Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 12. Chapter 12: The Beau of the Ball

Chapter 12: The Beau of the Ball

The night of the Veiled Prophet dance, dear readers, and see the stately edifice of the Exchange lit from every one of its hundreds of windows. Grand carriages pull up, and elegantly dressed humanity pours in via splendid steps and porticos.

Inside, the music sways into being while the crowds of handsome and wealthy people effortlessly assert their social order is high with pride and self-congratulatory cheer.

And who of Saint Louis' Belles and Beaux not already alluded to might be seen tonight? Who of those holding back along the perimeter of the waltzing swirl until the Prophet and his entourage arrive?

One Beau easily encountered is the 'Business Youth.' His "Pap" may never have been a member of the Exchange, but by God – and by hard labor and cunning acumen – he'll make sure his son can be accepted as born to his status.

The Business Youth is brash and ambitious. And why not? This nation's prosperity is built on such men. Except owing for the certain 'hunger in his eyes,' his deportment and manner of dress differs not substantially from the Dawdy Dandie, if a bit modified and tactful.

His hunger also seems to inform his regular, non-ball haunts. If you seek him of an afternoon, you are likely to meet him lunching ostentatiously at Tony Faust's rooftop establishment in fine weather, or at the Planter's Oyster House in rain and hail. Never one to miss business opportunities, he might follow up his midday meal by visiting the galleries of the Federal Courthouse to hobnob with other well-to-do ne'er-do-wells.

And of the Belles tonight bravely sporting their delicate yellow and peach silks? One that will draw our attention by her brusque loudness is the 'Dashing Belle.'

In stark contrast to the haughty Society Belles coyly flapping their grins from behind Spanish fans, the Dashing girls are hoydenish tomboys. She is apt to be a young lady brought up with a lot of brothers and male cousins, and whose mama was not of the overly cautious variety. She climbed trees and jumped fences with all the boys, and consequently can now skate, swim, row, and ride bareback as well as any of her 'lads.' Even here, on the dance floor of the nation's grandest high society soirée, she invariably refers to herself as one of the 'fellows' and doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. She'd rather be in her normal haunt, delightfully tilting back in her chair, with a cigarette between her pretty lips, exclaiming "By Jove, Tom!" and "The Duce with you, Dick," or "You're a terribly jolly fellow, Harry." On such evenings at the tavern she only knows her companions by their Christian names, and speaks knowingly about betting horses, and how silly all the tittle-tattle occupying the majority of her sex is.

She is an undisputed favorite with the opposite sex, but her admirers are a little shy of making love. She has a way of squelching a genuinely amorous approach by laughing at the boy and calling out his 'mooning' in satirical tones.

If in our tour we leave the crushed young men with the Dashing Belle, a peal of laughter will lead us to another example of Society's fairest creature – the 'Gushing Belle.'

She may be found at any and all Society functions, and is readily identifiable by her frequent exclamations of "Divine!" "Perfectly exquisite!" and "Too, too heavenly!"

On this night, see three young men in a row; three Gushing Belles entrapping them. Casual eavesdropping will reward in this fashion: "General Sherman's new residence is perfect LOVE!" A second: "I do know of the Waterside Terrier, and think they are example par excellence!" A third, overhearing the second and wishing to do one better on her rival, interjects: "Oh, I simply adore short-tailed dogs!"

Besides their proclivities to scream at even the slightest provocation – a junebug in the folds of her garment will make her apoplectic – these tender plants have a definite appeal to the opposite sex. So much so that when not in a state of exclamatory agitation, they are always 'So charmed' and 'So delighted' over everything their attending gallants have to say, the poor fellows are lulled into temporary imbecility. More often than not they find themselves bound in the silken fetters of matrimonial engagement before they even have half their wits restored.

And so, dear readers, we have come to the conclusion of our survey of Saint Louis' fair Belles and Beaux, however, some of the happiest couplings to be seen in the Exchange this glorious night are not composed of those vying for the flighty affections of the opposite sex. On the dance floor, or milling about in easy conversation, these couples will arguably be the most content in society with themselves, as all well-rounded people are, for if not with the self, then never with those of the outside world.[1]

˚˚˚˚˚

"Cheers, Mr. Jordan. Here's to Barr's triumphal success!"

The men clinked champagne bowls and drank.

Auditory sensations dominated Monk's impressions: lilting music from out in front of them; swirling sounds as ladies in their silk crinolines and charmeuses were guided about the dance floor by elegant men in black evening dress; and another, more nearby sound. From where they stood in the center of the room, a twenty-foot-tall fountain gently gurgled a continuous curtain of water. It emerged from the top as a single vigorous jet and then spilled down the sides of a central core to a collecting bowl. From there, a smooth sheet of sound and motion carried it lower, into a large basin to be recycled.

In Monk's mind, the shimmering noise it made could be perceived in two ways – either as meditative, or something geared to keep one on edge. It depended on the person's outlook, and right now, considering what they were planning tonight, the soft drone seemed anything but comforting.

"Thank you, Mr. McDonough. Your recent articles on the store have been a boon. Our advertising department has been busy with holiday material, and a string of ads for the Globe. Our prospects look as promising as the those of the Future Great herself."[2]

"Well, cheers then to our continued accomplishments."

"I'll drink to that."

Clink!

The trading floor of the Exchange was dressed in all of her finery, as was only fitting, for her distinguished guests were arrayed in their own. Silk banners, trooping all the Colors of the various members of the VP Organization, stuck out on flagpoles between the balustrade encircling the hall's upper tier. The electric lights glowed in clusters, casting a warm presence over all.

From where they stood near the fountain, the dance floor occupied a place of honor in the third of the room in front of them. To their left, on the other side of the crowd and water feature, the Veiled Prophet, his costumed retinue – whom Monk knew included Police Chief Grubb – and the long double line of this year's debutants sat on the dais. All the young ladies were openly competing to be chosen Belle of the Ball and named His consort, so they casually shot daggers at their rivals. The black walnut rostrum upon which they were seated was about five feet elevated above the rest of the assembled, while directly behind the Prophet rose the impressive structure of the stock board itself. Pillared and pilastered in the same Missouri walnut, a central curved pediment at the top rooved an illuminated clock. Its glowing face and gracile black hands pointed out the magical hour of the ball from between four carved Atlases.

To Monk and Jordan's right, again on the other side of the moving crowds, were refreshment stations. These were housed in the Exchange's filing clerks' areas: standing-height counters, more extensive than any bar in the city, and situated symmetrically on either side of the main entry. The one closest to their position served liquid refreshment. Waiters filled patrons' drinking bowls, and also opened new bottles to douse waiting trays of empty glasses for footmen to take around the crowd. A massive round table stood in the center of the open area behind the counter. Here a hundred or more double magnums of Cook's Imperial Extra Dry Champagne were stacked in a ten-foot-high pyramid. Monk knew by the end of the night, everyone of them would be un-stacked, uncorked and left dry as a bone by the Veiled Prophet's guests.

On the opposite side of the main portal – which itself was a pair of paneled black walnut doors, twenty-foot high, six-inches thick and supplied with ceremonial brass pulls the size of cantaloupes – the clerks' station was divided in two. The one nearest the door was outfitted with three silver sorbetières, proportioned like parlour stoves, and making a pleasant sound. Uniformed men operated cranks, turning the spotless barrels over ice and salt, producing gallons of apple, cranberry, and pineapple water ice at a time. Others at the front of the counter dished it up to weary gentlemen and ladies fresh from the dance floor.

A satin glass partition separated them from their neighboring refreshments. Here enterprising young men brought their wares up front. In the two corners and center position of their counter space, they had arranged tables the same height. Long-armed epergnes graciously held up crystal plates of the pastry chef's finest, bite-sized art: stacks of chocolate-coated petit four, each decorated in code to alert server and consumer alike what flavor was contained within; genoise fancies, Italian sponge cake morsels – cut and rolled in chopped almonds on the sides to keep gloved fingers from becoming soiled – were iced pink on top with halved cherries and diamonds of translucent-green angelica; piped meringue mounds surmounted crenulated shortbread bases, and were double dipped in chocolate and raspberry fondant; petits choux and cream horns were enrobed in ganache or dusted with powdered sugar; oval tartlets had fillings of cherry puree and icing; and apricotines, buttons of macrons glued together with apricot jam and dusted lightly with cocoa, awaited selection.[3]

Many more varieties stood by. They were stacked on a pyramid of tiers topping the central table behind the counters.

Handsome young men – the bakers themselves – refilled the offerings as guests pursued and chose. All of the servers were dressed as elegant footmen: white gloves, black vests and ties, hunter green trousers and cutaway tails. Upon the chest of each boy, right over his heart where his monkey suit came together, goldthread embroidery showed the proud heraldry of the VP's personal shield.

At the back table, more young men arranged pastry on silver salvers, and one of these took it up to wend his way amongst the crowd.

Monk McDonough and Jacob Jordan afforded the opportunity of an offering waiter and exchanged empty champagne glasses for full ones.

After they sipped, the reporter watched the minute bubbles burst across the surface, and waxed: "Mr. Cook has worked wonders. He's taken the French and Spanish winemaking tradition resident here for a hundred and twenty years and perfected it to the point that now his Imperial is imported back to France and Spain!"

"Yes," Jordan agreed, "it probably helped that his champagne received honorable mentions at the Paris World's Fair of 1867."

"No doubt, sir. No doubt." The correspondent smiled warmly at the old gentleman's tactful stating of the self-evident.[4]

"Pastry, sirs?" A fine-looking young waiter had arrived.

Monk grinned at his cousin Felix. "Will you have one, Mr. Jordan?"

"Certainly."

"We have on this tray," explained Felix dutifully, "petits four sec – which are almond macarons with candy dragées, cream biscuits with pistachio filling, or black walnut florentines."

Jordan selected one of the nut-based lace cookies, which had been rolled up attractively like a cigarette. "Thank you, lad."

"Sir?" Felix asked Monk with a barely concealed grin.

"I'll try a macaroon. Thank you."

With a "You're welcome," the boy moved along to the next set of people watching the festivities.

With the tense rumble from the fountain in his ears, Monk's vision drifted up to the Exchange's grand clock face. Jordan nearly startled him when he spoke.

"Wonderful thing."

"What is, sir?" He saw the Barr man had yet to take a bite.

"How happy the lads from the House of Refuge look. This effort of Miss Waverly's will prove to be a success."

"We can only hope so." After the reporter had said it, he hoped his tone had not sounded too arch.

Once they enjoyed their sweets, and washed it down with some of Cook's driest, Monk gestured with his head up to the dais. "I wonder who could be under the Prophet's flowing white beard, veil and golden helmet this year."

Jordan nearly chocked on his sip. After a moment, he regained his composure and said, "All I can say is the 'actor' is already firmly ensconced in a Persian accent for the night, and it's one he's been practicing for a fortnight."

A small wave of applause drew the men's attention to the front door.

Charles Slayback had just entered escorting the Democratic nominee for president, along with the candidate's wife. They stood shaking hands with people, and the VP organizer caught Jordan's eye, gesturing for him to come over.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Monk. I see Barr's duties call."

"Certainly, by all means."

The reporter watched the scene for a while: the pressing of hands after the introduction of Jordan to Winfield Scott Hancock and his missus, and then the settled and businesslike discussion the three men instantly fell into.

Monk scanned the crowd to see where his cousin Felix had gotten to.

Someone slipped in next to him. He turned surprised eyes to find Miss Waverly.

"My, my," he said, admiring the full effect of her gown. "But you do look smashing."

"Thank you, however this year I had assistance from the Globe-Democrat."

Monk was astounded. "You mean you weren’t joking earlier?"

"No, no. As I recall, one helpful hint leading up to the ball said: 'News from Paris – apricot and salmon tints are fashionable this season."

"Well, on their own they might be appetizing, but not so delicious together."[5]

"Very droll, Mr. McDonough." Her tone left it clear she was applying her classroom-style of rebuke for a very non-funny thing indeed. "So there you have it."

Monk's attention had already shifted. His hand massaged his beard as his sight drifted up to the clock again.

Elizabeth touched his arm, saying in a low tone: "I hope the midnight train won't be delayed."

The reporter reassured her. "The Frisco Line is headquartered here at Union Depot. Their trains are never late departing."

"Oh. That's a relief to learn. And your correspondent friend in San Francisco…?"

"He will be expecting the boys in five days, and they are to telegram him from Sacramento with an exact arrival time. He'll go to Oakland to meet the train and take them into the city."

"Ah. Good." She suddenly appeared very serious. "I don’t know if we can pull it off."

"You've secreted their valise in the designated place?"

"Yes, Monk."

"And I've done my part at the train station. Things are on course."

"But still…" she glanced around nervously. "Your plan to – "

"Well, they can't very well sneak through the back door protected by guards, can they?"

"No. But to have them saunter through the front!"

"It's the only way, Elizabeth. Through the front door, like any other guest of the Veiled Prophet. Speaking of which, who will do their ties?"

"Why, they will; for each other."

"You taught them?"

"Yes. At the House of Refuge I had both of them practice, and you’d be proud to know I did it out in the open too. They'd all have to do it for one another tonight, and a monkey suit tie is the same as an evening clothes tie. The only difference is the color, so it all worked out."

"Did I ever tell you how clever you are, Miss Waverly?"

She chuckled. "And what makes you think, Mr. McDonough, a modern woman wants a pat on the head while being told how 'clever' she is?"

He shrugged, a vocal laugh escaping.

"Some day, Monk, a woman will be president. Maybe by 1980 the feat will be accomplished."

He took her hand. "I hold your prediction as sacrosanct, Elizabeth. But now, since it's still 1880, may I have the pleasure of this dance?"

"I…."

"What is it?"

"I'm worried about the boys. It feels like we can do more."

"The plan is afoot, Miss Waverly. All we can do, we've done. Now let's while away the hours till midnight as best we can."

She let herself be led out to the dance floor.

˚˚˚˚˚

About an hour after offering his cousin a treat, Felix Yeager paused with his empty tray and briefly watched Monk and Miss Waverly glide across the dance floor. They looked utterly transported.

Hampden came up to him with his own empty tray. "People love your apricot cookies, Felix."

Distracted, the older boy said, "Look at 'em. Dancing so free and easy. I envy 'em."

"Well, soon…."

He glanced at his partner. "You're right. Stay focused. We know what to do."

"Yes – "

"After changing, we'll have to look like we belong here."

That thought seemed to raise fear in the younger boy's heart; he jostled his tray.

Felix came in closer. "Remember Dantes in Dumas' story? Like him, stay calm, Hampy. We're almost free, just remember that, please."

Waverly and McDonough floated past their positions again. Hampden watched listlessly, murmuring: "That's what people in love do…."

Felix gripped his arm, directing his attention to the Exchange clock. "We've got another hour and a half."

The young men broke apart and casually tried to move back to the pastry refreshment station, avoiding eye contact with the pair of burly, uniformed policemen stationed at the front doors.

˚˚˚˚˚

After making their respective rounds of glad-handing around the entire ballroom, Jordan and Slayback bumped into one another near the fountain again.

"Mr. Slayback, congratulations on another successful round of VP festivities. My own granddaughter, before she was taken home for bed twenty minutes ago, told me how 'smashing' the parade was. You made her very happy, and naturally, the ball is more spectacular than ever."

"And accolades to you, sir. Barr's float was arguably this year's most beautiful, and I've been told what a triumph your store's open house has been."

Jordan laughed. "Two wonderful human beings, are we not, Mr. Slayback?"

He chuckled, politely. "Yes. I suppose you're right."

Jacob Jordan heard the lightheartedness leave him. He inhaled, saying, "Now that the move and the VP festivities are taken care of, I have one remaining task to accomplish."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"My mind will be taken up by thoughts of a spectacle rich enough to ensure Barr's first Christmas in our new home will be memorable." Inspiration hit him. "To that end, Mr. Slayback, might you have any ideas on the subject, seeing as you single-handedly came up with the VP concept."

"Not so single-handedly, Mr. Jordan. My brother Alonzo had much to do with it. But to answer your question in a different manner, I might advise you to keep in mind that one never can go wrong with a bit of wonder, pageantry and costumes."

A nascent idea seemed to lodge itself in the back of Jordan's consciousness, but it was soon pushed aside. "People do like masquerades, don’t they, sir."

"They do indeed."

"I read in the morning paper how there'll be a 'Grand Midnight Carnival' the at the Théâtre Comique, and another masque ball to commence at bewitching hour at the Opera House."

"Yes, sir. And one of my personally favored venues – The Apollo Theater and Beer Garden – will have what they term a 'Grand Bal Masque.' I shall be making my way there later."

"Fascinating."

"I'm afraid I cannot resist. The resident German Opera Company will be on hand to ensure the proceedings are suitable dramatic."

Jordan chuckled. "Positively Wagnerian, I suppose."

A wry smile speared on Slayback's face. "I most certainly hope so, sir."[6]

All joking aside, Jordan felt himself overtaken by a certain need. He gripped Slayback's hand and told him, "You and your brother have changed this city for the better, sir. Seldom do we get to say 'Thank You' to those responsible for helping define charity and celebration to a place, but on behalf of Saint Louis, I thank you, Charles Slayback."

At first, the man – this knight of the Exchange – deferred, but then returned Jordan's handshake in warmth, replying, "I accept your sentiments. I've worked so hard on it in my brother's memory, and in the sincere hopes that the rips in our city's fabric opened up by the General Strike can be healed."

"I believe you've gone a long way to achieving your goals."

"Only time will tell, sir. Only time will tell."

˚˚˚˚˚

An hour before the magic stroke of midnight, the Exchange clock tolled eleven slow, deliberate chimes.

Monk McDonough and Elizabeth Waverly came off of the dance floor, a bit winded, but obviously flush with the enjoyment of one another's company.

They headed to the sorbet station. Monk got a pineapple ice for her and a cranberry one for himself. As they ate, both found the other scrutinizing the officers stationed as sentinels at the doorway.

Monk's spoon clinked on the rim of his dish as he attempted to ask casually, "And where will the boys change?"

She pulled off 'casual' much better than he had. "In the room where the pastries are stored."

"Ah."

"In a few minutes I will have to go and retrieve the bag with their uniforms. It's best if the clothes are not discovered."

"Good thinking." He stepped in front of her, to block her open inspection of the cops.

"Yes," she joked, "I am a good thinker, and so are you."

"Part of the reason we mesh so well."

"Indeed."

Her hand landed affectionately on his chest and made him feel good.

Both started; Jacob Jordan was suddenly besides them. "Miss Waverly, and Mr. McDonough, so nice to see you again – and together, I see." A smile appeared on the old gentleman's visage.

Monk observed Elizabeth instantly stiffen with nervousness. "Mr. Jordan, I must apologize…. I must – "

"Why don’t you stay and chat with Mr. Jordan." Monk collected the sorbet dish and spoon from her hand. "Keep him – entertained – while I run and do that little errand you mentioned."

"Oh. Oh! Yes, you – and Mr. Jordan and I will have a lovely, chat."

The reporter slipped away barely containing his grin.

When she remembered her wits and restored attention to him, Jordan had a wily expression on his face. It would be rude to ask 'What?' but that's what she wanted to do.

"Mr. McDonough seemed…."

"Yes, Mr. Jordan?"

"Seemed, happy."

"Heee…. Yes. I suppose he does seem content. It's been quite a memorable night already."

The older gentleman sighed.

"Are you all right, Mr. Jordan. Is it too hot in here for you?"

"What…. Oh, no. I'm quite comfortable. I apologize. I seem to have a lot on my mind."

"Oh, I see," she said, failing to pay much attention to anything he said after. Instead, her eyes began to anxiously scan the crowd; it was as if she expected to see someone – or, some ones – she knew.

"I suppose…" Jordan elaborated "…I'm simply not making much progress in ascertaining a new and innovative 'hook' for Barr's first, glorious holiday season in the Julia Building."

Waverly nodded, but was silent.

"I believe I asked you already – "

"What?"

"If you had any notions on how we at the store might do something memorable, unique and durable for this and many Christmas seasons to come."

"Oh. Yes, you did mention it. Well, now that you bring it up – again – I do recall Crawford's had a memorable display last year. They arranged a parlour scene near the front entry, with a larger-than life mantelpiece. As if he were just interrupted, they had a cotton-batting Santa Claus filling the children's stockings."

Jordan's commercial pride was activated. "I can assure you, this year Barr's display windows alone will top all of Crawford's combined efforts of the last several years past."

Waverly returned to being distracted, and Jordan noticed.

She said, complacently: "Still, it was most charming. A majority of viewers, especially the children, would have told you it was magical. I know that's how I felt."

The department store man traced his companion's line of sight up to the Exchange's impressive clock. Just as he was glancing at it, his peevish thoughts about not being listened to were interrupted by an unmistakably jolly laugh. Seated front and center on the dais below the golden timepiece, was the golden-arrayed Veiled Prophet.

That small – dare he think 'simple' – notion implanted in the back of his head by Charles Slayback mingled flirtatiously with the one just sown by Elizabeth Waverly, and came together before his eyes like a vision.

He turned to the woman, gripping her gently by the lower arms to get her full attention. He tried to tamp down his excitement, asking, "A Santa, you say?"

"Yes. It looked so charming and lifelike."

He released her, becoming openly giddy. "Did it indeed?! Well. I have a fair notion of how we can trump that!"

"Mr. Jordan – are you…quite, all right?"

He realized he was staring at the VP again. He spun around to shake Miss Waverly's hand effusively. "My dear young lady, I have never been better in my long, long, entire life. And I have you to thank for it."

"You're…welcome…?"

The man let go and laughed as free and joyfully as any kid on Christmas morning.

˚˚˚˚˚

Out on the dance floor, the couples glided in easy arcs of unconcerned contentment; the orchestra played, and the Exchange's central fountain continued to offer a sound that could be interpreted as soothing or anxious, based on the mindset of the hearer.

Felix Yeager and Hampden Cox reemerged into the ballroom discreetly through a side door wearing white ties, and black tails and trousers. Monocles ornamented their vest fronts, in the same way handsome-but-fake moustaches decorated their upper lips and wigs concealed their prison haircuts. Within their attire, and with their hair slicked back as it was, they presented a more-than fair impersonation of a pair of Dawdy Dandies.

Silently, with intense trepidation, they moved through the crowd. The press of humanity lessened and an open area created itself when the Refuge boys came within sprinting distance of the front doors.

Just then, some Gushing Belle erupted into a scream.

One of the uniformed cops glanced at Hampden, and the adolescent boy locked up in fright.

It took Felix half a moment to sense his partner was no longer by his side. He turned, walked the two paces back to him, and in one fell motion grabbed the boy's hand. He continued to walk them away from the cop and didn't stop until he pulled him onto the dance floor.

"Felix, what are you doing?"

"Dance with me." Felix opened his arms and led.

Step by step, as they sailed in a beautiful arc from the door and its dangers, Felix felt the younger boy relax in his arms.

Once he knew his partner was calm and more relaxed, he said, "We can do this. We simply need to act like we belong here. Then nobody will 'see' us at all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Felix."

"But you are scared."

Hampden appeared like he didn't want to admit it, but he eventually nodded.

"I am too, Hampy, but – but, what happened to Dantes? Remember?"

Felix hoped getting Hampden to think outside of himself for a moment would help. Dumas' hero was as good a subject as any.

Hampy recited matter-of-factly: "He faked his death, got stitched up in a bag and tossed into the sea."

"Well," Felix chuckled. "I mean, he escaped. He was brave and did it. He set himself free."

"Oh."

"Thanks to the help of my cousin and Miss Waverly, we don't have to do any of that. All we have to do, Hampy, is walk out of here like we're nobody special."

"But Felix, we haven’t finished The Count of Monte Cristo yet. We don’t know if Dantes found his peace or not."

Felix gripped him tighter, holding the handsome boy's eyes just as tight. "But you believe in happily ever afters, don’t you?"

"Yes, Felix. When I'm in your arms, yes – I must believe in them, because I believe in you."

As the music played on, as the fountain sounds became more beneficent to both boys' ears, Hampden's determination grew into bravery.

"I'll do what I need to, Felix. I'll do it for your happiness; that's all I care about. You've already done so much to protect me, it's time for me to shine." He lifted a hand and placed it tenderly on the side of Felix's face – their eyes locked, their smiles rose – as their foreheads came together to touch while they continued to dance.

"Oh, Hampy, you've made me the Beau of the ball."

In another moment, Hamden stopped, took Felix's hand, and they strolled casually out the front door with the guards barely even noticing them.

Monk McDonough had watched the whole scene. When it started he'd just come back from stowing the boys' valise with their footman's uniforms in the cloakroom with his belongings. He returned to the Exchange's trading room floor just in time to see the boy's panic and Felix lead Hampy onto the dance floor.

'How two people in love look,' he had thought as he watched them dance, and then again as they exited hand in hand. In his mind's eye he watched them continue, through the palatial building, away from the warders and useless rich, out to the curb and a waiting taxi. In Felix's pocket was cab fare, a key Monk had provided for a locker in Union Depot where they'd discover two sack suits for traveling, and two one-way tickets for San Francisco – and freedom.

As he turned, he glimpsed the beautiful Miss Waverly gliding his way. 'How a person looks in love,' he thought, and allowed his smile to bloom, knowing exactly with whom his personal future lie.

In his head a verse appeared which applied equally to his cousin and his love as it did to Elizabeth and himself:

But to see her was to love her –
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly –
Never met, or never parted,
We'd now be but broken-hearted.[7]