Betina Krahn Read Free

again and headed for her library. “And have Williams bring up the trunks straightaway. I have to be back in the city in a few days anyway to review Consolidated’s quarterly report before it goes to press and to attend the suffrage association executive committee meeting. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning. I want to be well away from moonlit gardens and back on Fifth Avenue by this time tomorrow night.”
    Throwing open the library door, she flicked on the electrical light and went straight to her desk, with its neat piles of documents, stacks of ledgers, and legal folios. Staring down at those reassuring reams and sheaves of paper, her gaze fell on the pamphlet she had been composing for the National American Woman Suffrage Association, and she felt her inner calm returning. This was
her
realm, her dream, the mark she would someday leave on the world.
    “Love,”
she muttered as she began to collect and pack the documents. “What has that got to do with anything?”

T WO

    EVERYONE IN NEW York knew that if they wanted to find someone Irish in the city, O’Toole’s was the place to go.
    The restaurant, located in the middle of the city’s sprawling Eighteenth Precinct, was one of three places where the burgeoning Irish community and rising political power met. Sooner or later every former resident of County Cork who landed in New York walked through those heavy glass and mahogany doors, stood on that checkered marble floor, and marveled at the polished wooden paneling, the giant gilt-framed mirror over the bar, and the heights to which an Irishman in America could aspire.
    Seated around the remains of a hearty dinner that night, at the rear of the dining room, were a half dozen men who by virtue of moxy or muscle had burrowed deep into the marrow of the city … so deep, in fact, that their Irish organization “Tammany Hall” had become synonymous with city hall.
    Each man there had worked his way up the ladder ofTammany’s political organization, from “precinct runner” to “ward heeler,” to minor city official to officeholder. And it was that record of achievement that entitled them to be present for the election campaign strategy session now in progress.
    “It’s set then, lads,” declared the barrel-chested leader, Richard Croker. The Tammany Hall boss removed the cigar from his mouth and tossed back a healthy draft of brandy. “We’ll have a round of debates with th’ reform party’s ‘willie.’ Murphy and McFadden, here”—he gestured to his two handpicked under-bosses—“will make sure the crowds are proper friendly. And we’ll pass the word to our friends in the papers, suggestin’ they’d be showin’ a bit of foresight if they was to declare our boy the winner early on.” He paused to smile at their youngest member. “Not that you’ll be needin’ much help with the papers, Connor lad. Not a word drips from your lips that isn’t just beggin’ fer print.”
    Connor Sullivan Barrow smiled back. It was a bold slash of a grin containing a bit of rakishness, a bundle of charm, and an unmistakable bit of invitation. Its effect on the men seated around him was immediate. Nods and approving winks appeared as the election committee congratulated themselves on their candidate’s appeal.
    “I hear the reformers may bring in William Jennings Bryan to campaign for Netherton,” Connor said.
    “Doesn’t matter who they bring in.” The boss clamped down on his cigar. “The voters get one look at that sweet Irish mug of yours, my boy and you’ll be sittin’ under a landslide.”
    There was a murmur of agreement.
    “A pity th’ women ain’t got the vote,” declared a wavery voice from the rear of the table. “We could schweep ever’ ward in th’—”
    The political planners turned on the speaker with looks that ranged from mild disgust to out-and-out horror. The well-lubricated alderman pulled in his chin, blinked, and then had the grace to be appalled by what he’d