Bloodline in Chiaroscuro: Prequel to the San Francisco Trilogy

By Gloria H. Giroux

James Danziger was a force to be reckoned with in both his personal and professional lives. From the 1940s to the 1980s, he ruled a business empire, his family, and his friends with an iron fist. An enigmatic man with warring dark and light sides, he eschewed playing by the rules and did anything to accomplish what he wantedeven murder.

However, James didnt just rise from ashes. He was born, he had parents, and he grew up, but what kind of people would create such an ambitious man beyond redemption? In the early 1900s, a chance meeting between Scottish immigrant Elspeth McMorgan and Stefan Danziger occurred, which set into motion a dynasty that would rule the better part of a century.

Jamess parents witnessed a great many amazing events, including the sinking of the Titanic, the suffragette movement, Prohibition, and the Great Depression before things went mad in the dark days of World War II. Through it all, the Danziger clan thrived even when the post-war fifties and sixties collided and planted the seed of power that continues to make its mark in the new millennium.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532027413

Gloria H. Giroux

Gloria H. Giroux was born in North Adams, MA. Raised in Hartford, CT, she graduated from Bulkeley High School, the University of Connecticut and the Computer Processing Institute subsequently embarking on a double career of IT and writing. The author of nineteen fiction novels, Keene Retribution is homage to a special place in her life in New England. She currently lives in Arizona where she is working on her next book.

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Copyright © 2017 Gloria H. Giroux.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-2742-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2743-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2741-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911466

iUniverse rev. date: 07/28/2017

CONTENTS

Cast Of Characters

Prologue

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Book Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Book Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Book One

Chapter One

This book is

dedicated to my paternal grandparents, Christopher Giroux and Mary Carr Giroux, and my maternal grandparents, Adam Savinski and Caroline Pushkin Savinski.

With courage, fortitude, and determination you forged new lives in a strange, difficult land; your perseverance built the foundation of the future for your children and theirs, and the generations to come after in the new millennium.

Thank you.

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CAST OF CHARACTERS¹

PROLOGUE

December 19, 1983, San Francisco, California, the attic in the house on Waller Street²

Norah looked at Sarah, who had a Cheshire Cat smile on her peach lips. Norah had an inane, fleeting thought that she’d never wear that shade of lipstick again. There wasn’t the slightest emotion in her voice as a deluge of epiphany rained down on her and she measured her words, hoping to the depths of her soul that she was wrong, knowing that she wasn’t. You murdered my mother.

Our mother, Norah. And certainly I did. That peasant thought she could blackmail me for money. She was, well … wrong. And if you’ll look at the matter rationally, you’ll see that I did you a great big favor. Daddy, too, as I told him. You see––

Sarah’s words were cut off when Norah violently whirled around and tried to grab the knife with her good hand. Her head was pounding, her broken arm was throwing waves of agony up and down the left side of her body, and the trickle of blood flowed more thickly and quickly as her unborn child evacuated from her womb. Sarah punched her in the face, but with the strength of outrage and hatred, Norah didn’t go down and kept her grip on Sarah’s knife wrist as she twisted and sank her teeth into Sarah’s soft forearm. She smashed her boot down on Sarah’s sandaled foot then side-kicked Sarah’s shin. The two women crashed to the floor as Sarah’s wig came off; the sisters struggled for supremacy in what each knew was a battle to the death. Sarah was on top of Norah, trying to twist her arm out of Norah’s grip, and swinging wild punches that more often than not hit their target. Norah spat out a broken, bloody incisor as she twisted her neck to the left and spotted the gun on the floor; the steel rod wasn’t too far away. The adrenaline raced through her body as she made a supreme effort to get on top of Sarah and wrest the knife away from her. With inhuman strength she drove her knee into Sarah’s groin and smashed Sarah’s wrist to the floor, and the knife came loose and slid several feet away. Norah fumbled at her ankle knife as Sarah scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees and reached the gun. She turned around and jumped to her feet, aiming the gun at Norah as blood dripped from her torn forearm.

Dying time, Sis, Sarah hissed. I’m thinking that going abroad with a kid would be too cumbersome, so after I send you straight to Hell, I’ll send your daughter on after you to keep you company. Sarah pointed the gun at Norah’s center mass.

The explosion from the gun slammed Sarah back against the wall, where she slid to the floor on her butt. A full red blossom of blood expanded on her chest as she stared widely at Norah in disbelief. The gun clattered loudly on the floor.

Norah felt as though everything had happened in slow motion. She hadn’t quite registered the fact that she wasn’t dead, and it took her a moment to realize that James Danziger was moving towards her from the door. He crouched beside her and held her in his arms, kissing her head and her cheeks, and whispering that she and Cara were safe.

You’re safe, baby, you’re safe, he said softly.

Cara, Norah choked out. Danziger nodded and gently laid her down on her back before he rushed over to check his granddaughter. He put his ear next to Cara’s mouth to check her breathing: steady, strong. He thumbed open one of her eyes and saw that the pupil was dilated. He intuited that Sarah must have drugged her, but it seemed that Cara was going to be okay. Danziger blew out a hard breath as he thought that he should empty the rest of his bullets into Sarah’s body. He pulled Sarah’s sweater off the back of the rocking chair and covered Cara with it as he smoothed her long, soft red hair. He threw Sarah a cursory glance, noting that she hadn’t moved and her eyes were wide open and unblinking; her mouth was set in a disbelieving O. He wished that he had a nail-studded baseball bat.

Danziger returned to Norah’s side. He sat down and pulled her into his arms. He noted that the front of her jeans was bloody, but there didn’t seem to be any wounds that would have caused the bleeding. Her face was badly battered, her lip split, and both eyes shadowing into black as the blood pooled under her damaged flesh. He realized that her arm was broken, and he gently moved it to rest across her lap. One big, fat motherfucker of a nail-studded baseball bat.

No, Norah said preemptively. I’m not all right. It doesn’t matter. Is my daughter okay? Norah coughed and spit out a thin stream of blood.

Danziger stroked her forehead. She’s going to be fine. She’s just going to sleep for a while. He paused. Your jeans. You’re bleeding––

My baby’s dead, Norah said tonelessly.

Oh, Jesus, Danziger whispered. I’m so, so sorry.

But Cara’s okay?

She’s perfect, just like her mother.

Norah half laughed and coughed up blood. I’m so far from perfect I can’t even see its horizon. After all, I am a Danziger.

Danziger smiled. Glad you finally accept that. The bloodline isn’t all bad.

Even you? Norah asked softly as she twisted her neck to meet his eyes.

I have my moments.

Sarah killed our mother.

I know.

She killed Loeb, too. That’s his skull in the cabinet.

Danziger looked over at the cabinet and saw the skull. Makes sense. He’d never leave me of his own volition.

He was a monster, Norah said.

Even monsters have their uses. Enough of this. I need to get you and Cara to a doctor. There’s no phone in this house, so I need to find a booth. Danziger gently gathered up Norah in his arms and carried her over to the opposite wall, where he sat her up. He picked up the sleeping Cara, and placed her in her mother’s arms. Norah hugged her daughter tightly, drinking in her presence as a balm to her own injuries, which seemed so insignificant in light of the living beauty that was her child.

Danziger ran his hand over first Norah’s hair and then Cara’s, and started walking to the attic door. He had just reached it when he was slammed into the door by the bullet from the .357 Magnum that Sarah was holding in both hands as she lay on her stomach. She continued firing, hitting him two more times until the gun clicked empty over and over. She had a dreamy, happy look on her face although her eyes were quite empty. She looked over at Norah, who was clearly in shock. Sarah laughed weakly as she dropped the gun.

Maybe I’ll live just to piss you off, Sis, Sarah coughed.

Norah gently laid Cara down on the floor and struggled to her feet. She gingerly picked up Sarah’s hunting knife by the very tip with two fingers, careful to not get her prints on it. A hideous sharp pain ripped through her ribs, but she ignored it. She limped over to Sarah, and stood over her. Maybe you will, Sis, but I guarantee it won’t be where and how you’d prefer.

Norah dropped the knife close to Sarah, then reached down and picked up the steel rod. She smiled at Sarah, whose face had drained of what color she had left. Sarah raised a protective hand.

Don’t kill me, Sarah whimpered. I’m your sister.

Norah stared at her with determined, pitiless eyes. Actually, you’re a worthless piece of murderous shit. And I’m going to make sure you never threaten my family again. Or hurt another innocent animal. In her mind Norah pictured sweet Cinnamon jumping up to greet the stranger who’d entered the house, and receiving a cracked skull and broken leg for her gentle, eager affection.

With that admonition, Norah raised the rod over her head, and brought it down with every ounce of force she had, bolstered by a need for justice and, more importantly, vengeance. Sarah howled as the rod smashed into her lower back, crushing her lower vertebrae. Norah raised the rod again twice, and brought it down on Sarah’s back. Sarah moaned in pain as Norah stood over her, finally triumphant in her protection of her family. Still, there was one more thing to even out a score. Norah raised the rod one last time, and smashed it with all of her might against Sarah’s left tibia, breaking the bone hard enough to pierce the flesh.

That one’s for my dog, bitch, Norah said coldly, enjoying Sarah’s howl of agony.

Sarah might live, she might not, but she’d never have the mobility to escape her fate and make any moves on the Maguire family. Norah dropped the rod, which clanked to the floor and echoed in the sparse attic as Sarah Danziger lost consciousness.

She went over to Danziger, and with great difficulty managed to sit down and pull him into her arms, knowing as she did that he would not survive his wounds. That he hadn’t died outright was a testament more to his sense of survival and inner strength than to Sarah’s inaccurate shots. Blood was trickling in an increasing stream from his mouth, and the three through-and-through gunshot wounds saturated his shirt with a deep red, viscous, life-ebbing flow. He was done; he knew it, and Norah knew it.

Norah gently rocked him and tried to wipe the blood from his face. He smiled feebly at his daughter, content that his last moments on earth would be in the arms of the child he’d come to unexpectedly love from the very depths of his badly damaged soul.

I love you, Norah, Danziger said weakly as his eyelids fluttered.

I forgive you, Dad, Norah said gently with a sob just before the light went out in his eyes. She closed his eyes and listened to the distant sounds of sirens making their way to the house on Waller Street.

BOOK ONE

Distinguished ancestors shed a powerful light on their descendants, and forbid the concealment either of their merits or of their demerits.

— Gaius Sallustius Crispus

CHAPTER ONE

April 15, 1912, North Atlantic Ocean, 41°46’ N, 50°24’ W

05:00 AM

Elspeth Moira McMorgan was perspiring like a pig. Her layered wool clothing––the voluminous wool skirt that swirled around her ankles, the thick cotton long-sleeved shirt under the knee-length wool coat, the knitted wool scarf that wrapped around her neck several times and draped to her waist––was drenched in a mixture of sweat, sea water, and general grime. Her discomfort had become a mainstay of her shipboard world since the Carpathia had arrived at its destination a scant hour earlier. Her waist-length, burnished copper hair had come undone from its tight top bun and tumbled down her back and she was constantly pushing it away from her face; she had lost her wool cap to the sea when she was trying to pull up a young widow from one of the lifeboats. Her mouth was stretched in a tight grimace over the delicate chin and its vague cleft; her vivid green eyes set under thick copper lashes had a cast of disbelief mixed with sorrow and horror. She didn’t let herself think too much of the overall situation and instead concentrated on helping to rescue the hundreds of survivors of the disaster that was the maiden voyage of the ship Titanic. The unsinkable Titanic: truly not, and perhaps the lesson that God was teaching to men with hubris who had declared the ship to be so. Her devout Catholic upbringing allowed her to acknowledge and approve of forgiveness, but also to believe in the concepts of vengeance and punishment.

Unfortunately, those latter concepts certainly did not apply to the hundreds of people that died in the sinking of the ship, or those who were fortunate to survive but who would never be the same. They were innocents, yet paid for the misdeeds of others. She found that to be a truism in many aspects of life. Her father had pounded that fact into her stubborn head all her life, and never more so determinedly than when she told him that she planned on emigrating to the United States when she finished nursing school in Edinburgh. He warned, gave dire predictions, threatened, and finally pleaded with her to remain in Dundee with him and her four sisters, but she was determined to make her mark in the world, and the world of Dundee was simply too small to hold her ambitions. Her sisters, Lorna, Skye, Fiona, and Greer, begged her to reconsider; they tried to guilt her that as the oldest she should be responsible for taking care of them and their widowed father. She resisted, and in May, 1911, the day after she graduated a fully-fledged nurse from the demanding rigors of school and interning in the capital of her birth country, she packed a single leather bag, kissed her teary-eyed siblings goodbye, and hugged her angry but grieving father. Wiping away a swath of sad and frightened tears of her own, she boarded a crowded coach that would take her to Liverpool, England, where she would board a ship that would take her on a hard, long ocean voyage to the new world. Her seven-pound fare would be mitigated by performing nursing tasks for the shipboard doctor; she was able to pocket two pounds to help sustain her once she made it to her destination.

Elspeth waited two weeks for the Samaritan of the Seas to arrive at the dock. She rented a tiny attic room above a saloon and paid for her rent working as a waitress, dishwasher, and floor-scrubber. She was utterly relieved when the ship arrived and her place on it was confirmed. She hadn’t realized, however, that she couldn’t simply waltz merrily up the gangplank: the shipping lines in Europe were required to verify the desirability of the potential immigrant; otherwise, if said immigrant failed the Ellis Island inspection, the ship would not be reimbursed for returning the person to his or her country of origin. Elspeth found herself disinfected (enduring lingering hands on her breasts and buttocks), vaccinated, and interrogated:

Have you ever been in prison? (Are ye daft, man? Of course not!)

What is your profession? (Nurse. And a fine one, too.)

Are you married? (No.)

Do you have any children? (Didna I just say I wasna married? No!)

How old are you? (Twenty, birth date April 30, 1891, the very day that the An Comunn Gàidhealach was founded in Oban. A grand day that was, and …)

Have you ever had any diseases of the body or mind? (Certainly not! I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug, ye suggest other! Doan tell me ta keep the heid!)

Where did you last live? (Dundee, Scotland, the finest seaport town on the North Sea.)

What are your plans for your new life? (Acquire a position in a hospital. Administer to the poor and infirm.)

The dozens of questions and answers were logged in a manifest, which would be scrutinized by the American authorities to determine whether or not a person should be granted admittance to the country.

To say that the ocean voyage was long and hard would be minimizing the experience: the ship was on its last legs. It carried one thousand, one hundred and thirteen souls, four hundred more than it was built for. The cramped, six-by-five-foot steerage room with only two narrow bunk beds that Elspeth shared with three other young women was stark, cold, noisy (from its proximity to the engine room), and damp. The food was barely edible on good days; on bad, it was beyond unpalatable. The toilets didn’t always flush properly, leaving a permanent aroma of feces and urine wafting through the stagnant air and mixing with the rank smell of vomit, rotting food, and unwashed bodies. Only on calm sea days were the steerage passengers allowed up to their own outside deck for a rare breath of fresh, salty air, and a taste of the freedom they hoped to enjoy once they reached their destination. She worked fifteen-hour days helping to minister to the steady stream of seasick and otherwise ill passengers, and fending off the unwelcome advances of the old doctor who had apparently thought that her duties including seeing to his carnal needs. He backed off halfway through the voyage when she thrust under his chin a sharp knife that her father had given her as a parting gift, and made it clear in her heavy burr that if he persisted, he would disembark from the ship minus two very critical body parts previously located south of his belly button.

The trip took twelve hellish days instead of five, much longer than originally anticipated due to mechanical problems with the engine and the propulsion units. By the time that the ship had passed the halfway mark on its voyage eight people in steerage had died; they were buried at sea; i.e., unceremoniously tossed overboard. Dozens of the lower-class guests were ill by the time that they reached the United States to begin the much-anticipated yet often frustrating voyage through Ellis Island, the front door to a new life. Still, as the ship entered New York Harbor and began chugging its way up the Hudson to the Chelsea Piers, the railings were lined five-deep with people staring out at the beautiful Statue of Liberty, a symbol of new life, and new hope. The lady with the torch was what kept most of them going, including Elspeth. Still, she couldn’t suppress a shiver of apprehension as she stared and evaluated the island and buildings and the men within that would determine her future. As the ship approached the island, she suppressed a shiver at the smoke curling up from the chimneys of what she would later learn was the crematory, where many unfortunate pilgrims met their final fate as soot and ash.

Originally only three and half acres in size, Ellis Island was named Oyster Island by the seventeenth-century Dutch settlers in deference to the vast oyster beds surrounding the sandy stretch. The name didn’t last long; when the British overtook New York (previously New Amsterdam), they renamed it Gull Island. In the mid-eighteenth century the island was a spot where pirates were hanged. New Yorker Samuel Ellis bought the island in 1785 and gave it the name it carries to this day. His descendents sold the island to the Unites States government in 1808, and a fort was promptly erected; the Navy used the island as an ammunition depot after the Civil War.

Close to the advent of the twentieth century, the government realized that the volume of immigrants washing into the country could not be managed by the small entry station at Castle Island, located on the tip of Manhattan. Ellis Island was selected as the new entry port, and in 1892 the three and a half acres were expanded to twenty-seven using sand taken from the excavation of the city’s new subway system, as well as from ships that carried sand in their holds. The new immigration center boasted thirty-five buildings and a hospital. The hospital, the quarantine units, and the crematory rested on an attachment to Ellis Island, called Hoffman Island. A second man-made island, Swinburne, was also used for the purpose of containing immigrants whose health might prove a threat: cholera pandemics were a real threat in the nineteenth century. The crematory, an L-shaped building, rested at the southwest corner of the island, detached from the quarantine wards. Some of the iron ovens were built directly into the walls; some were bordered by carefully laid incongruously decorative brick.

By the first decade of the twentieth century the location, buildings, procedures, and personnel were in place to handle the flood of immigrants seeking a new life. That’s not to say that the structure was anything but cumbersome, frustrating, and rife with corruption and failed practices. The United States was still a very young country, with a wide expanse for population growth, but the government wanted to ensure that those new citizens entering the land of sidewalks paved with gold would add to the culture and not take away scant resources.

Those newcomers with education and sought-after job skills were less likely to have an issue passing the inspections and interrogations, and would more easily find themselves on a boat to Manhattan. Elspeth McMorgan was certainly one of these people, yet she had to endure the same rigorous vetting. The Ellis Island medical staff boarded the ship and began the time-consuming evaluation of the health of the passengers; over one hundred people were relegated to quarantine. Elspeth found herself one of the first steerage guests evaluated because of her work aboard the vessel, and the quavering vouching of the doctor under which she had served. The first- and second-class passengers were attended to first and far less rigorously than their steerage compatriots.

Elspeth and her fellow steerage passengers were unloaded at Pier 54 at the Chelsea Piers. Those entering the United States for the first time were herded into large groups aboard barges and ferried downriver to Ellis Island for the next round of checks. People were tagged; many thought they looked like items for sale in a store. She found herself in a surge of people ushered to the Registry Room, and thought that she had never heard such an ear-busting cacophony of voices speaking and yelling and sobbing in dozens of different languages. She recognized French, and Italian, and German, but nothing else. She waited five hours for her name to be called out, and nearly missed the demand because of the noise around her.

She nearly bit through her lip trying to stay calm and not refuse orders when she was told to strip down to her undergarments. A man with calloused hands roughly examined her head for lice, and then her skin for any bruises or signs of disease. She was relieved when her medical card was stamped Passed. She was shoved away towards the next examination, the mental and legal one. After another two hours she found herself sitting in a tiny booth with a scowling old man who looked like he hated the world. He scanned her information and his face softened; he said that his father had emigrated from Arbroath, the town next over from Dundee. She smiled tentatively and said her uncle married a woman from that town, a McGregor. He nodded wordlessly, and the scowl returned as he began interrogating her with questions designed to determine her mental capacity. She was able to answer the mathematics questions easily; it was one of her best subjects in school, and adding two plus two wasn’t exactly taxing her intellect. He made her fit together puzzle pieces, and respond to queries about which picture items belonged to the same group.

He queried her on how much money she had with her: destitute, penniless immigrants were not high on the approved list. She showed him her money belt stash of twenty-six pounds; he seemed satisfied and reminded her to change them for American money at the Ellis Island Money Exchange. He appropriated one pound; his eyes were averted. She assumed it was a required gratuity for his examination services. He asked her about job prospects, and she eagerly whipped out a letter from a Catholic hospital in the city that had promised her a nursing job. He seemed satisfied that he wouldn’t be unleashing a deadbeat on his beloved city. The examination took a half hour, and she passed. She fought back tears of joy when he handed her a landing card and directed her towards the area where the ferries were waiting. She picked up her bag and extended her hand. He stared at it for a moment, then rose and shook her hand.

Elspeth held her head high and said, Slàinte mhòr agus a h-uile beannachd duibh. Great health and every good blessing to you.

He responded with, Beannachd Dia dhuit. Blessings of God be with you. He returned the pound he had taken.

Elspeth descended a long staircase and found the Money Exchange. The lines were long and packed, but she waited patiently. She heard constant muttering as people left the moneychangers; many felt that they had been shortchanged deliberately. If so, there was no recourse. She finally got her turn and withdrew twenty pounds from her money belt, keeping behind her six other pounds, just in case. She received ninety-nine dollars and thirty-six cents for her stash. She thanked the man politely and asked him where she should go. He asked her if she was bound for New York or someplace else. New York, she replied. He directed her towards the staircase for the New York Room; there was one other room, the Railroad Room (at the end of its own staircase), where people who were dispersing to places other than the city could purchase tickets and find themselves on trains to their ultimate destinations. A third staircase led to the ferries that would take people off Ellis Island and towards their uncertain destinies.

Elspeth spent an hour waiting in the New York Room for permission to go to the ferry. She witnessed tender scenes of waiting families that eagerly embraced their newly arrived relatives; the most heartrending of these scenes were the ones where fathers gathered their children up in their arms and cried in joy. One of her fellow immigrants pointed out a post near which many people were swarming and greeting one another. He told her that this was known as the Kissing Post, because that was where many husbands and wives long separated embraced and drank in the happiness of reunion.

She finally reached the ferry landing and waited to board. An antsy young man standing next to her asked her how much money she had exchanged; when she told him, he shook his head in disgust and said that the moneychanger had gypped her out of five American dollars. Him, too. He introduced himself as Giuseppe Manzoni from the small Sicilian town of Nicosia. He was on his way to reunite with his wife, Lucia, and newborn baby son, Alfredo, and was anxious to start his new life far away from the salt mines where he had worked since he was ten years old. They and a hundred other immigrants were crammed onto a small ferry that left Ellis Island near midnight. The ferry disgorged its many passengers at the Manhattan dock. Many had family or friends waiting for them; many looked bereft as they tried to figure out where to go. Elspeth pulled out a small hand-written map of the area with an X marked on a section north of the Battery. Hell’s Kitchen, a bastion of mostly Irish people, also had a small Scottish enclave, and that was where she was headed. Her first cousin, Rose-Marie, the daughter of her late Irish mother’s sister, Aislinn Maher, had immigrated to America five years earlier and was willing to host Elspeth until she could get on her feet.

She had no real comprehension of the distance, and whether she could walk it, but from her initial viewpoint New York City was immense.

Immense, and frightening, yet absolutely dazzling. Even after midnight the streets were alive with people and horses and noise––and dozens of new, shiny, noisy Model-T automobiles, of which Elspeth had seen only a very few back in Dundee and Edinburgh. She had heard––but didn’t wholly believe––that assembly line workers were making a princely two dollars and fifty cents per day for their work, a salary of which she could only dream. As she walked in the general direction of the address on the paper––the corner of 9th Avenue and West 50th Street––she had to force herself to remain calm and focused. She was frightened, and not for the first time she wondered whether she should have listened to her family’s entreaties to stay at home. An old man with a horse carriage pulled up beside her and said he’d take her wherever she needed to go for ten cents. She agreed, and he helped her up on the buckboard. The man knew where he was going, and after thirty minutes he dropped her off at the address, doffed his hat, and wished little miss well and Godspeed.

It was nearly five in the morning, and the eastern sky was lightening. A milkman was slowly wending his wagon down the street, stopping at each house to deliver bottles of milk and cream. The ice man was right behind him, stopping less frequently. Several dogs were barking, and a cat had knocked over a garbage can and was exploring the contents, looking for breakfast. Elspeth stared at the six-story brick tenement that housed the boardinghouse. It looked forbidding. She steeled herself and walked up the short stoop and knocked on the door. No one answered. She knocked again, and a minute later a stern-looking, tall, middle-aged woman opened it and frowned at her. Elspeth introduced herself and held out the letter from her American cousin, inviting her to stay at the boarding house until she found another place or got married. The woman pursed her lips and told Elspeth that her reprobate, slutty cousin was no longer resident: she had moved in with her gentleman friend to purportedly live in sin. Elspeth was shocked, but relieved when the woman––who called herself Mrs. O’Conner––said that the cousin’s room was available for two dollars per month, one month payable in advance. Elspeth had the wherewithal to negotiate; hell, she was a Scotswoman, after all. They settled on one dollar and fifty cents. Elspeth handed over one dollar and two quarters. The woman said nothing, pocketed the coins, then turned and led an exhausted Elspeth up three flights of stairs to a door that had seen better days. She handed Elspeth the key wordlessly and left.

Elspeth took a deep breath, thought, How bad can it be? and entered. Then she knew how bad it could be. Ten-feet-by-ten, the room smelled sour, had peeling paint on every wall, a single stained sink, a tiny round table with one chair, and a flat, lumpy mattress on the floor. There were rat droppings in every corner. She burst into tears. She carefully draped her coat over the chair, then picked up a semi-decent towel from the floor, wet it in the sink, and washed a large patch of floor. She curled up on the floor under her coat, tightly gripping her knife in her hand, just as the sun burst through the shade-less window to usher in the first day of her new life. She cried herself to sleep.

That first night was the worst as she found that she did indeed have a job at the hospital at a low but acceptable wage. Her six ten-hour days left her time to acclimate to the neighborhood and the people around her. She met quite a few nice Scots and Irishmen and women. She found a nearby Catholic church and attended mass every Sunday. She found a store that sold reasonably priced vegetables and staples. She bought a new mattress and a pillow. She cleaned her tiny room and made it a home. She wrote a letter to her family every week, skipping over the bad parts of her new world and concentrating on the ones that had promise. From her experience at Ellis Island and her first month in New York, she thought that she had made a terrible mistake; after six months, she was in love with her new life and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of that life serving her patients and, hopefully, marrying and raising a family with many children.

That was before April 4, 1912. On that day her life changed.

And on April 11, 1912, she boarded the Carpathia, along with seven hundred other passengers. Shortly after noon the ship set sail for Fiume in Austria-Hungary. Among its luminary passengers was the American painter Colin Campbell Cooper, journalists Lewis Palmer Skidmore and Carlos Fayette Hurd, and photographer Francis Blackmarr. Needless to say, they were not confined to steerage as Elspeth was. She had no plans to stay in Austria-Hungary; the Carpathia was simply the first ship out to Europe that she could catch and afford. She wasn’t going to go home in failure. Venice was a bustling port city in Italy, approximately one hundred miles away from Fiume: it was there that she planned to find a nursing position and make a second attempt at a new life. It would never have occurred to her––or to anyone on the ship, crew or passenger alike––that a centuries-old iceberg would change her fate, and the fate of thousands of other people.

The Carpathia received several distress messages from the sinking Titanic; the earlier ones were missed by Harold Cottam, the wireless operator, because he was on the bridge. After receiving messages from Newfoundland stating that there was private traffic for the Titanic Cottam contacted the Titanic and received a distress signal in return. He immediately notified Carpathia’s captain, Arthur Henry Rostron, who ordered his ship to head at maximum speed towards the Titanic coordinates, around sixty miles away. Four hours later, the Carpathia reached the scene of the disaster, and the rescue operation of over seven hundred survivors began. The last survivor was boarded shortly before 9:00 AM on April 15th. Due to the unexpected humanitarian detour, depleted shipboard resources, and the additional passengers and weight, Rostron decided to forego his continued voyage to Austria-Hungary, and the Carpathia set sail back to New York. He had considered Halifax, but the ice fields between the Titanic and that port were too dangerous.

Despite her status as a steerage passenger, Elspeth, as a seasoned nurse, was conscripted to help administer to the cold, wet, sick, devastated survivors. The crew didn’t have to force her to help: she was a natural caregiver and spent the next twenty-four hours without sleep aiding the men, women, and children. They clawed at her with their hands and their eyes and their souls, and only her strength of character and purpose prevented her from breaking down and sobbing into a puddle of uselessness. She fainted twice from lack of sleep and food, but roused and continued her efforts. She managed two hours of sleep after a full day before she awakened and resumed her ministering. She became emotionally close to many of the survivors, especially to those frail women carrying babies or young children that were now most likely half-orphaned.

One of those frail young women, a petite, fragile teenager named Meredith Baron, clasped her three-week-old baby son, Hayden, in her arms and cried for most of the voyage back to New York. She and her husband, a promising young architect named Jeremy, were traveling home to Philadelphia from an assignment he had building a palatial home in the English countryside for a distant relative. The trip home on the Titanic was a first-anniversary celebration that now turned into a lifetime of mourning. Fortunately, Meredith came from a prominent family and had the resources to build a life and raise her son. In between babbling incoherently about her husband and the sinking, her incessant crying, and her cuddling of her tiny son, Meredith found solace in Elspeth’s presence and life story. By the time the Carpathia reached New York and docked at 9:30 AM at Pier 54 on April 18, 1912, Meredith had extracted a reluctant promise from Elspeth to accompany her to Philadelphia on the train that was sent by Titanic relatives to return those survivors to the City of Brotherly Love. The second Vice President of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, John Thayer, and his wife were on the Titanic; he died, but she survived. Their prominence was no doubt a large part of the reason for the special travel arrangements.

Elspeth considered her promise with a mixture of fear and hope. She loved her new country and hated to leave it. Now, she had a second chance in a new city, and perhaps the past could be put to rest and she could find a new life there. It was unlikely that anyone would care enough to come looking for her. But if so, well, then, there were other ships that would sail back to Europe. Venice would always be there. Scotland would always be there.

Elspeth and her fellow passengers were unloaded at Pier 54 after the Carpathia dropped off the Titanic’s lifeboats at Pier 59 (the doomed vessel’s original destination); thousands of people were on the docks waiting to greet them. She was relieved when among the swarms of people on the docks was a tall, middle-aged man in a top hat and natty suit. Meredith saw him and became excited and yelled and waved until the man recognized her and shoved his way to the head of the swarm. He barely gave Elspeth a glance as he ushered Meredith away from the reporters and nosey looky-loos. Meredith turned to Elspeth and introduced the man as Samuel C. Cutler, her father’s solicitor. The man didn’t even bother to acknowledge the introduction and instead pushed forward until he reached a coach and practically shoved the two young women inside. The coach took them to a small hotel on the Upper East Side. Cutler had reserved two rooms in which to wait until the train could gather all of its passengers and head off to Philadelphia. He hadn’t anticipated Elspeth’s presence, but Meredith demanded that she share Meredith’s room. Cutler agreed, but clearly wasn’t happy about the presence of the lower-class woman about whom he knew nothing.

Elspeth helped Meredith bathe herself and the baby, and did the best she could with a sponge bath. She bound her long hair up into a tight top bun. Her clothes were ruined; she was badly bruised, thin, all of her fingernails were broken, and she had a distinctly haunted look to her oval face. She forced herself to eat the sumptuous meal that Cutler had ordered for the women. A set of stylish new clothes was delivered for Meredith; Elspeth felt grungy and somewhat embarrassed by her appearance, but there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was to hold her head high and know that she had made a difference to many people who were suffering.

Elspeth curled up in a plump, comfortable chair and cuddled the baby while Meredith slept. Cutler entered the room silently while all three dozed; she was unaware of his silent scrutiny. After several hours he roused them and they descended to the hotel lobby where a few reporters had sniffed them out. Cutler barked angrily at the men and ushered the women into the coach, which took them to the train. The train station was crowded with survivors, family members, reporters, and curious onlookers. Cutler had reserved a private coach, so the two women, one baby, and one dour man traveled in comfort as the train chugged towards Philadelphia. The train arrived to a circus of the same types of people that assaulted the survivors in New York. Reporters abounded and pressed and yelled and shoved. Elspeth felt a keen sense of disgust at their lack of compassion.

She followed on Cutler’s heels as he pushed through the throngs with Meredith and her baby. Her knuckles were bloodless as she tightened her grip on the pathetic bag she had carried on her journey, a bag that was now essentially empty since she had given her clothes away to desperate survivors. All she truly had were the clothes on her back. She peered around Cutler as they exited the train station. A stream of coaches was waiting for passengers, and Cutler made for an elegant, black-lacquered, monogrammed one with two matching black horses near the head of the line. As Elspeth rushed to keep up with his pace she dropped her bag and fell back. Someone tried to grab it but she held on and then, suddenly, the thief was felled by a sharp right cross to his jaw. The man scrambled to his feet and ran away.

The young man who had stopped the theft picked up the bag and handed it to Elspeth. He smiled at her and tipped his hat. She nodded tersely without speaking and took her bag. She turned to see an impatient Cutler waving her over to the coach. She thought better of her manners and turned back to the young man. She took in his salient points: tall, well over six feet, slender but not thin, dark, curly sable hair that fell to his shoulders, hazel eyes. Handsome. Dangerous. Her breath caught; she didn’t know why.

She nodded deeply. Thank you, sir.

He grinned. You’re welcome, Miss … He let the last word hang as a question.

Elspeth thought fast. Morton.

Miss Morton. Is there a first name?

Elspeth scowled at him. "Yes, sir. I was given one at birth. Do you have a name, sir?"

He bowed deeply. "Steve Danziger, of the Philadelphia Brotherly News."

Och, a reporter, she stated in her most disparaging tone.

Someone has to write the news.

Aye. I expect with all the gravedigger, rag picker, and garbage collector jobs taken, such a one is the only option.

He put his hand on his heart theatrically. You wound me deeply with your lilting Scottish burr, Miss Morton. He found himself enthralled with the trilling of her r’s.

Such was my intent, Mr. Danziger. Good day.

She whirled around and ran over to the coach. Cutler took her bag and handed it to the driver, then clasped her elbow to help her up. She missed the slight smile he was trying to hide.

Sure you won’t tell me your first name, Miss Morton? I’ll bet it’s spectacularly beautiful, Danziger called out.

She stared back at him from the step of the coach. She relented. Ellie. She and Cutler then disappeared into the coach and the driver cracked his whip and pulled away as quickly as he could.

Danziger cocked his head and smiled as he put away his pad and pencil. Ellie Morton. I think I’d like to know you better, pretty Ellie Morton, despite your savagely cutting tongue. See you soon.

He walked back towards the hubbub whistling.

CHAPTER TWO

Your carriage awaits, milady. Danziger bowed deeply and doffed his cap as Elspeth frowned at his artifice. She had found over the last few months of his unusual courtship that he tended towards the dramatic, his antics punctuated with moments of genuine affection and seriousness. She had considered herself adept at separating reality from theatrics; she was, after all, a hardheaded, practical Scot. However, this man was not so easily interpreted, and certainly not very easily discouraged by her initial dismissal. She wouldn’t have put up with him except for the fact that with all of his faults and quirks he was intriguing.

She sighed heavily, her fists firmly stuffed into her sides as she scanned the street for said carriage. There were two horse-drawn carriages at the far eastern end, but they were headed away. She wordlessly raised a delicate red eyebrow at her earnest suitor.

Is it one of those fairy carriages, then, what appear and disappear with the fantastical whims of a feeble mind? she asked tartly.

Danziger grinned and pointed to her right. She turned around and found herself staring at a beautiful, shiny new Model-T Ford. The midnight blue shell with black fenders and brass offsets gleamed in the early evening sun. The four tires and the spare affixed to the driver’s side showed virtually no wear. The top was down, and the automobile was attracting a great deal of attention from passing adults as well as the ragamuffin street children that milled about the exterior of the Sacred Heart Hospital where Elspeth worked as a nurse. One brave young boy dared to touch the smooth rear fender, only to be run off by Danziger’s scowl and arm waving.

Did ye steal it? she asked too politely.

I most certainly did not, Danziger declared indignantly. I borrowed it from a friend. So, would you do me the honor of joining me for a ride on this splendid horseless carriage? He noticed a split second of hesitation that he intuited had nothing to do with his unexpected arrival and offer. You have ridden in one of these before, haven’t you?

Och, sure. Me dad has a fleet of them at our estate. Our servants spend the best part of their days polishing them to a high shine. She threw him a derogatory look she didn’t even bother to try to hide. Her cutting sarcasm hid her nervousness at what might very well be her first ride in one of these new-fangled modes of transportation. She had seen quite a few of these carriages back in Edinburgh and of course in the streets of New York and Philadelphia, but she hadn’t dared yet to dream that she’d actually ride in one. Nervous, but suddenly exhilarated with the anticipation and with … the man. The cheeky bastard knew how to make a girl feel special. But he still wasn’t getting into her knickers. Ah, well––it wouldn’t hurt to surrender to a bit of wildness every now and then. Her highland blood simmered.

Danziger could see her surrender. He grinned, bowed again, and opened the passenger door for her. She gave him her hand and he helped her up into the seat before he ran around the front and smoothly slid into the driver’s seat. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a wide, floppy-brimmed white bonnet. He handed it to her as he pulled his cap down more firmly over his brow. He waited until she pulled off her nurse’s cap and put on the bonnet, tying the ribbons securely, then he started the automobile. She studied the three pedals on the floor and the lever on the steering wheel. Danziger used his foot to hit the pedals as he started the vehicle and shifted it into low gear. He looked over at her.

It can go as fast as forty or forty-five miles per hour, he boasted. So you better hang onto your pretty new bonnet.

Don’t you dare go that fast, she admonished.

Well, I can’t in the city anyway, he replied, but when we go out to the country I’m gonna push it for all it’s worth.

Where are we going? Elspeth asked curiously.

You’ll see.

No, you’ll tell me now or you can take this drive by yourself. She turned towards her door and grasped the handle as if to open it. He reached over and took her hand away from the handle. He grinned at her and casually kissed her hand. She pulled it away. He was being too forward.

You’ll see, he repeated. Trust me. He shifted gears and threw a glance towards the door of the hospital where two nurses and three nuns were watching the Model-T tableau unfold. They all had unmistakably disapproving frowns on their plain faces. Perhaps it wasn’t seemly that a young unmarried woman would accept a very public engagement with a young unmarried man, but, hell, this was a different century and social mores were changing. And anyway it wasn’t anyone’s damn business what he or Elspeth did. Danziger pressed down on the fuel pedal and the Model-T started moving down the street at a brisk clip. He forced back a smile as he saw Elspeth out of the corner of his eye tightly grip the edge of the door. He could also sense a thread of excitement from his companion as he guided the vehicle through a series of tight city streets until their path opened up a little towards the western end of Philadelphia. He increased speed and the warm summer wind steamed past their cheeks as they rode together in quiet harmony.

Danziger drove into an elegant area of old trees and large lawns and very, very beautiful houses; a beautifully rendered painted sign welcomed them to Bryn Mawr. He knew she was in awe of the richness of the neighborhood and the people who lived there. So was he, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone. The township was somewhat at the center of what was known as Philadelphia’s Main Line, one of many affluent suburbs that defined the line between the haves and have-nots of the metropolitan area.

Up until the advent of the Pennsylvania Railroad, Bryn Mawr was known as Humphreysville. The railroad agent that acquired the nearly three hundred acres of land that comprised the township renamed it after an estate near Dolgellau in North Wales that belonged to Rowland Ellis, a Quaker who emigrated in 1686 to Pennsylvania from Dolgellau to escape religious persecution. The town was gaining a reputation not only for elegance, but for exclusivity; not just anyone dared to think they could move into the quiet, tasteful neighborhoods. Bryn Mawr College was well-respected as an institution of higher learning for women.

Danziger maneuvered the automobile over to one side of a tree-lined, manicured-lawn street. He sat for a moment without speaking, just staring at a house on the other side of the street. Elspeth sensed that he was engrossed in deep thought, and knew enough about men to not interrupt his meditation. After a long moment he turned to her and smiled, a smile half sad, half wistful. He waved his hand towards the house and she obliged his unspoken request and studied the house.

The house was magnificent, and reminded Elspeth of the Georgian architecture she had marveled at when she was attending nursing school in Edinburgh. It was a massive grey stone structure set back from the road by at least one hundred feet of lawn. Two stories, it had to be at least four thousand square feet inside. The front double doors, reached by a single carved stone of six wide steps were a crisp white, and were bordered by two white columns. On either side of the front doors were two tall, multi-paned windows bordered by white shutters; the second story had five such windows. There were three chimneys that were also grey stone, unlike most that were comprised of red brick. Two small dormers flanked the sides of the second story, their windows an intricate blend of colorful stained glass. There were two Grecian-looking statues standing to either side of the pathway that led from the street to the front door. Elspeth recognized one from an old history book: the Venus de Milo. She had no idea what the other one represented.

Elspeth caught a glimpse of another building at the rear of the main house; she assumed it would be a carriage house or stable, although it was likely that anyone rich enough to live in that magnificent abode would probably have an automobile. Maybe two. A half dozen tall, thick, old elm trees flanked the house, three on each side; hedges and bushes, cut to absolute precision, ran the full length of the house sides. The front had ornate flower beds of roses and tulips. Elspeth thought that if she lived there she would plant daffodils, her late mother’s favorite flower.

Danziger leaned close to her ear. It’s on five acres. There’s a small duck pond in the back, and a carriage house. The kitchen is huge. So’re the servants’ quarters. The fireplaces are all done with Italian marble tile.

She looked at him. How do you know?

I’ve been inside, he confessed in a very low tone.

You know the owners?

Nein. I mean, no.

Then how did you get inside?

He brushed her ear with his warm lips. I broke in.

Elspeth started at him in disbelief, her moist red lips parted ever so slightly. You lie.

Most of the time, but not in this instance. Do you want to hear something else that’s not a lie?

How would I know the difference? she asked icily.

Danziger grasped her chin in his strong hand. She didn’t pull away, just stared into his roiling hazel eyes, waiting. You’ll always know the difference, my sweet Scottish kelpie. He had dubbed her that mythological name when he learned that she was not exactly Ellie Morton; kelpies were water spirits that could assume different shapes and identities. She had retaliated by dubbing him Thor, the Germanic god of thunder. She made a point of calling him by that name whenever his suppressed eastern Germany accent popped out; unlike Elspeth, he sought to distance himself from the country of his origins.

So tell me something that isn’t a lie, Elspeth lilted out defiantly as she wrenched her chin away from his strong but oddly gentle grip. She thought that the wide, slow grin that spread across his handsome features was akin to something the devil might flash at a soul in danger of surrendering to the dark side.

He looked over at the house, then at her. We’re going to live there someday.

Elspeth laughed unaffectedly.

He went on. We’ll raise our sons and daughters there. Servants. Tutors. Music lessons. The very best that this country paved with gold has to offer.

Elspeth wiped the tears away from her amused eyes. She impulsively reached out and touched his cheek, feeling the smooth skin; she knew he shaved at least twice per day. He was the cleanest man she had ever known. Considering the lack of hygiene that far too many of the young men with whom she’d grown up possessed, that was a definite point in his favor.

You’re being presumptuous, laddie, she said softly. Och. You haven’t even asked my permission to kiss me yet. She had barely gotten the last word out when he swept her up in his arms and kissed her deep and long, ignoring the initial protests from the back of her throat and her strong arms as she sought to push him away. When he pulled back he saw genuine rage in her eyes. He didn’t have time to figure out why when she cracked him a solid blow across his neatly shaved face and threw herself out of the automobile.

She began storming away with long strides down the street. Danziger rubbed his sore, red cheek and hurried after her. He heard her muttering curses under her breath, curses not particularly complimentary to his recent ancestors or to his prospective descendants. He called out to her; she ignored him. He threw a glance back at the waiting automobile, then emitted a very creative curse in German and ran back to the vehicle. He started it up and drove down the street towards his annoyed companion, who by now was a good quarter mile away. Her back was ramrod straight, and her long arms swung rhythmically back and forth as she stalked rather than walked. He admired the way her long skirt swished around her ankles, occasionally flashing a glimpse of her high, well-rounded butt. Her concealing nurse’s garments hid her feminine assets quite well, but even the heavy skirt, blouse, cross vest and large white cap (now replaced with the bonnet) couldn’t totally hide her charms and the promise of what they could hold for just the right man. He planned on being that man.

"Ellie! Ellie! Elspeth!" he called loudly as he carefully maneuvered the automobile close by the woman bent on ignoring