Chapter Twenty-Eight

“The man who dies thus rich dies disgraced.”

~Andrew Carnegie, The Gospel of Wealth, May 1889

FRIDAY, AUGUST 2

Monty stretched, well rested from his first night’s sleep in his new bed in his new house. He’d been more than grateful for any safe place to rest his head after the flood, but there was no place like home.

He dressed and visited the outhouse before slipping on his boots and making his way to the commissary for breakfast. Stocking his pantry was a task he needed to add to his list. He greeted friends and neighbors, all the while wondering if Annamae was safe and wishing she were by his side.

Quiet and distant since their talk a few days earlier, she was working through her turmoil. He could sense it. He hated to see her struggling but knew if she’d let God finish the work He’d started within her, it would enrich the rest of her life.

After a quick meal of bacon, eggs, and oatmeal, Monty mailed his latest letter to Joanna and went to the bank to inquire about the status of his frozen account in Pittsburgh. He chatted with Mrs. Rodriguez about her husband’s job at the new livery until the proprietors unlocked the front doors.

The institution smelled of disinfectant and damp currency. The ping of coins sounded as Mr. Kohl counted the money in his tray. Two long lines had already formed with folks collecting their portion of the disaster relief funds donated from across the country. After purchasing supplies, the financial committee, spearheaded by George Swank and Cyrus Elder, had an abundance of cash left over to distribute among the survivors.

An abundance that had left the committee in a quandary, according to the town council meeting last evening. No one could decide on the best course of distribution. Some survivors argued they should get more than others because they’d owned a business or were wealthy before the flood and, therefore, had lost more than those who’d lived in tenements. Others argued the flood forced everyone into the poor class, so the funds should be distributed evenly as everyone started anew.

No matter how the funds got dispersed, some would be unhappy. Monty was glad he wasn’t in charge of the job.

“Next customer, please.” Mr. Porter, a short, thin gentleman with gold spectacles and a limp in his gait, waved Monty forward.

“A hold was placed on my account at the Pittsburgh Savings Bank after the flood to prepare for its transfer to my next of kin had I not survived. I filled out the paperwork a few weeks ago to prove my existence and request access to my account once again. I was wondering if you’d received any update on the situation.”

“Let me check, Mr. Childs.” Mr. Porter adjusted his glasses and shuffled into an adjoining room behind the long counter.

Several minutes passed. Customers at the back of the line complained. Finally, Mr. Porter returned, holding an envelope. “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Childs.” He adjusted his glasses once again. “The postman delivered this notation last week. You should find the information inside sufficient for answering your question.”

“Thank you.”

Monty slipped a finger beneath the flap of the envelope, wanting to read the contents before leaving the line in case he had more questions, but a man bumped him out of the way and took his place at the barred counter. Swallowing his frustration, Monty exited the building, needing fresh air.

The bright sun made the paper hard to read. He moved to the west side of the building, shaded this time of the morning. The notation, as Mr. Porter had called it, stated that the bank had received his paperwork, had unfrozen his account, and that his account balance was now three hundred and eight dollars.

Monty blinked.

He scanned the paper again, reading carefully. He had tried to withdraw fifteen thousand dollars on July 2 and couldn’t because his account had been frozen. His inheritance money was gone. And there was only one person on earth who would have the clout to withdraw money from Monty’s account despite it being illegal. What a coincidence that the amount withdrawn was the exact amount “donated” to rebuild his church.

Fuming, Monty crinkled the paper in his fist then shoved it into his pocket. As he stomped off, he could hear Annamae’s voice ringing in the back of his mind, reminding him that this was yet another instance where too much power yielded injustice. She was right. Men like his uncle needed to be accountable for their actions.

Then the Holy Spirit pricked his heart and he suddenly stopped, wiped a hand over his brow, and took a deep breath. Justice must be served in the right manner. Not in hate and malice, despite how his flesh wanted to react right now.

He walked back, prepared to reenter the bank and stand at the end of one of the long lines, when he plowed into the formidable man himself. Monty’s eye twitched from the zing of pain, but he schooled his features. He was glad his broken nose and the bruises on his face had healed, all except for two small areas that were a pale yellow. When he faced his uncle, he wanted to do it as a whole man.

Amusement played on Uncle Henry’s face. Thin lips upturned beneath his mustache that curled at the edges and blended into a beard that held as much gray as brown. “You look mighty angry, son. Haven’t I taught you a cool head keeps the mind clear? You can’t possibly strategize against the enemy if your emotions cloud your thinking.”

Monty stood to full height. “I haven’t the luxury of hiring someone to act out my emotions for me.”

Monty reached into his pocket and produced the banknote.

The dark bags beneath his uncle’s eyes puffed as he smiled. “If you’d have stayed with me where you belonged, money would be of no consequence.”

“And what about withdrawing money from an account that isn’t yours? Does that hold any consequence?”

“You requested that money yourself days earlier. I simply persuaded the bank manager to let me send it to you personally.”

Monty hadn’t intended to use the entire fifteen thousand dollars to rebuild his house and the church. Losing Joanna to an orphanage so far away had made him realize how important such an institution would be to Johnstown. If they’d had one from the start, Joanna and the others wouldn’t have had to leave their community. Monty had decided to use part of his funds to fill that need.

“How nice of you to deliver it with a personal touch.” Monty rubbed his sore ribs.

Uncle Henry nodded. “My employees are loyal to me and don’t take kindly to threats.”

“And I don’t take kindly to you destroying my town. Or interfering in my business.”

His uncle’s stern frown might have once intimidated him, but not anymore. “You’d better watch your tongue, son.”

“I’m not your son.” Monty delivered the words with a calmness he didn’t feel. Turned out he had more of Annamae’s crusading spirit lying dormant inside than he’d thought.

Uncle Henry rotated the crystal top of his cane. The thing served no purpose other than to remind others of his wealth and status. “You lived off the bounty of my fortune as if you were my child, without complaint. Until you abandoned your birthright and left to wallow among common men.”

Times like this made it hard for Monty to act honorably. He understood Annamae’s fury, though he couldn’t act on it. “What do you have against the common man? If it weren’t for them running your factories, you wouldn’t have your fortune.”

“True, but you see, there’s something that sets us apart. It’s called ambition. We all have it, but they capped theirs at mere survival. I plan to leave a legacy that will transcend the ages.”

“You’ll leave your legacy, but it won’t be the kind you think.”

His uncle laughed. “Says the orphan who threw away his shares in the greatest coke company in the world to live in a town so dirty the trees can’t breathe.”

He reached inside his tailored coat and pulled out a book. “Whitney asked me to give this to you. She figured your original copy was destroyed in the flood and it might bring you comfort.”

Great Expectations. Monty tucked the tome to his side. “Thank her for me, will you? I’m touched that she would think of me in such dire circumstances.”

Uncle Henry glanced around. “Do they even know who you are around here?”

Monty tried to view the scene from his uncle’s point of view as shame spun in his gut like a cyclone. No. His congregation did not know he was a nephew of the Coke King.

He’d wrestled with his omission many a night since the flood and had concluded he needed to confess. It was only fair he come clean. These were his friends, and they deserved no less.

His introspection was cut short when he spotted Annamae exiting the newspaper office across the street, a young, tall reporter way too comfortable by her side.

Through the haze of dust clouds and people crossing between them, Annamae’s gaze locked with his. The reporter’s smile fell, and he blinked. He said something to Annamae and pointed at the man standing beside Monty.

Her face went pale.

“Ah, the very woman I came to see.” Uncle Henry stilled his cane and stood erect.

Monty’s heart thumped hard. “What do you want with Annamae?”

“Annamae, is it? I came to thank Miss Worthington for informing the world of my membership in the club as well as the exact location of our charter. What she meant for the club’s detriment, I’m certain, came to our benefit.”

A warning bell sounded in Monty’s ears. “What makes you think Annamae was the source?”

Uncle Henry huffed. “Come now, boy. You’re foolish, not suicidal. But once again, you allowed your bleeding heart to loosen your tongue, and she betrayed you.”

With a determined set of her mouth and a raised chin, Annamae lifted her skirt and marched toward her enemy.

Seeing Henry Clay Frick before her eyes was like seeing a mirage in the desert after many years of wandering in circles. Was Mr. Colt correct in recognizing the man? He looked like Mr. Frick’s picture in the paper. Why was he talking to Monty? Had Monty recognized him and confronted him for her? For the town?

Questions raced through her mind in the quick seconds it took her to cross the street to them.

Mr. Frick’s lip curled at her approach.

Monty didn’t appear incensed with the man wearing a perfectly tailored suit and silk tie. In fact, he looked … sick. Had Mr. Frick threatened him? Or her?

She swallowed her fear and plowed ahead. “Monty.”

Monty’s fingers grazed her elbow. “Annamae, now’s not a good—”

“Are you Mr. Henry Clay Frick?” She stared at the man before her, observing his thin hair slicked to the side and the way the tops of his ears pointed away from his head.

“I am. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Annamae Worthington.”

Shock stole her next words. Had Monty told him her name?

“As I was saying before you crossed the street,” Mr. Frick continued, “I came to thank you for leaking such tantalizing details to the Pittsburgh Post. How unfortunate your scheme didn’t result in the ending you’d hoped for.”

The viper refused to look her in the eyes, as if she wasn’t worthy of the gesture.

Her hands shook with animosity. “How fortunate for you to get away with murder yet again.”

Monty gripped her arm and attempted to steer her away from the man. “Careful, Annamae.”

She wrenched her arm from his grip and swung around. “Does the name Abraham Worthington sound familiar?”

Monty lowered his head into his hand.

Mr. Frick acknowledged her then. “Should it?”

Tears pricked the back of her eyes at his callous tone. “He was a puddler at the Edgar Thomson steel mill. He died falling into a vat of molten iron after you refused to improve working conditions, citing that unions have no business in your factories.”

Cold, uncaring eyes calculated her. “The name is of no significance to me. Accidents happen in places that employ thousands of workers. Surely a Red Cross nurse understands that.”

Her fingers curled into fists against her thighs. She’d never wanted to inflict harm on another human being the way she did right now. “How convenient for you that the deaths of two thousand people living below your precious lake were also deemed as ‘accidents.’ ”

The sardonic twist of Mr. Frick’s mouth sent a chill down her spine. Monty angled his body in front of hers.

“Well done, Montgomery. Every time I sent you the most beautiful women in the country only for you to refuse them, I thought you were mad. You were simply waiting on a filly with spirit.”

Lasciviousness snaked around his statement.

Monty … Mr. Frick sending him the most beautiful women in the country? How well did he know Mr. Frick?

“I see I’ve taken you completely by surprise, Miss Worthington.” Mr. Frick chuckled then turned to Monty. “Have you not shared with your intended that you were once the most eligible bachelor in Pittsburgh?”

A chill shot down her spine. She studied Monty. The blue eyes she’d dreamed of waking up to every morning narrowed in regretful apology.

She faced Mr. Frick. “What do you mean?”

The tip of Mr. Frick’s cane sparkled in the sunlight as he rotated it in his fingers. “Only that my nephew is quite taken with you.”

She sucked in a breath.

Monty turned away.

The world around her grew fuzzy at the edges.

Her legs went weak. Why wasn’t Monty correcting this horrible man? Shouting that he was a liar?

Why did she know her life was about to change in a horrible way she didn’t want it to?

Mr. Frick’s chagrin looked anything but genuine. “I apologize, my dear. I see I’ve surprised you once again by revealing that Montgomery is my nephew. Sad tale, really. He is the only child of my wife’s brother, Thaddeus Childs. His parents and siblings were killed in a storm crossing the Atlantic. We raised Montgomery as our own. We gave him the best of everything, including a position running the family business, but, unfortunately, he thinks his purpose is here.”

He spat the last word as if it were rotten food.

Monty’s reluctant gaze found hers. It was true, all of it.

She was going to be sick.

Covering her mouth with a shaky hand, she spun and walked as fast as she could away from the man who’d killed her father and the man who’d shattered her heart.

Sounds ricocheted in her ears, bouncing from loud to soft and back again. Her cotton blouse stuck to her clammy skin, offering no relief from the heat. Bile worked up her throat, but she swallowed it down, determined not to make a spectacle of herself in front of the whole town.

She thought she heard someone calling her name, but she kept walking as fast as she could to the edge of town. Without a clue where she was going, she kept moving, kept attempting to flee the reality that had upended everything she’d thought was real.

When she went until she couldn’t take another step, she covered her face and let the tears fall. Monty was Henry Clay Frick’s nephew. He’d listened to her story about her father, held her, and encouraged her to forgive that wicked man, all the while concealing that he was one of them.

Of course he wanted her to forgive. Her vendetta was against his family, and blood was thicker than water, as the saying went.

She startled at the shuffle beside her. Monty reached out.

“Don’t touch me.”

He stepped back. “I didn’t mean for you to find out that way.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Tears blocked her vision of him. “You didn’t intend for me to find out at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why? Why didn’t you tell me? When were you going to tell me?”

He faced the stone bridge below them and the repairs nearing an end. “Everything I’ve told you is the truth. I walked away from my family when it became clear that men like my uncle were their own gods. I didn’t want any part of it. I wanted to follow a God who was infallible. One who wasn’t limited to a finite mind. One who couldn’t make mistakes like the flesh can. God called me here, and I haven’t seen or spoken to my uncle since. He banished me from Clayton and the family the day I announced I’d chosen God over what he offered. As far as I’m concerned, I’m just Monty.”

Her chest heaved. “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. Especially after knowing that evil man killed my father.”

He inhaled and exhaled loudly. “When I came here and saw the state of this town, the success and the detriment, I realized right away that no one would listen to what I had to say if they knew where I came from. A starving man won’t listen to the message of one who’s never experienced the pangs of hunger.”

“That’s as ridiculous as saying a wounded patient won’t listen to my counsel if I’m not bleeding as well. The fact is, you took the coward’s way out, afraid no one would accept you if they knew who you were. You didn’t want to be rejected, because you’d already lost everything.”

She threw daggers as fast as she could and didn’t care where they landed. “In your quest to spread the truth, you hid it. You stole our chance to judge you for ourselves. You’re no different from your uncle, parading around like you’re one person when you’re really another.”

Monty tipped his face to the sky. “I suppose I deserve that.”

Annamae dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “Now I know why you didn’t want me to expose the club member list. You wanted to protect your uncle and your reputation.”

“No, I did it to protect you.” He gripped her elbows, eyes intense. “Do you remember what I looked like the day Jim found me in the church? I was half-dead, Annamae. My uncle sent his henchman to silence me after I wrote to him and threatened to expose his involvement. He did that to his own nephew. I know what my uncle is capable of, and I didn’t want his corruption to taint you.”

Flashes of him lying on the bed with oozing cuts and a broken nose flashed through her memory. So did her agony over the possibility of internal wounds that might take his life. “You’ve encouraged me to forgive that man.”

Her voice broke.

“I only encouraged you to do what I had to learn to do myself. Believe me, I understand how hard it is to forgive that man.”

The ice in Mr. Frick’s tone when he’d informed her that Abraham Worthington’s life was of no value to him was something she didn’t think she could ever forgive. A pastor’s wife must be capable of forgiveness, which made her unworthy of Monty. His omission made him unworthy of her. Which meant they had no future together.

She pressed her fingertips to her swollen eyes, and her next steps became clear. She dried her cheeks with her sleeve and smoothed her hair and blouse. She placed careful steps on the uneven path to leave in search of Clara.

“Now I’m going to ask you to forgive me,” Monty called from behind her.

She halted and closed her eyes. Words pressed against her lips, but she clamped them together.

“We’re both guilty of sin. We’re both guilty of poor choices.” Agony carried his voice. “Please don’t abandon us. We can spend our future overcoming and striving to be better people, together.”

Or she could return to Washington to her quiet, solitary life where she could protect her heart.

“The beauty of being set free from bondage is that we don’t have to let the anger and bitterness of our pasts hold us back anymore. We can drop the chains and walk away.”

She let his statement penetrate her mind. Then she dropped the chains of hope she’d carried for so long—hope that she would someday find companionship—and walked away.