The taller, clean-shaven one, Cabot, ducked his head to see out better, a shock of light hair flopping into one eye. “Yes. Extraordinarily beautiful.”
The young woman Kerry was watching them in the reflection of her own window.
“Actually”—the shorter man stroked his mustache—“I meant how extraordinary that Vanderbilt would build this grand château of his down here.”
The taller one, Cabot, kept his eyes on the landscape rushing past. “Then I wonder, Grant, what you’re seeing.”
“Isn’t it obvious? Log cabins tucked into the land with a trickle of stream running past. Whole mountainsides timbered down to stumps. Ribs on four legs—one presumes they are cattle—roaming loose through the forests. Have these people not been apprised of the invention of fences?”
“Yet it’s also breathtaking.”
“Smitten by fog, are you? And by land that buckles up as if it’s been left out too long in the rain?”
Both, Sal thought. Both of these men are right.
These mountains did look, in places, like they were sorrowing. Depleted. Like they were haunted, even. Yet also . . . incredibilmente belle.
“I will say this,” Grant added, “my efforts with wildlife preservation might very well be needed here. No bison remain in this region, of course, but undoubtedly other species may be endangered.”
As they rounded the next bend, up ahead to the right on a dirt road crossing the tracks, a farmer was hauling back on the reins of his buckboard. The ears of his mules flattened on their heads as they ignored the farmer’s commands and plunged forward.
The train’s whistle blasted again.
Sal held his breath.
Grant stepped toward the closest window. “One wonders what size impediment we might encounter without deterring our progress. A buck, certainly.”
Sal pictured a buck rotating high above a smokestack, then falling, lifeless, back to earth.
Not but a few yards away from the tracks now, the mules, crazed by the train whistle, were bolting ahead. The passengers in the first car gripped their seats.
Grant’s voice, unperturbed, came from behind. “I suspect we’d leave little but a flotsam of horseflesh and hickory boards and farmer.”
Cabot’s voice followed, louder and strained. “My God, Grant. Is this really nothing more than an intellectual question to you?”
But Grant, bending lower to watch, looked unfazed.
Standing, the farmer threw his whole weight against the reins. Just as the train thundered even with them, both mules reared back. The farmer collapsed onto the buckboard’s floor.
Silence as the passengers in the first car let out their breath.
“Perhaps,” Cabot said finally, “we should head back to the Swannanoa.”
Grant lowered his voice a notch. “Perhaps also, we should speak less freely. There are those in this country these days who wish to harm its leaders, and any allusion to a Vanderbilt . . .”
Cabot’s tone was dry. “An anarchist lurking behind every tree, is that it?”
With effort, Sal did not react.
“The threat is quite real,” Grant insisted. “The bomb at Chicago’s Haymarket. Or the Café Terminus in Paris. Anarchy. Damned foreigners. Scowl if you like. But the Vanderbilt men—with the exception of George—have cut more than their share of corporate throats. Biltmore will be hosting guests of influence and power . . .” Grant swept an arm, including Cabot and himself in those realms.
The bastard’s caution about anarchists, Sal thought, just got outweighed by his need to be recognized—even by strangers in the third-class railcar—for what he thinks is his importance.
The other passengers had gone eerily quiet. Grant’s eyes rested again on Sal. Then on Berkowitz.
At the rear of the car, the door flew open again. Instinctively, Sal slumped lower still in his seat. Reached for Nico. He had to protect Nico.
Above the passengers and their newspapers, a flat-topped circle of braided hat appeared. Sal released his breath. But kept his hand protectively on his brother’s shoulder.
“This stop Biltmore Junction! Formerly known as”—smirking, the conductor glanced out at the village—“Best!”
Through the glow of the village’s handful of gaslights on their stands and a few lanterns, Sal could make out mud like a rusty chain of linked brown lakes from the station’s platform to a stand of scraggly pines. Swaddled in fog, the train station and its timbered gables were fuzzy, along with the hint of town beyond it—mostly a tumble of log cabins and farmhouses, with a few newer structures mostly obscured by the mist.
Looking at Sal, the woman Rema gathered her things and nodded toward the village as the train slowed. “There’s folks hadn’t much favored the new name, Biltmore Junction, that Mr. Vanderbilt give it. And that’s puttin’ it nice.”
Tully MacGregor leaned across the aisle to him. “Mister, if it’s Biltmore you’re wanting, you’d best hop off here.”
Sal thanked her, distractedly. In the reflection in the window, Grant was still staring alternately at Sal, then Berkowitz, then back at Sal. Grant smoothed the tips of his mustache. Then turned away toward his companion.
Berkowitz spun around in his seat toward Sal. Watch out, he mouthed, jerking his head toward the backs of the two gentlemen, for that one.
Sal gave a quick nod. He assumed he knew which of the two men Berkowitz meant, but would check later to be sure—when there was also time to ask why.
Kerry MacGregor may have caught their exchange, though she’d turned her face back toward the window. At the very least, she might’ve seen something pass between them—as if they weren’t entirely strangers.
“Perhaps, Cabot,” said Grant, “we should indeed return to the Swannanoa. I understand our party will soon include guests of the fairer sex who’ve already arrived.”
In the reflection, Cabot appeared to be gazing out at the village—or possibly at the young woman Kerry. “Vanderbilt’s niece, I believe,” he said without enthusiasm. “A Miss Sloane.”
“Yes, and a friend of hers, lately of New Orleans. A Miss Barthélemy.”
Barthélemy.
A vise closed around Sal’s chest. Even having known he’d hear the name if he came to North Carolina, it was a jolt.
Vaguely, he realized Berkowitz was scribbling something onto his pad.
Sal’s head throbbed with the screech of the train’s brakes and its whistle, which rolled out over the hollows and peaks.
But still louder was the name echoing now in his head after four years of hiding. Four years of hoping to outlive its reach.
Barthélemy.
Chapter 4
Lillian Barthélemy never allowed herself any regrets, so this was not one. Nor did she allow herself any doubts.
But the train’s whistle came from not far away, and it chilled her blood. Because it meant the time had come.
A spasm gripped her middle—and it wasn’t the grind of the corset stays or the too-tiny waist of the riding habit. Perhaps she’d acted a trifle rashly in what she’d arranged. But her family’s name was at stake.
Shifting forward, she let out the reins. Despite the wet leaves underfoot, despite the darkening woods, she urged the horse to a gallop.