Beyond All Dreams (9 page)

When Anna returned to school, she had to admit to a smidgeon of jealousy over the attention Neville lavished on Eliza. It came crashing to an end the afternoon their teacher caught Neville tilting his test paper so that Eliza could see it. Mr. McLaren lurched across the room to snatch Neville's test. “For pity's sake, Romeo, don't sell your self-respect over this girl. Move to the other side of the room immediately.”

Mortified at being caught cheating, Neville scooted to an empty chair well away from Eliza's wandering eyes.

Mr. McLaren wasn't finished with his humiliation. “Now, let's see if she stabs herself in the heart after Romeo is torn from her side.” The rest of the class giggled behind their hands while Neville twitched in misery.

The teacher walked over to Neville and returned his test, then swiveled to pierce Eliza with his gaze across the classroom. “No attempted suicide from the lovely Miss Sharpe? What a surprise. So you see, Romeo, she's really not worth your trouble. Finish the test and don't let me catch you cheating again.”

Neville would have liked nothing better than to have the entire incident scrubbed from his memory, but Eliza enjoyed recounting that day for her husband.

“Everyone called us Romeo and Juliet after that,” Eliza said. “It was the funniest thing! Of course, I always thought of Neville as ‘Blinky-Blinky.'”

Neville blanched, and even the future postmaster general looked embarrassed at his wife's remark.

Anna painted on a tight smile. “It's always such a treat to see you again, Eliza. Just when I think there are no more arrows in your quiver, you always manage to find one.”

“Come along now,” her husband said, leading his wife to the other side of the pub.

Neville's twitching had gotten worse, his condition always aggravated when under stress. He set his spoon down, leaving the remainder of the spicy chowder in the bowl. They both knew it would be a sloppy and embarrassing mess if he tried to eat with his twitching this severe. Neville had been to countless physicians over the years, but no one could figure out how to calm the spasms that made his life miserable.

Both she and Neville came to terms with their weaknesses
long ago. Neville would forever twitch with involuntary spasms, and she'd never feel comfortable among the beautiful people like Eliza Sharpe. But that was okay with her, because she'd built a good life for herself at the library, where she didn't need to depend on anyone for companionship or financial support. And if her world was a little lonely . . . well, loneliness never killed anybody. There was a time when she had hoped for marriage and a family, but that was beginning to fade as she grew older. Besides, if she remained single she could continue being a librarian, which wasn't merely a means of support but a calling she cherished.

To this day she still missed her father, and yet she felt comforted in knowing he would have been proud of her. They shared a similar mission, both dedicated to the collection and preservation of the world's knowledge.

Today she had tried and failed to glean more insight into the truth behind the
Culpeper
's disappearance, but that didn't mean she would stop the quest. After all, the only thing Anna was truly confident about in her life was that she was very good at finding answers to questions that wanted to remain hidden.

W
alking down the street with Caesar Trammel was like walking alongside a celebrity. Though Luke was well known in Congress, few people recognized him on the street. That wasn't the case with Caesar Trammel, the oldest veteran of the Civil War still serving in Congress. Having been in the path of cannon shrapnel at Gettysburg, Caesar was missing his left eye and left leg, and his tiny, shrunken frame was easily recognizable as they proceeded down the tree-lined street full of shops and people enjoying the unexpectedly warm Saturday morning. Luke slowed his stride to match Caesar's uncertain gait as the old veteran hobbled along with the aid of a cane. A patch covered Caesar's eye, yet the old man saw more with his one good eye than most men saw with two.

“We'll need to plan this carefully,” Caesar said. “Speaker Jones has enough votes to pass that revolting new tariff, but if we can convince enough members to be absent for the vote, Jones won't have his quorum and the vote will be scuttled. He'll have to wait until next term to bring it back to the floor.”

It was a brilliant plan no one would see coming. Caesar
Trammel might be the only man in Congress craftier and better connected than the Speaker of the House. It was important to the workingmen in Luke's district for the tariff to be defeated, and Caesar's plan would stop the vote from ever taking place. Then Luke could move in with the mountain of data he'd amassed from Anna O'Brien to begin dismantling the Speaker's reputation. Luke smiled, feeling the end of his political exile drawing nearer.

“Sir, may I shake your hand?” A man wearing a cab driver's uniform had recognized Caesar and sprang off the carriage to pay homage to the renowned veteran.

Luke stepped aside to let Caesar enjoy his moment of glory. It was often like this when he was with Caesar, who loved basking in the limelight. Luke never cared for that sort of fame. The only thing he envied about Caesar was the man's long and happy marriage. Unlike most politicians whose families remained living in their home districts, Caesar's wife insisted on living with him in Washington. “I spent three years apart from my wife during the war,” he once groused. “As long as the two of us still draw breath, I will never spend another night without my wife by my side.”

It was exactly what Luke craved. He'd fallen in love only once, a blazing few months that still lit the corners of his memory. At thirty-six, he'd never expected to remain a bachelor this long, and over the years the hollow ache of loneliness had grown and expanded. While he had many friends, a demanding career, and the satisfaction of raising his nephew Philip, still he longed for a wife.

Caesar shook hands with a few other bystanders, and afterward they continued walking along the shady street, passing by the shops and cafés. With the regular interruptions from people wanting to meet Caesar and the crush of morning shoppers, it
was a strange place to hold a political meeting, but far safer than the Capitol, a place filled with eavesdroppers and the constant risk of being overheard.

“I expect to have the data to launch a corruption charge against the Speaker soon,” Luke said as he leaned down to speak quietly into Caesar's ear. “I don't have clear-cut proof yet, but I'm still looking.” Or rather, Anna O'Brien was still looking, and it was only a matter of time before she found something.

“All I care about is blocking the tariff vote,” Caesar said. “Any other personal vendetta you have against the Speaker is on your own.”

“But if I find evidence of corruption, I can count on your support. . . .” Luke let the sentence dangle. Caesar paused and cocked his head to scrutinize him through that single good eye.

“The hostility between you and the Speaker seems unusually bad. What's going on between the two of you?”

Luke didn't want to spill more scandalous stories about his family. He paused before the wide glass window of a general emporium and pretended to study the jars of imported tea in the display.

“Jones once asked me to lie,” he began. “I refused. It was just a silly squabble.”

“This is more than a minor squabble.” Caesar's voice dripped with humor. “If there was a committee for scrubbing tobacco stains off the steps of the Capitol, Speaker Jones would put you in charge of it. Tell me, why do the two of you hate each other so much?”

Luke kept staring at the goods displayed in the window—anything rather than let himself get pinned down about the root of his conflict with Cornelius Jones.

“When I was a boy, I once saw a painting of a lion resting in a green pasture beside a lamb,” he said slowly. “The lion was
huge and powerful, while the lamb was tiny, but it wasn't afraid of the lion. They lay side by side in a peaceable kingdom. The image was so compelling that I wanted to believe it could be real. If a lion can lie beside a lamb, who knows what will happen between me and Cornelius Jones?”

“One of you will end up with a bloody carcass dangling from your jaws. The question is, which one.”

Luke stiffened. That image of the lion and lamb had been his guiding light during a childhood ruled by brutality, and it wasn't a laughing matter for him. His commitment to pacifism was based on more than a tranquil painting of a peaceable kingdom. As the son of a man who'd served in the Civil War, Luke had witnessed the indelible scar that war had carved into his father's soul, and it strengthened his commitment to pacifism.
“Blessed
are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children
of God.”

He wanted to be a peacemaker. He wanted to live in an age ruled by good judgment and Christian charity, not the savagery of swinging fists.

Caesar still waited for his answer, and Luke tried to reply honestly but avoid as many painful personal details as possible. “I learned a long time ago that sometimes it takes more courage to refuse a fight than to join the battle. I won't sink to Cornelius Jones's level, even if that means taking a punch now and then.”

His political meeting with Caesar was concluded, and he looked about for an excuse to disengage. Behind the plate-glass window, the figure of a lady moved into view near the rear display table. There was something familiar about her. Her plain dress couldn't disguise her fetching figure. He smiled in recognition.

Seeing Anna O'Brien outside the library was like seeing a goldfish outside its bowl. It was simply something he'd never
expected to see. Strange, but he'd never even considered that she had a life outside of the library, but here she was, shopping. Even from a distance he could see the yearning on her face as she leaned over a display table.

He excused himself from Caesar and headed into the shop. He winced at the rude jingling of a bell above the door when he stepped inside. Thankfully, Miss O'Brien was too engrossed to look up from the object of her fascination to notice. Hiding his grin, he sidled up to the store's manager to whisper a few instructions.

It was time for a little fun.

Anna ran her fingers over the gleaming keys of a new typewriter. It was a model from Remington, five dollars cheaper than she'd seen before. She glanced between the two typewriters on display, wondering why the new model was more affordable and wishing Neville were with her. He'd be able to spot the differences immediately, but when she'd stopped by his boardinghouse that morning, he wasn't home. She'd been a little miffed. They usually spent Saturdays together, and his insight would have been helpful just now.

She was about to ask the shopkeeper for a sheet of paper so she could experiment with both models, but just as she drew a breath, an obnoxious male voice shouted from the other side of the store.

“Service!”
Snap, snap, snap
.

She whirled around. Luke Callahan was snapping his fingers, his jeweled cuff links flashing.

“What's wrong with this store?” he shouted again with a few more snaps of his fingers. “I need service, and I need it now.”

Rushing footsteps came from the back of the store as the
flustered manager stepped into view. “I'm sorry, sir. I was stacking chicken wire in the back room.”

“Chicken wire! I am a congressman in the United States House of Representatives. I don't have time for chicken wire.”

The arrogance of
the man
. Anna was stunned, watching in disbelief as the store manager rushed to placate him.

“It's very fine chicken wire, sir,” the man stammered. He turned away to cough, his hand covering his face.

It was impossible to tolerate this any longer. Anna stepped forward. “Do you really think the world should stop rotating so the peasants can bow down and kiss your ring?” she demanded. If he was surprised to see her, it didn't show as he raised his chin.

“I certainly expect to come before chicken wire.” His mouth twitched, and a hint of mirth lurked in his eyes. Then the shopkeeper snorted with laughter.

“Are you making fun of me?” she asked, glancing between the both of them.

“Mr. Callahan is a loyal customer here, ma'am,” the shopkeeper rushed to explain. “He buys his nephew's art supplies from us. We consider him a friend.” And given the way they grinned and shared in the laugh at her expense, she could see it was true.

She was still irked and refused to join in their hilarity. “I consider him the most annoying man in Congress.”

“Come on, O'Brien. It was funny.”

It was, but she didn't feel like admitting it. Aside from his terse commands to her in the Fisheries meeting, he'd always treated her with respect, even when she accused him of writing in their book. Perhaps Mr. Callahan was exactly as he appeared—a blunt man who didn't conform to the stilted manners of Washington, but not a bad one.

She ignored him and looked at the shopkeeper. “Can you
tell me why this new model of typewriter is less expensive than the other?”

“Certainly, ma'am. The slimmer design requires less metal and a shorter ribbon of ink, but it has all the features of the larger model.”

“Don't tell me you're tempted by those clickety-clack machines,” Mr. Callahan said. “No typed document will ever rival the beauty of fine penmanship.”

Though he was probably right, she lifted her chin and hid a smile. “I don't care. I want one.”

“Why?”

She'd never in a million years confess the reason. She hadn't even told Neville why she wanted a typewriter, and she certainly wouldn't be spilling her dreams to this charmingly obnoxious congressman. “Because they are modern.”

“Heaven save us,” he muttered.

“Can I practice on it a bit?” she asked the manager.

A few moments later, she sat before the table and fed a sheet of paper beneath the typewriter's rubber roller. It was awkward yet exciting as the machine made a satisfying thud with each keystroke. She didn't know the keyboard well enough to move with any speed, and it took some time to type out her own name.

“Look how slow you are,” Mr. Callahan taunted. “This is hardly an improvement over a pencil and paper.”