Bicycle Built for Two Page 2

  The chuckle only aggravated the pain, so hung it up and concentrated on covering the bruises without killing herself in the process. “Ow.” She winced when her fingers smoothed greasepaint over the livid bruises on her throat.

  “I cursed him, you know,” said Madame in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

  “Beg pardon?” Kate paused with her fingers on the rim of the paint pot.

  “I cursed him.” Madame took another bite of hot pepper.

  “Pa?”

  “Umph.” Madame, chewing, nodded.

  Kate caught her eyes in the mirror and grinned. “Yeah? Thanks, Madame. I appreciate it.” Getting back to her job, she murmured, “Only wish stuff like that really worked.”

  Madame shrugged. “Sometimes it does.”

  Kate’s gaze snapped back to the reflection of Madame in the mirror. Every now and then, Madame’s voice would take on an odd, mysterious timbre. When she spoke thus, Kate was never quite sure whether or not to believe her. According to Madame, she’d taught Kate only the rudiments of the Gypsy’s panoply of mystical arts. Such things as Madame believed to be out of Kate’s realm of comfort, she’d discreetly kept to herself. “Say, Madame, can you really curse a guy?”

  But Madame only smiled at her and broke off another piece of bread. Kate sighed, knowing she’d get no further information from that source. Madame never opened up and spilled her guts unless she darned well wanted to.

  The door of the booth opened, and Kate muttered, “Nuts.” She’d been hoping to get her bruises covered before she had to face any clients.

  “I’ll see who it is.” Madame stood up, dusted crumbs from her brightly colored skirt, and slipped through the curtains to the front part of the booth.

  Kate hurried with her makeup job. She had to get herself presentable now, because she wouldn’t have time to do so later. Pretty soon she’d have to leave Madame’s and go to her other job, which was dancing as a stand-in for Little Egypt. Although she probably made more money dancing, Kate preferred telling fortunes.

  She’d learned when she was a tiny child to present a front of bravado to the world. That’s the main reason she, among all the girls who’d auditioned for the position, had been selected to dance: because she looked uninhibited. Inside, where no one could see, she didn’t enjoy exposing so much of her body to public view. Doing so made her feel cheap, and she didn’t like the feeling. She’d been fighting the image of a cheap slum girl all her life. It also opened her up to comments and rude suggestions from the gaggle of stage-door Johnnies who always flocked around the Egyptian Hall, lurking in wait for poor unsuspecting dancers.

  They hadn’t reckoned on Kate Finney when they’d commenced lurking. Kate hadn’t been gullible since she was a baby, and she suspected pretty much everyone of pretty much anything. Especially men. She didn’t trust your average man farther than she could throw him. So far, she’d had no trouble ridding herself of hangers-on.

  Long ago she’d decided that she’d do anything, except things she found morally repugnant, in order to help her mother. “Ah, gee, Ma, please don’t die.” The words slipped through her lips in spite of the pain in her throat, and they were as close to a prayer as Kate ever got.

  “I’ll see if she’s available.”

  Madame’s words penetrated the curtain to Kate’s ears, and Kate’s fingers stilled as they reached to put the lid on the pot of makeup. She tilted her head and looked into the mirror, wondering if Madame had meant herself, Kate Finney. Am I available for what?

  The curtain parted, and Madame, casting a glance back at the booth, slipped in. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Man. Says he needs to talk to you.”

  Kate lifted an eyebrow and reached for a damp towel with which to clean her hands. “What’s he want?”

  Madame shrugged and headed to the small table where the remains of her bread, peppers, and cheese lay.

  Understanding that she’d get no further elucidation from Madame, Kate checked quickly in the mirror to make sure her bruises were as invisible as she could make them—not very—grabbed a bright red-and-green-striped scarf and wound it around her throat to cover what the makeup didn’t, snatched up her multi-colored shawl and flung it over her shoulder, and headed for the curtain. As soon as she saw who awaited her, she stopped in her tracks. “I’ve seen you,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  The tall, elegantly clad young man turned, frowning. Kate’s heart pounded out a threatening beat in her chest.

  The man said, “Have you?” He finally removed his hat, and Kate realized he ought to have done so sooner. Her heart thudded faster when she understood that he hadn’t done so because he didn’t consider Madame or Kate Finney worthy of polite, gentlemanly gestures. Kate didn’t, either, for that matter, but she’d die before she admitted it.

  “Yes. Around. Here at the Exposition.” She gestured vaguely, then straightened her spine. Blast it, nobody could treat Kate Finney like dirt and get away with it. “Did you have some business to discuss with me?”

  “Yes, if you’re Miss Kate Finney.”

  “I am.” He was being deliberately rude, or Kate missed her guess. Because she’d made it a policy not to take guff from anybody, even rich men, she snapped, “And you are?”

  The bastard bowed. Kate, recognizing the irony intended by the gesture which should have been gentlemanly but wasn’t, didn’t open her mouth, but stared, hoping she appeared as rude as he.

  “Alex English,” he said, straightening. “I am a member of the Agricultural Forum at the Exposition.”

  Kate’s frown didn’t abate. “Oh. In other words, you’re a farmer.” She gave the last word a slight special emphasis and curled her lip.

  He didn’t like that. Kate was pleased.

  “More than a farmer, Miss Finney. I am one of the directors of the fair.” He walked farther into the booth.

  The blasted man was tall and broad-shouldered, he had pretty blond hair that waved like Kate wished her own hair would do, and he took up too darned much space. Kate, who was short and slight of build, wished she’d spent more time cultivating her mystical-Gypsy presentation. If she couldn’t out-bulk him, she might have out-mystified him if she’d practiced more. She said, “Yeah?” in as insolent a tone as she could summon. She wished her throat didn’t ache so badly; it was difficult to be insolent when she could hardly talk.

  Alex glanced around the booth, as insolent as Kate. Kate wished Belle Monroe would come back and hit him, as she’d hit Kate’s father. “So. This is where you perpetrate your trade, is it?”

  Perpetrate your trade? Kate continued to stare at Alex, thinking what an ass he was. It was too bad, too, because he was a fairly good-looking man. Unfortunately, he was also a stuffed shirt. “This is where Madame Esmeralda and I tell fortunes,” she corrected.

  “Same thing.” Alex waved a hand at the mystical hangings on the wall. “Do these symbols mean anything?”

  Kate watched as his gaze went from a picture of the Hanged Man to the Three of Cups to the Emperor. Kate had asked Madame to remove the picture of the Devil, because she didn’t want any clergymen taking umbrage, and Madame had done so. Now Kate was particularly glad that Madame was such an easy-going spiritualist. And she also wasn’t sure how to answer Alex’s question, mainly because she didn’t know why he’d asked it. Her sense of self-preservation was a finely honed instrument, and she smelled a rat here.

  Instead of answering him, therefore, she said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Curious. That’s all.”

  “I doubt it.”

  His smile held no amusement. “Do you mind if I sit, Miss Finney?”

  “That depends. You want your fortune told?”

  “No.” He said the word gently, as if he were humoring a lunatic.

  “Then state your business, please. I have work to do.”

  “Yes. Well, that’s the difficulty, you see.”

  Oh, Lord. Kate felt it coming. He was going to kick her out, because of he
r damned bastard of a father. As if the lousy son of a bitch was her fault. Because her knees felt shaky, she pulled out a chair and sat herself down in it. “Sit down and get to the point,” she commanded sharply.

  To her surprise, Alex did so. She’d expected him to refuse to do anything she suggested. Even sitting, he took up too much room. “I’ve come here today because of the incident that happened yesterday.”

  “Yes. I’d already figured that one out.”

  His smile was short and cynical. “Ah, I see. Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “It was a very unfortunate incident.”

  “You said it.” She resisted the impulse to finger her bruises. Her heart screamed that none of this was her fault, and that if Alex English had a shred of human compassion in his soul, he’d be nice to her. But that was silly. Kate knew better than to expect compassion from rich businessmen.

  In the face of her defiance, Alex seemed to be getting annoyed. Kate hoped so. His cynical smile vanished, his eyebrows lowered, and his frown looked more heart-felt. “Miss Finney, I’m sure you realize that we can’t have such things happening at the World’s Columbian Exposition.”

  “Yeah? Well, I can assure you that I’ll never try to strangle anybody, if that’s what’s got you worried.”

  His lips pinched together briefly. “I never expected that you would.”

  “And,” Kate went on, “I’ve never once stolen anything from anyone or tried to gyp anybody out of anything. If that’s what’s bothering you, you can forget it. I earn my money honestly.”

  Another sneer marred the clean lines of Alex’s face. “By telling fortunes and dancing in a lewd costume?”

  “Lewd?” Kate, who’d had her own qualms about dancing in her version of Little Egypt’s costume, did a creditable job of gawping at Alex. “You’d better not tell any of those Egyptians that you think the costume’s lewd. That’s the way they dress. I don’t think they’d like it if you accused them of being lewd—and they all carry really big scimitars.” She smirked at him. “That’s a kind of sword. And those Egyptian fellows are really protective of their ladies, too.” She wished American men were more like them.

  “You know very well what I mean,” Alex growled.

  Kate stood up. “Yeah, I know what you mean. You don’t want my kind working at your precious fair.” She pointed a finger at Alex. “Well, let me tell you something, Mister. I may have been born poor, and I may have a disgusting drunkard for a father, but I’m not my father. I’m a hardworking girl who’s only trying to make a living for my mother and myself.”

  “Now see here, Miss Finney, I—”

  “No, darn it! You see here! I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s not my fault my father’s an ass! If you want to punish somebody, punish him. I didn’t ask for him to be my father. Believe me, if I could have chosen, I’d have chosen to be born to a nice family with lots of money and a pretty little farm somewhere in the country. I didn’t get the choice.”

  “Really, Miss Finney, there’s no call for—”

  ”No call for me to say these things? Like heck, there isn’t! You come sauntering in here like a king, sneering at me and what I do for a living. You treat me like dirt, and—”

  ”Now, see here! I didn’t—”

  ”You did so! You sneered and smirked and wrinkled your nose and acted like Lord Whosis who just discovered ants on his salad plate! Well, for your information, Mr. Alex English, I’m not a darned ant! I’m a girl who’s trying her best to overcome her beginnings and create a life for my mother and myself. And if you dare try to kick me out of this Exposition, I’ll—I’ll—”

  But Kate didn’t know what recourse she’d have should this awful man try to expel her from the Exposition. The realization was so bitter, and her need to keep her jobs at the fair so great, that she actually, almost, came to within an inch of crying. She’d never be so weak. Rather, although tears welled in her eyes and her throat ached as if her father’s fingers were still tight squeezing it, she slammed her fists on her hips and glowered at Alex.

  Alex rose from his chair and clapped his hat on his head, thereby covering all of his pretty blond waves. “There’s no need for this hysteria, Miss Finney.”

  “Hysteria! Hysteria? You come waltzing here, threatening my only means of income, and you accuse me of being hysterical? You’re a louse, you know that, Mr. English?”

  “Really, Miss Finney, I didn’t intend to—”

  ”Like heck, you didn’t!”

  Alex squared his shoulders. Kate might have been impressed by the broadness thereof if she didn’t feel so utterly desperate. “I can tell that you’re not fit to undertake a polite discussion at the moment, Miss Finney, so I shall leave you now.”

  “Good.” She was glad to see his eyes snap with anger.

  “I’ll be back.” And, upon that dire warning, Alex English left Madame Esmeralda’s fortune-telling booth.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Kate collapsed into one of the chairs at the table holding her crystal ball, shaking like a leaf on an aspen tree in autumn. She’d used the ball only the day before to bash her father over the head. The memory of that awful incident, and the possible repercussions thereof as represented by Mr. Alex English and his ilk, made despair flood her. She buried her head in her hands and prayed for some sort of miracle.

  “Or even a fair shake, God. Can I have maybe just one fair shake for once?”

  As usual, she didn’t hear a word from God, and her innards told her that, as usual, fair shakes were not handed out to the likes of her.

  Chapter Two

  Alex was more disturbed by his encounter with Kate Finney than he’d expected to be. In truth, he hadn’t expected to be disturbed at all. After all, it was he who was the rich, successful fair backer, not she. She was a mere nothing. A girl of questionable moral character who owed her continued presence at the Exposition to his good will.

  Dash it, she hadn’t been at all what he’d anticipated. As he’d approached Madame Esmeralda’s fortune-telling booth, he’d expected to find a woman who more nearly resembled what he’d pictured a low-class girl like her to be. He’d anticipated encountering a disreputable-looking specimen, a blowzy degenerate, a hussy. In short, he’d expected to find the real Kate Finney’s antithesis.

  The real Kate Finney hadn’t fit his assumptions at all. Not one little bit. Well, except for her sassy attitude and disrespectful manners. But she hadn’t used poor grammar. And she hadn’t been painted up like a scarlet woman. And she hadn’t worn anything particularly scandalous. Granted, those silly-looking Gypsy garments had been outrageous, but they had covered her from top to toe. She’d even had a violently colored print scarf draped around her neck. Alex shook his head, frowning and thinking about that slender, delicate neck.

  It was difficult to imagine a drunken man’s hands encircling the small white column and attempting to squeeze the life out of it. And the girl’s father, at that. Thinking about it gave Alex a sick feeling in his middle, which was most unusual. What was it Gil MacIntosh and Kate had both said? Her father wasn’t her fault? In spite of himself, a reluctant laugh escaped Alex’s mouth. Kate Finney had spunk; he could give her that much at least.

  Still and all, he didn’t think her sort belonged here, at his precious fair. He walked down the Midway Plaisance away from Kate’s booth, and glanced with satisfaction at all the wonders presented therein. The Libbey Glass Works exhibit was a particular favorite of his. He’d stood for over an hour one day, watching the workers blow glass into gorgeous pieces of art. He’d bought a couple of them for his mother. And he and Gil had dined more than once in the Polish Village, where a fellow could get a good Polish sausage sandwich, complete with sauerkraut and mustard, and wash the whole mess down with a pint of delicious light-colored beer.

  And hadn’t the fair introduced the delectable new treat, Cracker Jacks, to the public? And the hamburger? Why, there were new innovations everywhere here, even when it came to food!
This was what education was all about. This was what the Fair Directory aimed to present to the public. And if Sitting Bull’s camp surrounded an ostrich farm that drew interested people by the thousands, wasn’t Buffalo Bill’s Wild West an educational enterprise? In a manner of speaking? Granted, the fair directors hadn’t allowed the great Colonel Cody to occupy space within the fairgrounds itself, still, the Wild West had become an integral part of the total fair experience.

  Then there was the art and music that proliferated everywhere. J. P. Sousa was performing his rousing marches daily in the White City. Flags waved everywhere, and patriotism was rampant. This was America’s fair. This was the culmination of two hundred years of American ingenuity and cultural and industrial prowess.

  And then there was the Street in Cairo. Alex permitted his smile to fade. He had no quarrel with Egyptians or their culture, no matter what the pert and saucy Kate Finney claimed. If such scanty costumes were part of the Egyptian heritage, so be it. Alex might consider such costumes an indication of a backward and morally corrupt culture, but he knew that Americans found it both interesting and educational to witness the backwardness of other nations. Indeed, viewing such sights was good for American morale, because doing so could make a man proud of how advanced his own culture was.

  The problem was that unlike the venue in which Kate worked, there were no scanty costumes worn by women on the Street in Cairo. One had to go out of one’s way to see the scandalous dancing of Little Egypt. And Kate Finney. Alex discovered his hands bunching into fists as he recalled Kate, and forced them to relax.

  Imagine! A little person like that getting his goat. Such a thing had never happened before. Nobody talked back to Alex except his sister Mary Jo, because he was the most reasonable and considerate of men. And Mary Jo only did so because she was fourteen years old.