The Bachelor's Bride (The Thompsons of Locust Street #1) - Holly Bush Page 0,4

back at Alexander as he hurried to join him, stuffing the cloth bag into his coat pocket as he did.

It had taken some inquiries and a small favor to acquire the Thompson address on Locust Street. It was a quiet neighborhood on the very edge of Society Hill, mostly families, Irish, Scottish, a few Jewish, and many Blacks, some who’d been living there for years and some who had escaped the South early on in the War Between the States, drawn to the Quaker roots of the city. The men and some of the women from these families worked at one of the dozens of textile factories in the city or the breweries or for the gas company that lit the city and ran the politics of Philadelphia, the Gas Trust. The Trust certainly ran Schmitt. And Alexander worked for Schmitt.

It had not been his choice, but rather his father’s insistence, that had him working for Henry Schmitt. Alexander found Schmitt to be a crude bore, dangerously susceptible to flattery and not terribly bright, but there was something in Schmitt’s approach to voters, whether it was fear or awe, that sent him back to the Philadelphia City Council time and again. He imagined that politicians of Schmitt’s ilk had inserted themselves into governance since the beginning of time and would continue in the future too.

He read the numbers painted on the bricks or in the transoms above the lintels or fashioned in metal and attached to the wooden doors of the row homes. Seventy-five, he read above the door as he glanced upward to the three-story brick front that was six full windows wide, three on each side of the stoop he now stood on, larger than most of the other homes. He straightened his tie, tapped his hat on his head, and lifted the brass knocker.

A woman in a dark dress with a voluminous white apron opened the door. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to speak to Miss Thompson, if she is at home.”

“Miss Thompson? And which Miss Thompson are you asking after?” the woman asked with a faint Scottish lilt. She took him in with a glance over his coat and down to his polished shoes.

“Miss Elspeth Thompson.”

“And whom shall I say is asking?”

“Mr. Alexander Pendergast,” he said and pulled his bowler from his head.

“An Irishman, be you?”

The door opened wider, and he could see a young woman standing behind the housekeeper. “Who is it, Mrs. McClintok?”

The housekeeper turned her head slightly, her eyes never leaving his face, as if he would be taking off with the silver from his spot on the stoop. “A Mr. Pendergast, here to see Miss Elspeth. You’d best fetch her and your aunt. I’ll see this young man into the parlor.”

Alexander found himself following the woman, her black skirts swaying below the massive white bow of her apron, down a well-lit hallway to a room where she opened pocket doors and proceeded him inside.

She straightened a lace doily under a painted lamp and took a thorough and approving look around. “Someone will be with you in a moment,” she said and pulled the doors closed as she left.

Alexander wandered around the large and well-appointed room, noting the thick rug on the floor and the large paintings on the walls. The burgundy brocade sofa sat facing a marble fireplace with two wing chairs on either side set at an angle for a comfortable seating area. Near two of the tall front windows sat a large chair in dark leather with brass nails and a matching hassock, the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind it filled with books. He turned when he heard the doors slide on their rollers.

An older woman came through, her back bent, her gray hair in a bun on top of her head, and her cane tapping a rhythm as she made her way into the room. With one glance, he knew she was the type of woman who’d seen much in her years and survived to tell about all of it. He doubted he would find an ally in her. He barely glanced at Miss Thompson, Elspeth, behind the old woman for fear of giving himself away, only noting her blushing cheeks as he did.

“Alexander Pendergast, ma’am,” he said and dipped his head courteously.

“Mr. Pendergast, I am Mrs. Murdoch. This is my niece Miss Thompson,” she said with a wave behind her and all the hauteur an elderly woman could produce.

“Mrs. Murdoch. Miss Thompson,” he said with a nod,