Chapter Eight

The message came soon after Dorothea arrived at the newspaper office, brought by a freckle-faced lad in a cloth cap. Dorothea unfolded the paper and read the message written in a bold, black hand.

Meet me at Sybil’s Tea Room at four o’clock.

No signature—just the caricature of a large rabbit. No, a hare.

Dorothea’s pulse leaped. She refolded the note and slid it into the front of her blouse. So—he did mean to keep his word.

As soon as she could manage it, she cornered Molly alone. “Listen, have you ever heard of a place called Sybil’s Tea Room?”

Molly gave her a stare. “Surely you’re not thinking of going there?”

“Why not?”

“The woman who runs it has a reputation. It’s said she can put curses on people.”

“Sounds interesting. Maybe there’s a story in it.”

“Maybe there is, at that. Your big breakthrough?”

“I hope so. How do I get to the place?”

Molly gave her directions and offered, “Would you like me to come with you? Might be safest.”

Dorothea shook her head. The interviews with O’Hare had to be kept secret even from Molly, at least till the story broke. “Sybil’s isn’t in a real bad neighborhood, is it?”

“No, it’s one of those borderline districts. Working women patronize the place—and Bohemian types.”

“I wouldn’t mind being a Bohemian type.”

Molly grinned. “Nor I. That’s a good idea, though, writing stories about the colorful areas of the city, the places the female readership might not ordinarily see.”

“Oh, I think so,” Dorothea replied.

****

She went directly from the newspaper office later that day, her spine rigid with determination and her stomach doing somersaults. She couldn’t dwell on how much depended on this encounter. Nor could she admit, even to herself, half her roiled emotions stemmed from anticipation. She wanted to see O’Hare again.

Wanted it badly.

She’d dressed soberly that morning in a brown skirt and jacket, white blouse, and small brown hat. The blue hat O’Hare had rescued still needed some serious repair before she could wear it again.

She splurged on a cab, which dropped her off in a narrow street full of shops and busy pedestrians. The patrons entering and exiting Sybil’s seemed to be a mixture of working-class matrons and the Bohemians Molly had mentioned. Dorothea looked as out of place as a brown hen among peacocks.

Inside, Sybil’s proved to be a dark, narrow shop with beads hanging in the window. Ignoring a frisson of uneasiness, Dorothea surveyed the place. Tables all draped in scarves of varying hues crowded the space, most of them occupied. Groups of women and a few men conversed earnestly, while one or two servers, dressed in midnight blue, glided about like ships in full sail. In one corner, a young woman played a viola, the music a thin backdrop for all the voices.

She would love to write a color piece about the place, but she hadn’t come for that, not now.

She couldn’t see O’Hare anywhere. Maybe he had yet to arrive. She decided to sit at a table, if she could find one, and order tea to steady her nerves.

Before she’d taken five steps, a woman issued from behind the counter that stretched across the rear of the shop and made for Dorothea. Tall and built to statuesque proportions, she had ink-black hair, worn in a chignon, and she trailed scarves the way a steamship did banners.

“Miss Sinclair?” she inquired in a spectral whisper. “Come with me.”

They wound their way through the maze of tables to the back, where Dorothea saw the long counter had glass panels beneath and was filled with exquisite creations—small iced cakes and crème horns, cream puffs, and Napoleons. Before she could do more than begin to admire, her guide swept her past the counter and through a highly varnished door to where all the noise fell away.

The woman fixed her with a brilliant, dark stare. “You are here to meet Hare?”

“O’Hare, yes.”

“He is called Hare O’Hare—the one who flees quickly, the clever changer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sybil sees and knows many things. You have an interesting aura. You must let me do a reading some time.”

“I—”

“In there.” Sybil gestured to yet another door.

Cautiously, Dorothea pushed it open and stepped in. A wave of scent met her—heavy patchouli mixed with incense. The place must be Sybil’s private room, for scarves and cloths woven with strange symbols covered every surface including the table where O’Hare sat at his apparent ease.

He shot to his feet when he saw Dorothea, and their eyes met. A slow thrill chased its way down Dorothea’s spine, very like the onset of fever. In the light cast by the overhead lamp, his copper curls gleamed with warmth; his eyes were those of a cat.

Dorothea thought suddenly of her friend Jo’s cat back home, a big, orange tom, with similar eyes, who stalked through the world with supreme confidence.

“I’ve never liked that cat,” Dorothea’s mother always said. “Reminds me of someone…”

She wondered if her mother would like O’Hare, and then he smiled at her, and she forgot everything else—even, for the moment, her reason for being here.

“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair.”

“Afternoon, O’Hare. Or is it Hare O’Hare, as our hostess says?”

“I’d be pleased if you’d call me Hare. Will you sit down?”

He held the chair for her like the gentleman he might or might not be. She ran a quick eye over him as he joined her at the table. Today he had neglected the long leather coat and wore a workman’s clothing—short woolen jacket with heavy breeches. But the shirt beneath, deep green, brightened the color in his eyes by contrast.

Responding to her close inspection, he said, “Forgive my appearance. I came straight from the job.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a woodworker. Cabinetmaking.”

“A skilled trade.”

“Yes. My employer, Ron Murray, is a true craftsman and caters to the wealthiest homeowners in this city.”

“Did you apprentice to him?” Dorothea smiled. “My father took a young lad as apprentice, back before I was born. He’s the one I mentioned—like an older brother to me.”

“You said his wife’s your best friend. No, I didn’t ’prentice to Ron, at least not officially. He caught me stealing from him one afternoon and asked me why. I told him I hadn’t eaten in two days.” Hare smiled. “It was a lie—I hadn’t eaten in three. Instead of turning me in to the coppers, he gave me a meal. I started hanging around after that, mostly hoping for another feed. Curious, I watched how he did things in the shop, and eventually took to it. Ron insists I have a natural talent.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You, Miss Sinclair, must have a prodigious memory. Aren’t you going to write all this down? For your story, I mean. The infamous O’Hare and his humble beginnings…”

“I do have a prodigious memory, as a matter of fact. But this is your chance to tell me what you wish. I promised you’d get to tell your side of things. That can go any way you wish—human interest, angry diatribe, soapbox, heated defense. I want to put you in the very best light.”

“Why? You barely know me. Why should you care what the good people of Boston think of me?”

“Well, you did come to my rescue. And you’re giving me this opportunity. Reporters are supposed to be impartial, and when I get to the writing portion of this, I will be. For now—sway me, convince me.” Charm me, she added silently. It likely wouldn’t take much—a couple more of those slightly wicked smiles, another stare from between those copper lashes, and she might melt like harbor ice in spring.

“Why don’t we start with a cup of tea? And some of Sybil’s magnificent pastries.”

Their hostess materialized at the door of the room as if by magic.

“Two cuppas please, Syb,” Hare requested. “And a wee plate of your best.”

“Who is she?” Dorothea asked when the woman went out. “A seer? A gypsy?”

“A little bit both, I think. She told me she comes from Vienna. And she’s made some amazing predictions. Who can say?”

Sybil soon returned, bearing a tray piled high with a tea service and a tempting selection of pastries like those Dorothea had seen in the glass case.

“Oh, my,” Dorothea exclaimed. “I feel like a princess.”

In her spectral voice Sybil declared, “Every woman should feel like royalty from time to time.”

She swept out, and Hare laughed softly. “You’re afraid of her, Miss Dorothea.”

“I am not.”

“You are. Just look at your face.”

“Well, you must admit she has a forbidding aspect. Does she make these delicacies herself?” Dorothea chose a tiny layer cake and bit into it. “Ah, wonderful!”

“She claims she makes them all herself. Personally, I think there’s a crew of elves in the kitchen. If she ever thanks them, the magic stops.”

“I hope she never thanks them, then. That’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Have another.”

“You always seem to feed me when we meet.”

“Food brings people together—as, unfortunately, does the lack of it. Shall we start our interview there, Miss Dorothea? With how many children go to bed hungry in this city and what proportion of them are Irish?”

For the next hour he spoke unhurriedly while Dorothea listened with avid attention and, thinking better of trusting her memory completely, pulled a notebook from her pocket and made copious notations. The tea went cold and the pastries were forgotten as she fell into the mind of the man opposite her.

A good mind, an intelligent one, she realized, his arguments well-reasoned—tough yet compassionate. Her respect for him rose as the minutes flowed by, along with her admiration.

None of the terrible things she’d heard about him seemed to fit. Dangerous, they called him—ruthless and cunning. He wanted to tear down the rules of society and rip the city apart at the seams.

She didn’t see it. He detested injustice, yes, and noticed it all around him. To him, class represented an abominable divide that needed to be abolished.

She couldn’t say she disagreed with that.

At last she laid down her pen and stretched cramped fingers.

He nodded at the pad. Throughout their time together he’d remained lounging in his chair, the words just streaming from him with no seeming effort. Oh, for the gift of the blarney!

And was everything he’d told her the truth? She thought so.

“You’ve a lot of information there. I wonder what you’ll make of it.”

“I’ll write something up tonight. Would you like to see it before I submit it to my editor?”

He shook his head. “I trust you, Dorothea Sinclair. What did the fine Montgomery Winton say then, when you presented your scheme?”

“He’s avid for the series, as I knew he’d be.”

“You just make sure he deals fairly with you, now. And that you get your byline.” He grinned. “Him, I don’t trust.”

“Nor do I.” She leaned toward him across the table. “I’m going to make a hero of you, Hare O’Hare. A bloody, first-class hero.”