen and the like.”

“You are the only young lady I know, Miss, who walks so quickly when she is feeling poorly.” Mary had not realized that she had started walking faster in her anger, but apparently she had been.

“If it was a complaint of anything but my head, sir, I would not be.”

“Yes, Miss. They were giving me a headache too,” said the detective, smiling.

“You presume too much,” said Mary, growing offended again. It was the truth behind her ailment, but she certainly did not care to have it known.

“No young lady with a headache has ever had her legs pumping as you do,” said the detective. Mary almost tripped in shock and looked over at him, but he did not seem to realize that he had said anything in the least bit offensive. To speak of the limbs of a lady you hardly knew alone would be considered shocking, but to speak of her legs, and in public at that.

“I do not care to have you speak of them,” said Mary, her voice frosty. “It is not something that is done.”

“It is done every day, by people across the city, Miss,” said the detective laughing.

“Not in polite company, Mr,” Mary trailed off, realizing that she did not know his name at all, and therefore was not able to chide him with it.

“Krugs,” said the detective.

“Well then, Mr. Krugs, you will please keep a civil tongue in your head when you are speaking to a lady.”

“Yes, Miss,” said the detective, still looking pleased with himself. They were almost to the boarding house that Mary lived by then, and Mary decided she could easily make the rest of the walk with the detective in frosty silence. It was because she was looking in the other direction that she saw the newsboy. Normally she would not have noticed him, but she was in a strange mood, and there was something about the boy who looked to be about five, standing there with his papers, that would not allow her to simply walk past. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the five dollar bill that Peter had given her, shielding what she was doing from the street with her body.

“Here small-fry,” she said quietly. “Don’t say anything to anyone about it, and keep it well hidden, and the other boys won’t pinch it from you.” Then she stood and walked away, leaving the dazed newsboy behind her. She doubted the boy ever saw dollars, let alone five dollars.

“You ought not have done that, Miss,” said the detective.

“I set out to do a good deed today, Mr. Krugs, and now I have done one,” said Mary. “I am sorry if that was the tip that you expected.”

“I already told you I did not expect one, Miss. I meant that you should not have chided me on speaking proper and then used them newsboy words. Small-fry is not something that comes from a proper young lady’s mouth any more than the word legs.” Mary stormed up the stairs to her boardinghouse and slammed the door in his face. She did later feel badly for not thanking him for walking her home, but it was far too late by then, and she had been annoyed with him.