From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 31 May 2005 01:38:35 -0000
Subject: NEW - Forgive Us Our Trespasses by Taffy Northwood (1/?) by taffyxf
Source: direct

Reply To: taffyxf@yahoo.comoo.com


Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses
Author: Taffy Northwood
E-Mail: taffyxf@yahoo.comoo.com
Rating:  NC17 (eventually)
Category:  AU, MSR  
Archives:  Just ask.  
Feedback: Never in bad taste <g>
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and any 
other XF characters are on loan only.  
Summary:  In 1909 New York City, there were two 
distinct and separate worlds: that of the very wealthy 
and that of the very poor.  Could love bridge the 
great divide between those worlds for two star-crossed 
lovers?
Author Notes: Like a huge part of the fandom, I've
become absolutely dotty over AU fic.  This is my 
modest attempt to put Mulder and Scully into another
time and place.  Please be aware, this is a 
work-in-progress. 



Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story part 1

New York City - 1909


The slum is the measure of civilization  - Jacob Riis 

Even in the most abject poverty, children play, their 
voices raised in excitement.  They have no toys save 
the things other people cast off, fragments of brick,
bits of wood, scraps of rag.  

Fox raised his camera, carefully framing the children
in the shot.  The ruddy-faced boy with the stick in his 
hands would be the central figure, but Fox wanted the 
to get the ragged girls on the stoop in the shot as well.

A dark-haired boy held the "ball" aloft, tightly-wrapped 
rags around a stone.  He wound up the pitch and Fox 
depressed the button on his pocket Kodak.

"What yer doin', Mister?" 

The boy stood on the sidelines of the game, his legs 
badly bowed by rickets.   Fox had captured this child 
in the picture too.  In fact, though the batter was
the central figure, this boy was the focus.

"I'm taking your photograph," Fox replied.  
 
"Ain't that somethin'!"  

Fox smiled.  His subjects were not always so easy to
impress.  On the piers and up in the Sixth Ward he
usually resorted to his clumsy but discreet Scovill
camera.

"I'll bring you a picture next time I'm here," he
promised.
 
"Golly, thanks, Mister," the boy said.

"What's your name?"  *Boy on Clinton Street, New York
City, 1909* would do, but Fox preferred to know names.
 
"Benny Pinsker.  What's your name?"
 
It sounded more like, "Whatcher name," but Fox's ear
had gradually become tuned to the argot.

"Mathew Fox."

When he first stumbled onto this exotic pocket of New
York, Fox had been overwhelmed by the noise and
stench.  Since then he'd gained a fascination for the
languages, the foods, the people themselves.  He
strolled the teeming streets, camera at the ready.  He
watched, he listened, and most of the time he was
ignored.

In a narrow alley a girl was pulling laundry from a
clothesline and bundling it into a basket.  He wondered
if she was a laundress but quickly abandoned that 
thought.  Laundresses were never as fresh and lithe as
this girl.  Hot water and lye aged them early, scrubbing 
gave the women enormous forearms and blistered red skin.  
This girl's hands were delicate, her arms slender.  

Daylight was fading, but Fox unfolded his camera and 
checked the view.  

There's an element of chance in photography.  You
don't always capture what you want, and sometimes you
catch what you didn't see at all. The girl wore a
plain white shirtwaist and a trim blue skirt.  He  
watched as she struggled to fold the sheets into halves,
then quarters, then eighths before she piled them into
her basket.  He clicked the shutter, and then wound
the film forward for another shot.

Perhaps one of these would come out.  He'd learned a
few tricks in the darkroom and he hoped for the best.
Sadly, her best feature would be lost in the photograph.
The shining auburn hair piled atop her head would be 
boring gray.

But now the girl turned to face him, and he lowered
his camera at her approach.   
 
"I beg your pardon.  I only wanted to take your
photograph," he said.

"You might have asked me first," she said.  "Do you
always go about taking people's photographs without
their permission?"  She held the basket against her
hip, leaning a bit to counter the weight.

"Yes," he answered, too surprised to lie.  The people
he'd encountered in this neighborhood were rarely so 
well spoken.  Her voice was melodic; he picked up the 
slightest lilt hinting at an Irish birth.  

"How rude," she pronounced.  Good heavens, she was
beautiful.  Her skin was creamy white, the cheeks 
pinkened by exertion.  It was her eyes that left him
almost speechless, so blue and clear a man could 
almost swim in them.  

"Please forgive me, and let me explain.  I'm not
trying to make portraits for a gallery.  I want real
photos of people doing the things they do."

"And so you skulk about like a thief," she said.

She wasn't angry.  She sounded like a tutor correcting
a backward pupil.

"Please accept my apology," he said.  

She nodded and started up the steps of the stoop.

He watched her balance the basket against the door
until she could open it, then watched her disappear
inside.

He should have offered her a print, he thought.  He
should have offered to carry the basket.  

Twilight was approaching and now the streets were
filled with men and women, boys and girls, returning
from the factories.  Barely time to stop in at
Penazek's grocery store before he headed home.

Fresh ground coffee scented the air in the grocery 
and Fox took a moment to inhale and enjoy.  Penazek 
nodded at him from behind the long, cluttered counter
as he turned the handle of the large brass coffee 
grinder.  A little girl stood on a milk box, dusting 
cans of pickled beets and evaporated milk.

"Mr. Fox the photograph man!"   

"Hello, Anna!  You're more beautiful than ever!"

Little Anna was always happy to see him or to pose for
him.  Her father grunted a greeting. 

"I know what you want," she said.

"Then you must be a very smart little girl," he said.

"But you always buy the same thing!" she crowed.  

Penazek was already measuring a scoop of roasted
sunflower seeds into a paper bag.  Fox placed a penny
on the counter.

"Show me the picture again," Anna begged.  

Penazek gave her a little frown and shook his head.

"It's all right," Fox said.  The photo was worn and
bent, although he always treated it with care.  

He'd taken the photograph himself five years ago.  
Unlike his current subjects, the young girl in this
picture was dressed in ruffles, her dark, curly 
hair tied up with ribbons.  

"Samantha, the beautiful lost girl.  Maybe she's
locked in a dungeon, or under a spell," Anna said.

If only this was a fairytale, Fox thought.

"Maybe she is," he said as he slipped the snapshot
back in his pocket.

"Don't be sad.  One day you'll find her," Anna said.

"Perhaps, one day," he said, softly.  "So, young lady,
how is school?" 

"Very good.  I'm the only one in the whole class
who can do the seven timeses.  Want to hear me?  Seven
times one is seven, seven times two is fourteen--"

"Anna," Mr. Penezek interrupted as he bagged a 
customer's purchase.  "You bother Mr. Fox too much.  
Your mama will be wanting help to make the supper."

Fox glanced at the clock behind the counter and 
realized the afternoon was all but gone and he needed
to get home.  

He bid the Penazeks farewell and left the store.  Fox
knew he should catch the streetcar in the interest of
time, but he enjoyed walking.  The paper bag crinkled
as he reached in for a sunflower seed.  

Less than five miles separated Clinton Street and 
Fifth Avenue, but it might as well have been a thousand.
As he walked down Houston Street, the sights, sounds and 
smells changed with every block he walked as the Jewish
neighborhood gave over to the Italian.  
 
Gone were the pushcarts as he moved uptown. The streets 
were lined with elegant shops--milliners, florists, 
stationers.  Smartly dressed patrons moved between the
stores like bees around flowers.  Business men exited
the great stone buildings and walked purposefully on
their way home.

Fox smiled as he spotted the Flatiron building above
the rooftops and trees.   A marvel of architecture, the 
triangular building still amazed him every time he saw 
it.  

A voice rang out above the din of horse hooves, cart 
wheels and motor cars.

"Paper!  Paper!  Getcher evening paper here!  Get
the World for just one penny!"

From his vantage point across the street, Fox pulled
out his camera.  He usually restricted his photographs
to the poorer sections of the city, but he couldn't
resist an interesting shot.  Against the background
of the miracle of modern construction, the newsboy
seemed dwarfed.  

The boy looked familiar, and Fox realized he'd seen 
him around Clinton Street playing with the other 
children.  Then as now, the kid wore a battered old
fisherman's cap.   It covered his head down to his
ears, giving him a raffish look.  

The streetlights had turned on against the gray
twilight, and the boy stood silhouetted against the
modern glass entrance with its warm-toned electric
light.  Fox waited until the boy's arm was aloft, 
newspaper waving before he snapped the picture.

Pocketing his camera, Fox crossed the street and
approached the boy.  

"Keep the change," he said, tossing the kid a quarter.

"Thanks, Mister," he gulped, surprised by such a bounty 
from the shabbily dressed man.  Fox tucked the evening 
news under his arm and waved goodbye to the still stunned 
child and headed down Fifth Avenue.

Fox shook his head as he walked.  He'd given in to the 
urge to be generous, but he needed to be more careful 
in order to maintain his disguise.

Finally, he arrived at the imposing brownstone he
called home.  Six stories tall, the townhouse had
been designed by C.P.H. Gilbert.  It wasn't the
largest mansion on Fifth Avenue, certainly not by
comparison to houses of the Vanderbilts, but it was
elegant.

Fox bypassed the steps leading to the front door, he
slipped in through the servant's entrance.   Taking
the stairs two at a time, he raced up the three floors.  
He kept a careful eye out lest he be spotted sneaking
up the backstairs.

Luck was with him, and he arrived, undetected.  Fox
pushed open the door. 

"Mathew Fox--and late as usual."

"Quiet, Skinner!"

"Oh, I quite forgot.  You're really Fox Mulder, and if
your mother learns about your forays into the
demimonde, you'll be a very sorry Fox Mulder."

Fox set his jaw but didn't dare argue.  Technically
Mr. Skinner was his personal secretary, but in fact he
was part friend, part co-conspirator, and part martinet.  
As Fox's former tutor, Skinner was under the unfortunate 
misconception that Fox was still his charge.  Try as he 
might, Fox had been unable to disabuse him of this notion.

Fox shrugged out of the peacoat he wore on his photographic
excursions, mainly because the deep pockets easily 
concealed his cameras.

"I'll just take this coat and burn it."  

"Very funny," Fox replied.  He watched Skinner hold the 
coat at arms length as he carried it to the dressing 
room.  Hidden behind the elegant suits, starched shirts 
and polished shoes was a small cache of shabby trousers 
and shirts.  It was important that the subjects of his 
pictures didn't see Fox as an outsider.

"I'll draw you a bath," Skinner said, wrinkling his nose.

"There isn't time.  I'll be late for dinner."

"You'd best make time," Skinner said.  "Your mother will
faint dead away if she stands downwind of you."

"Well then, you're wasting valuable time insulting me."

"Did you get any good shots?" Skinner called out over
the rush of the water as the tub filled.  

"A few.  I want you to take the film over to Langly
later.  He'll do a better job of developing them than
I will.  One in particular may be...special."

Skinner nodded, his gaze shrewd.  "What are you up to,
Mulder?" he asked.  

Fox smiled, but didn't answer.  To be honest, he didn't
think he could explain what about the girl had captured 
his attention.  She was beautiful, without question, 
but beautiful women could be as dull as dust.  There had 
been something special about this girl--a spark, 
a force, a strength.

Skinner left him to his bath, taking the camera with
him.  He'd carefully remove the film for processing as
Fox had taught him.  At 34, Walter Skinner was eight years 
older than Fox.  He'd seen Fox through myriad adventures
and more than a few scrapes.  Skinner kept his life in 
order, and more importantly, kept Fox Mulder's secrets.   

Fox stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the
bathtub, groaning happily as he sank into the hot water.  
His father had spared no expense in building the house.  
Fox's suite consisted of a bedroom, dressing room, 
private bath, and sitting room.  
  
Samantha's rooms were across the hall, all decked out
in pale blue and cream, untouched since the day she left.  

His sister had been gone for four years and he still
dreamed of opening the door to her room and to find
her calmly brushing her hair at her dressing table.

Samantha had been a beautiful child and hence  
indulged in every way.  The entire population of New 
York City had adored her.  Fox had been just another of 
her devoted slaves.  Luckily, Samantha was sweet-natured,
so any spoilage was of the most charming variety.

By the time she was sixteen, Samantha was an extraordinary
beauty.  She began to attend balls and parties and was
attracting more than a few suitors.  Fox had been in 
London on an extended assignment for the family business, 
but he and Samantha had kept in touch by letter.

Fox still had her letters, tied up with a blue ribbon
in his trunk.  At first, they were full of the excitement 
of being allowed at long last to go to dances.  She was, 
of course, the "belle of the ball."  Soon, however, 
unhappiness started to creep into the letters.

A certain German Baron began to call on Samantha.  Mother
and Father were very much in favor of the match.  New York
society was extremely insular and not terribly old.  No 
matter how many airs the wealthy put on, they were painfully 
aware that the uncouth upstarts who made the fortunes were 
only a couple of generations back.  Making a brilliant marriage 
was the most important thing an heiress could do and a 
European title trumped any other family alliance for sheer 
clout.
 
Samantha was miserable.  The Baron was 45, fat and had 
horrible breath.  Her letters became more and more frantic.

"Please come home, Fox," she wrote.  "I don't know what
I'll do if Mother and Father insist on the Baron."  

It broke Fox's heart to be so far away.  Like most society
children, Fox and Samantha grew up with very little parental
contact.  Mother and Father had been happy to relegate their
children to the care of nannies and tutors and the finest
boarding schools on the Eastern Seaboard.  Emotionally, the
children had only each other.  Fox had been Samantha's 
protector and, in return, she had idolized him.

Fox booked passage on the first steamer back to New York.
When his father heard Fox was leaving his first assignment
against orders, he sent a blistering cable.  By leaving his
post, Fox was letting emotion get in the way of business, 
an unforgivable sin in the Mulder family.  Fox left England
anyway.

But Samantha was gone before his ship made port.  She'd left 
in the night with the help of one of the footmen.  Mother and 
Father chose to handle her disappearance privately
and had not called in the police.  Instead, they hired a
private investigator who determined that Samantha and 
Sean Pendrell, the young footman, had slipped out of the
house and vanished into the New York City tenements.

Their parents paid the investigator and seemed resigned to 
the loss of their daughter.  It was almost too much to imagine,
but sometimes it seemed to Fox as if Samantha was no longer 
marketable and thus not worth his parents' further 
effort.  

Fox would not give up, however, but without his parents' 
support, he had to find his own way to search for her.  
Though they were mere blocks away, the tenements might as
well have been a foreign country.

As a wealthy young person, Fox had no direct experience with 
the poor.  His only point of reference had been a popular 
expose  by the journalist Jacob Riis.  A photographer, Riis 
had documented the lives of the poor and taken the well-to-do 
to task for conditions in the slums.  The book had not been
without impact--reforms had improved conditions to an extent.

Fox poured over the book and an idea began to take shape in
his mind.  When he was ten years old, a friend of the family 
had given him a Blair Hawk-eye Camera.  Fox spent many happy 
hours in the park taking photographs and had become quite good.  

Fox Mulder's second life, that of slum photographer, took
shape.  Dressed in a common man's clothing, he made his way 
through the streets, taking pictures and asking if anyone had 
seen Samantha.  Though there were sightings of an out-of-place 
pretty, dark-haired girl, his sister remained tantalizingly 
beyond reach.   

What had begun as a means to and end--finding his sister--had 
become a vocation.  Fox admired Riis' work greatly, but 
sometimes it seemed as if Riis had lost sight of the people 
in his desire to chronicle their living conditions.  Fox wanted 
his photographs to show the humanity of the poor.    

Ultimately when it became necessary to adopt a name for his 
alter ego, he chose to honor a different photographer, Mathew 
Brady, whose work had brought the horrors of the Civil War
into comfortable homes far removed from the fighting. 
Mathew Brady, who had died in poverty, as Mr. Skinner 
frequently reminded him.

A sharp rap at the door startled Fox out of his reflection.

"Hurry up, Mulder.  It's quarter past seven," Skinner called
through the door.

"You worry too much," Fox shot back.  Skinner was right, 
however.  He was to accompany his parents to a dinner party 
and they would not be amused by his tardiness.

Rising from the tub, Fox dried himself briskly with a turkish
towel.  He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into
the dressing room where his formal clothes hung, brushed and
ready.  He dressed quickly, calling Skinner in to help with 
the more complicated aspects.  

"I wonder what thin-lipped eligible heiress my mother has
on hand tonight," Fox said as he extended his wrists so Skinner 
could fasten the gold and diamond cufflinks.  "Some vapid young 
woman, no doubt, unable to discuss anything beyond the weather 
and the latest styles."

"I believe Mrs. Fowley is attending," Skinner replied.  He 
held the waistcoat out for Fox to shrug into.  "She's hardly
vapid, I should think.  And such a young widow..."

"Diana," Fox mused.  "She's certainly not dull."

His wing collar was already cutting into his neck.  It was
going to be a long, uncomfortable evening.  Skinner eased
him into the swallow-tail coat and surveyed him with a 
careful eye. 

"The maidens will swoon," Skinner said dryly.  

"You should take that act to vaudeville," Fox replied
as he exited in search of the rest of the family.  He found 
his mother in her sitting room.  

"You look lovely, Mother."  Teena Mulder wore blue satin
overlaid with silver lace, which did remarkable things
for her white hair.  

"Thank you, dear," she replied, rising from her chair.  
"I'm afraid your father is in high dudgeon tonight.  
You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Where is Father?" Fox asked.  

"I believe you'll find him pacing the foyer and grumbling
to himself."

Fox and his mother decended the main staircase to find
William Mulder exactly as his wife had predicted. 

"So glad you decided to grace us with your presence, Fox."

"Sorry, Father.  I lost track of time this afternoon."

William Mulder glared at his son.  For as long as Fox could
remember, his father had been almost impossible to please.  
Still, he could never stop trying to achieve that elusive
acceptance.

"The car is waiting, Sir," Edgar, the butler, said, entering
the room.  The family exited the house, decended the front
staircase and climbed into the horse-drawn carriage.  Teena 
did not approve of motorcars, believing them to be noisy and 
undignified.

"Where were you all afternoon, Fox," his mother asked.  

"Oh, just wandering about," he answered.  "Looking at
some pictures."

"At a gallery?" she asked.

"You might say that," he replied.

"Damn fool waste of time," William Mulder said.  "A business
doesn't run itself while you stroll around gazing at 
paintings and consorting with chorus girls.  You need to
take the work more seriously, Fox."

"Father, I do take the work seriously.  You said yourself
that I'm astute when it comes to choosing investments."

"That's not all it takes to succeed.  You can't just
drop in at the office now and then."

Further discussion would have to wait as they'd arrived
at the Schuyler home.  It was less than half a mile between
the two residences, but it wouldn't have done to walk.

The Schuylers had made their money in steamships and had
done it a generation or two before everyone else.  That
gave them a certain eminence in society.   Adele Schuyler
was considered the grande dame of the social scene, in
large part determining who was worthy of inclusion in 
the cloistered world.

The dinner party this evening was small and intimate--
only thirty or forty attendees.  According to Teena Mulder,
Mrs. Schuyler felt a calling to provide opportunities for
young people to meet and mingle.  She apparently believed 
it was her responsibility as a society leader to foster 
what she considered "suitable matches."

The Mulders were admitted into the marble and gilt foyer,
dominated by a magnificent curved staircase.  The foyer
and the adjacent rooms were ablaze with electric light.
Fox smiled, remembering how his mother harrumphed with
annoyance when Mrs. Schuyler had electric lights installed
in her home.  "They make everything look ugly and stark,"
she'd said.  Fox thought her biggest concern was how
much less flattering electric light was than candle or
gaslight.

The guests milled around the foyer and library, the ladies
in elegant gowns, adorned with their best jewels and the 
gentlemen in formal dress.  Now and then, laughter could
be heard above the conversation as someone told a joke.

Fox had suffered through many of these little soirees,
often feeling like a prized bull being brought to stud.
He wondered if the young ladies ever felt like cows being
paraded before the bull.  

"Young Fox, how are you tonight?"  His father's partner, 
Dewitt Traut, shook Fox's hand vigorously.  "I must say 
I was very impressed with the Willington Mill purchase 
you put together last week.  That was quite a triumph."

Of all his father's business contacts, Fox was was
fondest of Traut.  The man encouraged and supported Fox 
rather than criticizing.  Sometimes, Fox felt guilty for 
feeling closer to Traut than his own father.
 
"I hope you're still as enthusiastic next year.  It still
remains to be seen if the mill performs as well as we 
expect."

Fox had an uncanny talent for choosing businesses for his
father's bank to invest in.  Part intuition, part acumen,
and a good measure of luck had enabled Fox Mulder to 
assess manufacturing companies, coal mines or textile 
mills and determine how quickly they'd turn a profit, and
how the soundness of their customer base.  He was able
to read people, as if to divine the truth about them. 

"Well, Fox, are you ready to meet the fairest maidens
in all the land?" Traut asked, jovially as he noted the
approach of their hostess.

"Good evening, Dewitt, Fox," Adele Schuyler said, a 
dark-haired woman following in her wake.  "So glad you 
could join us this evening.  You remember my niece, 
Diana Fowley, don't you Fox?"

Mrs. Fowley was apparently the 'fairest maiden' du jour.

"Of course," Fox said, extending a hand.  "How are you
this evening?"

"I'm quite well, Mr. Mulder," Diana answered, her 
expression wry.  "And you?"

"I'm fine," Fox responded.  "Please call me Fox.  When
I hear 'Mr. Mulder,' I look about for my father."

Laughing, she replied, "I shall do so with pleasure, 
if you'll please call me Diana."

"Dinner is served."  Before Fox had a chance to respond, 
the Schuyler's butler sounded a small gong as he made the 
announcement.  The guests assembled as if choreographed.

Traut extended an arm to Mrs. Dewitt, leading her into 
her dining room.  Diana Fowley slipped a hand around 
Fox's elbow and they followed.  

Diana was tall and comely, if not a raving beauty.  Her
silk chiffon dress was dusty rose, complimented by a long
rope of pearls that looped around her neck several times
and disappeared into a rather spectacular decolletage.  
  
Standing so close, Fox noticed a tracing of tiny lines around 
her eyes.  His mother was right--the electric lights weren't 
kind to any woman over the age of twenty.  They proceeded into
the dining room, where the massive table was set with gleaming
china and fine crystal among low arrangements of white roses.

"Oh look, Fox," Diana said, wryly, as she pointed out their
place cards.  "We're dinner partners.  Aunt Adele is nothing 
if not subtle."

"I count myself quite fortunate," Fox said as he assisted
Diana with her chair.  
 
He *was* lucky, he thought.  Diana was a vivacious dinner
guest and a wonderful conversationalist.  Fox had been 
bored to tears by more than a few silly debutantes.  One
could only talk about the unseasonably warm weather for 
so long before one started eyeing the cutlery as possible
weapons.  

Diana Fowley had been born into old money and at eighteen,
married new money.  Her husband had been twenty years her 
senior, a man whose drinking had been out of control since
his teens.  Hirum Fowley had been good to Diana, though, by
all accounts and had left her a very rich widow when he 
died three years ago of liver disease.

Fox found himself enjoying the dinner immensely.  He realized
he was starving, having been so absorbed in taking photographs
that he'd forgotten to eat lunch.  The Schuyler's cook had
outdone herself and delicious course followed delicious course
before Fox was nearly groaning with satiety.  

After coffee and more socializing, guests began to call for
their carriages and leave.  Hastings, the Schuyler's butler
as well as their grooms and footmen were kept busy handing
the guests into their carriages and motor cars.

Mother and Father had called for their carriage, and Father
had come in search of Fox.  William Mulder had seemed
pleased to see Fox chatting with Diana in the music room.
At his entry into the room, the two young people looked
up.

"Oh dear," Diana said, glancing at the clock on the mantle.  
"I've completely lost track of time.  I must make my farewells 
to Aunt Adele."  

They moved into the foyer, meeting Teena Mulder who seemed
similarly happy to see Fox and Diana together.

"Shall I call for your carriage, Mrs. Fowley," Hastings asked.

"Actually, I was thinking of sending my driver home.  It's
such a lovely evening, I thought I might take some air," Diana
said, looking up at Fox.  "I do hate to impose on your
kindness, Fox, but would you mind walking me home?" 
 
"It would be delighted," Fox replied.  To be honest, after
the enormous meal, he rather looked forward to stretching
his legs.

Hastings left to deliver Diana's instructions to her driver, 
while a maid approached with a silver gray velvet cloak, lined
with the same dusty rose as her dress.  When Diana was warmly
ensconced, Fox offered his arm and they descended the front 
staircase onto the avenue.

The air was crisp and scented with roasting chestnuts from 
a street vendor.  Fox inhaled deeply.  

"I'm glad we decided to walk," she said, smiling.  "I can't
remember when I've enjoyed an evening more."

"I assure you, the pleasure was all mine."  

"I fear we have little prints all over our backs 
from Aunt Adele's dainty hands," she said, smiling.

"Actually, I think mine are courtesy of my dear mother," he
laughed. 

"Do you mind?" she asked, watching him through veiled lashes.

"Not at all," he replied.  And he really hadn't minded tonight.
His mother had pushed enough doe-eyed, empty-headed heiresses
from impeccable backgrounds at him.  Try as he might, he could
never picture himself marrying any of them.  Well, he could 
picture the wedding, but immediately afterword, he pictured 
himself throwing himself in front of the streetcar. 

They approached the white limestone mansion Fox recognized as 
the Fowley house and stopped at the wrought iron gate. 

"I must confess..." Diana paused and smiled mysteriously.  She 
held Fox's hand between both of hers. "I very much enjoyed some 
aspects of being married."

She stroked his hand, looking deep into his eyes.  There was 
no mistaking her meaning.  Diana was a woman who enjoyed the
pleasures of the flesh.  

His head was still reeling at her frankness.   He was at a
complete loss for words--not something Fox Mulder was used to.

Diana seemed as composed as if she'd just told him her favorite
color. 

"I've shocked you," she said.

"No...no, not at all," he replied.  

"Fox, I'm meeting some friends for dinner tomorrow evening
at Delmonicos.  I was wondering if you'd like to join me."

"I'm afraid I have a previous engagement tomorrow," he said, 
though it wasn't true.  "I do hope we will see each other
very soon, though."  

That part was true.  He liked Diana.  She was unlike the other
women in his orbit, but he wasn't quite ready to exchange one
yoke for another.  Still, if his parents were going to insist
that he take a wife, Diana would be far from dull.

"Ah well, maybe next time," Diana said.  She opened the gate
but before she could go through, she turned and pressed a 
lingering kiss against his lips.  "Good night, Fox."

To be continued...


Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story, part 2

New York City - 1909


"I am a genius," Ringo Langly said.

"Unquestionably," Fox agreed heartily.  "May I see the
prints?"

Langly was a clever, inventive fellow, and only a
genius would have been able to find his way through
the apparatuses and chemicals of his cluttered shop,
but that was not the reason for Fox's ready praise. 
His eagerness to view once more the slender girl with
the Irish lilt made him generous with his words.

"I'll tell you how I did it--since I know you're not
smart enough to steal my techniques."

"Please do," Fox said, but he barely listened as
Langly described the process, instead thumbing through
the prints until he found the Irish girl.

"I should have asked her name," he said out loud.

Langly stopped his lecture and shrugged.

"Girl with basket," he said.

"I think she's a teacher," Fox mused.  "The way she
spoke... direct and clear."

Langly laughed.

"Not where I went to school, pal.  You're just hoping
she's a teacher because you're hoping she's not
married."

It was true that teachers were required to be
spinsters.  Even if this pretty girl had become a
teacher, she would be married in no time and leave the
profession.

"That isn't what I meant," Fox insisted, hoping Langly
couldn't read his discomfort.

"You be careful, Mulder.  Your old man would disown
you if you took up with a washerwoman."
 
Langly's familiarity was outrageous, except that
Langly was his friend.  The old man might disown him 
for that alone.

The thought was interrupted by the arrival of Langly's
partner.  Where Langly was crude and indifferent to
propriety, Byers was deferential and correct.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mulder,"  he said, placing his
toolbox on the counter.

"Afternoon, Byers."  Fox had in vain assured him that
the title was unnecessary in this setting.

"You fixed the door on Rosenbloom's hockshop?" Langly
asked.  

Langly and Byers were locksmiths, among other things.

"Of course," Byers said.

"And you got the money?"

Byers' hesitation gave him away even before he spoke.

"She'll have the money on Saturday."

"You bonehead," Langly said.

"She explained it to me, Ringo.  On payday her
customers bring her the money to redeem their goods. 
They get paid, she gets paid and we get paid."

"Mrs. Rosenbloom is loaded!  That's like Mulder saying
he can't pay you until Georgie Westinghouse pays back
his loan."

Byers blanched and turned to Mulder, too tongue-tied
to apologize.

"It's nothing," Mulder assured him.

Langly shook his head in disgust.

"We need supplies, Byers, and now we'll be waiting
till Saturday.  And Mulder, that's a buck for printing
and developing."

Fox passed over a dollar.  Langly's work was worth the
money.

Tucking the pictures into his briefcase, he took a 
deep breath.  It was time to get back to work, that is if
he could get to his office undiscovered.

The Irish girl had rebuked him for skulking about, but
now Fox only wished he was a better skulker.  His
attempt to slip away from his office and back before
his absence could be noted was unsuccessful.  A
nervous man was waiting by his door as if he'd been
left to guard it.

"He sent for you, Mr. Mulder.  You're wanted in the
back."

"Thank you, Yancy.  Was it Mr. Traut who sent for me?"
Fox tried to sound nonchalant.

"No, Mr. Mulder, it was the Chief."

"The Chief" was the name that everyone used for Fox's
father, and most of them addressed him simply as
"Sir."  Both the Chief and Dewitt Traut had offices
removed from the hubbub of daily operations, in an
area referred to as "the back."

Fox made a deliberate effort to square his shoulders
before entering his father's office.  It wouldn't do
to lumber in like a guilty schoolboy.

The Chief eyed him coldly for a minute, then opened a
drawer and offered him a cigar.  Fox accepted it
gratefully.  It was a poor substitute for his roasted
sunflower seeds, but it gave him something to do with
his hands.

"You know, son, I was calling you in to offer my thanks.  
Imagine my disappointment to discover you had abandoned 
your post."  

"I'm sorry, Father.  I had a small matter to attend
to."  In addition to his business at Langly's, Fox had
spent a few minutes with the treasurer of a new
insurance company.  He was prepared to expand his
brief appointment into an explanation for his
whereabouts.

"Yes, your meeting on Maiden Lane.  Not a long walk,
Fox, even at my age."  

Fox didn't answer.  His father was staring into his
eyes, and Fox stared back, refusing to blink.  At last
the older man turned away.

"Mr. Skinner has been a marvel at managing your affairs 
at  home.  Perhaps you would benefit from his assistance 
in the office."

It was an insult and a threat.  Perhaps Fox needed his
old tutor with him at all times to assure his
obedience.  

"I don't plan to have another of my children
disappoint me, Fox.  I will not allow it."

"No, Sir," Fox said.  Again they locked eyes.

The Chief heaved a sigh.

"Your work is sound, Fox, but you need to apply
yourself."

"Yes, Sir."

"Very good work indeed on the South Central merger.  I
wanted to tell you that recent events have confirmed
your suspicions."

"You taught me not to conduct business with
scoundrels," Fox said.

"But you're the one who saw first that the man was a
scoundrel.  You spared our money and our reputation,
Fox."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You may return to your duties."

Fox returned to his office and applied himself.  If
he'd been at his desk when the Chief called, he would
have received the man's praise without the scolding. 
While part of him wished it had happened that way, a
small voice inside was asking if he really wanted to
live his life only to please his father.  A small
voice that kept nagging at him until he realized with
a start if was Samantha's.

Still he kept to his work.  Mulder & Traut was like
that golden goose.  Once in a while Fox would discover
a new kind of grain she liked, or he'd stop her from
eating a sack gone bad, but for the most part she kept
producing those golden eggs regardless of his efforts.
 
At last evening came, and Fox was free.   His mother
had reluctantly accepted his notice that he would not
be home to dinner.  Diana had urged him to join her
and some friends at Delmonico's, but again, he'd
declined.  

He'd heard word of a young woman who gave English
lessons at the settlement house.  A young woman with
dark, wavy hair who spoke so beautifully that everyone
knew that she couldn't be from the east side.  

Skinner arrived carrying the parcel that would turn
him into Mathew Fox.  

"Father compliments your skill at keeping me in line,"
Fox told him as he changed outfits.

"That would explain his signature on my pay checks,"
Skinner replied.

It was a sobering response, and Fox, who had been
close to confiding his hopes for the night, decided 
to keep them to  himself.

"Then count your blessings.  He may rent you by the
hour, but he owns me outright."

"But one day everything will be yours," Skinner said.

Fox finished dressing and Skinner folded his discarded
clothing into the parcel.

"When should I expect you?" he asked.

"Take the rest of the night off."

Fox waited for him to leave and then went out himself,
through the little used side entrance.  

He headed north, taking the Bowery.   People who knew
Fox Mulder didn't go there, just as people who knew
Mathew Fox didn't dine at the Schuylers'.

He wondered if this was the night he would find his
sister.  He'd been looking for her for four years, and
he'd been close many times.  He'd traced her to a
rented room only to arrive the day after she'd moved out. 
He found the telegraph office where Sean Pendrell had
worked until the week before.

Fox had only the vaguest memory of Sean Pendrell,
though in a sense they'd known each other all their
lives.  Sean had grown up on the edges of the Mulder
household, one of the servants' children.  He'd been
fortunate enough to secure a position as footman. 
When Mulder tried to recall his face, no clear image
emerged.  Yet young Sean had become Samantha's
champion, whisking her away from the German baron.

James Pendrell, the family's butler for decades,
resigned in disgrace when his son's perfidy was
discovered. 

In all the time she'd been gone, Samantha had never
contacted her brother.  In closing the door on her 
old life, she had shut him out as well.

Fox found his way to the settlement house, and thence
to the English class.

"Whatcha wanna take English for?" a woman asked him
suspiciously before directing him.  Her arms were 
crossed over her rather formidable chest, her brown
eyes shrewdly taking his measure.
 
"I'm to meet someone there," he said.

"Class is almost over.  You betta wait here for
your friend," the woman said, pointing to a bench
along the wall.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Fox listened 
to the drone of the teacher's voice through the heavy 
door.  Was that his sister?  He just couldn't tell and
the need to know ate at him.  Finally, he heard many
voices and the scrape of chairs.  

A moment later, the students filed out: men and women
exhausted from a hard day's work in the sweatshops and
on the loading dock.  A few older children were in the
group, obviously kids who'd left public school to work.

Fox stood up and waited until the room had cleared.  He
held his breath and gathered up his courage to enter the
room.  The teacher's head was bent, a fall of dark, wavy 
hair obscuring her face, as she tidied the desk.  At
the sound of Fox's approach, she raised her head.  His
hopes drifted away like smoke in the wind.

The teacher, while dark-haired and pretty, was not 
Samantha.

"Can I help you?" she asked.  

"I...I was wondering if you'd seen this girl?" he 
replied, digging in his pocket for Samantha's picture.  

"No," she answered, looking at the photograph carefully.  
"I'm afraid I've never seen her before."

Dispirited, he left the classroom and went down the
stairs, under the watchful eye of the sharp-tongued
woman.

"What's a matta, ya didn't find yer friend?"   

Fox shook his head.  

"Ya could try the Educational Alliance."

Fox thanked her and left the building.  There on the
stoop, his disappointment turned to astonishment.

A young woman stood on the stairs facing the street,
in deep discussion with a young man.  It was the girl
with the laundry.

"We don't have to go to the show.  We could go
dancing," the man was saying.

"Thank you, Tom, but I can't spare the time from my
work."  The Irish lilt was still in her voice, along
with an edge of steel.

"Your brother don't mind.  He's all for it," Tom
wheedled.

"I have no doubt of that.  He's forever trying to get
me married off," the girl laughed.

"Cause he's looking out for ya.  And I'm his best
friend, and he knows I'd do right."

"I'm sure he thinks so.  Good night, Tom."

She took a step up the stoop, still facing Tom and
oblivious of Fox.

"Katie, wait!  I'll take ya to the picture show," 
Tom called.

"Tom, please.  And good night."  

She took one more step--right into Fox, who remained
at the top of the stairs, frozen in fascination.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed.

"I'm s-s-sorry," he stammered.

"What the hell!" Tom shouted angrily.

"Oh, go home, Tom," Katie dismissed him.

Tom was advancing up the stairs.

"The lady asked you to leave," Fox said.

"Do stay out of this," the girl said.

"Ya stickin' yer nose in where it don't belong?"

Fox's comprehension of the vernacular exceeded his
fluency.

"I don't want no trouble," Fox said, a little woodenly.

"Well I'm gonna break yer face!"

"I don't think so," Fox countered.  

He'd learned a thing or two about fisticuffs in his
years at boarding school, and Skinner had instructed
him formally in some of the finer points.  The man
called Tom was shorter than he, although their weight
was about the same.  

Fox was still measuring up his opponent when the
latter grabbed him by the jacket, kneed him in the
groin and hauled him down from the stoop to the
sidewalk.   His mouth ground against the cement.  Then
he felt the heel of a boot as it slammed in his back
and then the toe of the boot at the side of his head. 
It was over before he could force himself to draw in a
breath.

"Shame on you, Tom Colton!"  The girl's commanding
voice pierced the air.  "Now get on home like I told
you!"

"To hell with you.  To hell with all o' youse," Tom
said.

Then Fox felt gentle hands on his head and gentle
words in his ear.  Gentle questions about the state of
his health, and whether he could hear the questions,
and if he could open his eyes.  It was so peaceful and
so beautiful that he would have thought he was in
heaven, if only everything didn't hurt so much.   

The gentle voice became brisk and efficient.

"Up on your feet now.  I'll help you."

Fox was certain that moving would increase the pain,
but Katie's tone left no room for debate.  

"There you go.  One step at a time."

She guided him up the steps and back into the
settlement house, finally settling him onto an 
ancient sofa in a small parlor.

The woman from the stairs bustled after them, the
commotion drawing her like a moth to flame.

"The boy from the English lessons!  What happened to
him?"

"He got into a scuffle with Tom Colton."

"Ach, that fashstinkena no-goodnik!"

"Shayna, I just don't know what I'm going to do 
about Tom.  My brother encourages him."

The older woman set to fussing over Fox, pulling his
coat off and cleaning his face with a wet, soapy rag.  
He tried to take over the task for himself, but she 
clucked a reprimand and he endured her ministrations 
without further protest.

"Oy, what a lip!  It's gonna look like a challah bread 
in the morning."

Fox turned his head in an attempt to evade Shayna's 
rag.  Each swipe she took at his mouth hurt like hell.

"Where do you live?  I'll have some of the boys take
you home," Katie said.

"Very kind of you, but there's no need," Fox said.

"It's late and dark, and clearly you're not from 
around here."

"Again, Miss, thank you for your concern, but I don't
need help to get home."

"More likely than not, Tom Colton is soothing his
pride with a bottle of whisky.  I won't be responsible
if you pass his way."

"I can take care of myself," Fox protested, although
it was difficult to assert himself while someone was
washing him like a child.  

"Look at his hands, soft like a baby's," Shayna
commented as she cleaned his fingers.

"Is there someone I can call then?  Someone to come
and fetch you?" Katie persevered.

Fox didn't believe he needed an escort.  Too, he
remembered he'd given Skinner the night off.  

"Thank you for your concern, but--"

"Then it's settled.  You'll stay here for the night."

"God in heaven, Katie, what are you thinking?" Shayna
exclaimed.

"I'm thinking he's not fit to be out in the night by
himself.  Now what are you thinking?" Katie retorted.

"A boy, a girl, all night in a house?  This is
craziness."

"I can't send him out, Shayna."

"Then you go!  Your mama has room.  Why go looking for
trouble?"

"Nonsense.  I'm a nurse.  I've stayed at night with
patients before.  Besides, I can't go to Mama's.
Bill might be there, and I'm sure Tom's been running
his mouth."

"It just isn't right."  Shayna drew her shawl tight
around her.

"I can't believe you're so conventional, Shayna.  Here
I was, thinking you were a nihilist."

"Nihilist, shmilhilist.  It's your reputation we're
talking about here, Katie."

"She's right," Fox said.  "I can't let you be 
compromised, Miss...."

"Scully.  Katie Scully, and I don't need anyone
worrying about my virtue, thank you very much, 
Mr..."

"Mathew Fox," he said pushing off the sofa.  
"And I'm going home."  Unfortunately, the room 
chose that moment to spin recklessly and Fox 
faltered.

"You most definitely are not, Mr. Fox!"  He sat 
back obediently.  He was only slightly less 
frightened of her right now than he usually was 
of his father.

"Oy, this is a big, big mistake," Shayna said.  
"But, it's your funeral, Katie Scully."

Shayna left, shaking her head and mumbling words
Fox wasn't familiar with.  

"Let's get you to bed," Katie said, holding out
a steadying hand to Fox.  

"You should go home," he urged.  

"I am home," she replied, leading him down the
hall.  "This used to be a private residence.  The 
staff is allowed to rent a few of the upstairs 
bedrooms, though I'm the only tenant right now.  
Do you think you can handle some stairs?"

"I'll do my best, Miss Scully."

She slipped an arm around his middle and they 
began to ascend.  Fox could hardly breathe
though he wasn't sure if that was due to his 
bruises or the proximity of such beauty.

By the time they reached the third floor,
he was winded and had spots before his eyes.
That bastard must have scrambled his brains
when he kicked him in the head.

"Here we are," she said, leading him into a
room.  As she turned the lamplight up, he saw
it was sparsely furnished: a bed, dresser, bed
stand and chair.  He sank gratefully onto the 
chair as she drew a bundle of sheets from the
dresser.  

"I'll have the bed made up in a jiffy."

He watched her work, enjoying each graceful, quick 
motion as she pulled the sheets tight and deftly 
tucked the ends into hospital corners.  Katie 
stepped back, hands on her hips to survey her work.  
 
"All right, in you go."  She helped him over
to the bed, kneeling at his feet to slip off his
shoes.  He didn't know if he was relieved or
disappointed when she stopped there and lifted
his legs onto the bed.
 
The bed smelled a bit musty as he lay against 
the pillows, but the sheets felt crisp and
fresh.  
 
"How do you feel?"
 
"A little dizzy," he said, raising a hand to
his head.  "My head hurts."
 
"You may be concussed, Mr. Fox," she said, sitting
on the side of the bed.  "I'll be needing to
keep an eye on you."
 
He felt ridiculously happy at the concept of this
lovely woman sitting by his bed.  He wanted to 
keep her talking just to hear her lilting voice.
 
"You said you were a nurse," he said.  
 
"That I did," she replied, taking his wrist between 
her cool fingers.  "You seem surprised."
 
"I thought you might be a teacher."

"Well, nursing has a lot to do with teaching.  I 
instruct the new mothers in caring for their babies 
and I also look after the people who use the settlement 
house.  Some of them are too poor to see a doctor and
afraid of hospitals." 

She turned the lights down, bathing the room in
shadows.  He heard the scrape of the chair as she
drew it closer to the bed.

"You can't sit up all night," he said.  "I'm far too 
much trouble."

"You're no trouble at all, and I'm only going to
sit here for a while.  I promise to go to bed
as soon as I'm satisfied with your condition."

"I'm fine," he protested.

"Dizzy is not fine," she replied.  "Mr. Fox...
why did you come here tonight?  Was it to take 
more pictures of 'people doing what they do'?" 

"So, you remember me," he said.  

"Of course I remember you.  It isn't every day
that a man pops 'round the corner and takes my
photograph."

"It came out quite well," he said.  It pleased him
that he'd made an impression with his beautiful
laundry girl, even if it was an unfavorable one.

"How nice for you," she replied.  "So, did you 
come here tonight to sneak up on people and take 
pictures?"

"No...I came here looking for my sister.  I heard
about a dark haired teacher and thought she might
be Samantha."

"You thought our Miss Jacobs was this Samantha," 
she said.  "But she wasn't."

Fox shook his head, immediately regretting the 
action which left the room spinning.  Katie 
shifted in her chair.  He could only imagine how
tired she must be after a long day's work.

"That chair can't be comfortable," he said.

"The chair is just fine," she said.  "Tell me about 
your sister."

Katie sat forward, her expression one of concerned
interest.  It occurred to him that no one had ever
looked at him that way--like they wanted to hear
what he had to say.  Fox Mulder was used to being
either ignored, criticized or fawned over.  Warm
concern was an unfamiliar concept.

"She ran away four years ago.  I'd been away from home
for a long time and while I was gone, she left.  There
were problems at home...I think if I'd been there, I
might have been able to help."

"How old was she?" 

"Sixteen.  She ran off with a boy not much older than
she.  It tore the family apart.  No one would talk about
it.  Sometimes, I think I'm the only one who cares 
about finding Samantha."

"It's heartbreaking, really, how people are so 
unforgiving of girls when they make mistakes.  It
happens all the time.  A girl gets in trouble, and 
her family turns her out."

"I know my mother pines for her.  I find her looking
at Samantha's picture sometimes, but she never says
her name."

"And you think your sister is down here.  In the slums.  
So you take pictures down here so you can find her."

She said it without judgement, but he still felt the 
sting of the words. 

"It started out that way," he replied.  "A means to
an end.  I would take photographs and ask questions.  
I've been close to finding her so many times but she's 
always just out of reach."

She moved from the chair to the edge of the bed to 
check his pulse and look into his eyes.  He moved over
hoping she'd stay on the bed with him.  

"You said that it only started that way.  How did it
change?"

He sighed deeply, inhaling the light scent of soap  
clinging to her skin even at the end of the day.

"I guess I got to know the people.  To see beyond the
poverty to the individuals.  I began to understand 
that no matter how poor they were, or how little they
had, there was something burning within them--the need
to do more than just survive."

They talked late into the night.  Katie seemed so 
completely absorbed by the conversation, she eventually 
forgot herself and stretched out next to him.  Propped 
up on one elbow, she watched his face as he talked.  
He told her things he'd never told anyone--the worry 
that he'd never find Samantha, the fear that he was a 
disappointment to the people who depended on him.  

He wanted to tell her that he was Fox Mulder and not
Mathew Fox, but something kept him silent on that 
count.  This girl was the most beautiful, kindest
person he'd ever met.  The moment she found out that
he was a rich interloper would be the last time he ever
saw her.  And he didn't think he could live without
ever seeing Katie Scully again.

Fox woke with the clip clop of horse hooves and 
the clink of milk bottles being deposited on doorsteps.  
It took him a moment or two to remember where he was,  
then looked over at Katie who was curled up on the other
side of the bed.  She looked like he imagined an angel 
would, sweet and pure, her head pillowed on her arm.  

At that moment, Fox wanted to kiss her more than he
wanted anything in the world.  Maybe more than he
wanted to breathe.  But he knew if he did, he'd never
leave.  But while Mathew Fox might have the time and 
freedom to do what he pleased, Fox Mulder had obligations
to attend to and the weight of responsibility crushing
him like a stone.

Carefully, so as not to jostle the bed and  wake her, 
he sat up.  The room no longer spun, which he took as a 
sign that he was hale if not hearty.  He picked up his 
shoes and crept downstairs.  His coat was on the back 
of the old sofa.  It was heavy when he picked it up and 
he remembered that he'd had his camera in the pocket
when he'd made the acquaintance of the front sidewalk.

The camera seemed to have fared much as he had--a little
dented but none the worse for wear.  He pocketed it
and slipped out of the house.  The early morning air
was scented with baking bread courtesy of the bakery
on the corner.  The street was already busy with people 
scurrying to work.  

He stood in his Mathew Fox clothes and tried to come up
with a plan.

He could go home.  Mother and Father would be easy 
to avoid, for she was probably still abed and he 
would be breakfasting alone, in his sitting room.  
Fox could take the back stairs up to his chambers 
and put on fresh clothing, leaving his parents 
none the wiser.

How to dodge Skinner, that was the question.

It could not be done, he realized.  The man was a
bulldog and a bloodhound all in one. Even now he knew
that Fox had passed the night away from home.  Even
now he was rehearsing another stern lecture about the
ills that befell young men who enjoyed the favors of
women who were coarse enough to offer them.  

Skinner would never believe Fox slept side by side 
with a beautiful girl and it had been innocent and
pure.  The man would laugh if Fox told him that even
though he wanted to kiss her, it would have been sweet
and clean and the complete opposite of coarse.  

Fox would welcome that lecture, if it would spare him
from Skinner's response to his swollen lip.  But
suddenly, in an unexpected chain of thought, Skinner's
dire warning provided Fox's salvation.   For a brisk
walk would bring him to the dwelling of Sheila
Fontaine, where he could find warm hospitality, but
more importantly, a change of clothes.

What set Sheila apart from other showgirls was--well,
nothing, really.  Except that Fox paid her rent.  
She'd pouted with disappointment that he located their
"love nest" near his place of business.  She had
dreamed of a mansion on Park Avenue, or at least a
townhouse on Washington Square.

He had to knock on the door to wake her, for he hadn't
carried his key.  At last he heard sounds from within,
and her coy query:

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Fox."

"Oh, you couldn't be Fox.  He never comes around no
more."

"Sheila, open the door!"

"Yeah, you don't even sound like Fox.  Fox talks real
sweet."

"Sheila!"

"Ain'tcha gonna talk sweet for me?"

"Sheila, my darling, please let me in."

"If I let you in, will you be my sweet lovin' man?"

"Yes, Sheila, please let me in so I can be your sweet
lovin' man."

"All right, sugar.  Cause I'm so lonely for you."

He pushed his way in as the door opened, and she
wrapped herself around him.  She smelled of stale
perfume.  

"Kiss me, you sweet lovin' man!" she commanded.  Her tangle
of blonde curls trailing almost to her waist, she tilted her
head back and pursed her lips.

Fox tried to oblige, forgetting his swollen lip until
it was too late and he recoiled.

"Sorry, Sheila.  I hurt my mouth," he explained.  She
peeled herself off him, hurt and insulted.

"You hurt your mouth.  Well ain't that just so
convenient," she said huffily.

"Look at me!  Look at my lip!" Fox had forgotten what
a halfwit she could be.

Sheila studied his face, and her anger melted into
pity.

"My poor baby.  Did you hurt yourself, my poor baby?"

Fox shouldered past her to the bedroom, where a
wardrobe held his clothes.  Sheila followed, her 
negligee swishing behind her.

"You make yourself comfortable, baby.  Would you like
a drink?"

"It's six in the morning," he said, dropping his
peacoat on the vanity chair.

"Let me help you," Sheila purred, rubbing against him
and reaching for his shirt buttons.

Fox took hold of her hands.

"Sheila, I'm in a hurry," he explained, and at last
she seemed to understand.  When she backed away, Fox
quickly removed his shirt and trousers, flinging both
garments atop his discarded coat.  

He'd left a pair of drawers here, he recalled; they
would be clean by now.  He turned to inquire for them
and found that Sheila was completely naked.

"Hurry, baby.  Cause I'm in a hurry for your sweet
lovin'," she said, her voice quavering.

Fox saw her as he never had before.  No longer young,
no longer a showgirl, but a desperate woman who pinned
all her hopes on his affection.  

"Get your clothes on," he said, gently.

"Don't say that, baby."

"You don't have to worry, Sheila.  I'll see that you
have what you need."  He pulled on his clothes,
fastening buttons as quickly as he could.

Sheila's face crinkled.  No tears fell as yet, but
they would.

"You know I can make you happy, sugar," she whispered.

He grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door.

What more could he say?  Farewell?  Till we meet
again?  Good-bye.  In the end he said nothing.  

The dignified world of Mulder & Traut felt like a
sanctuary when he arrived, and his office was his
haven.  He made use of the early hour to review the
cables from Europe.  Father had his eye on a French
steamship company and Fox needed the latest
information.

A knock on his door brought an intrusion.  Morris
Fletcher was intelligent, confident and shrewd. 
Unfortunately he was also obnoxious.  Fox had nodded
at him on the way in; now the man stood in his doorway
holding a cup of steaming coffee.

Fox thanked him.  The coffee was welcome, even if
Morris was not.  Fox took a satisfying sip before he
set the saucer on the desk.  He knew well that
Fletcher's normal duties did not include the provision
of refreshments.

"Forgot to open the door before you left the house,
did you, Mr. Mulder?" Morris asked, tapping his lips.

"Yes, Morris, it occurred in exactly that manner," Fox
answered.  

"We could say it happened right here," Morris offered.

"Thank you for the coffee," Fox said, but Morris would
not be dismissed.

"If the Chief asks, or DT, we'll say I opened the door
too fast, got you right in the face."

"I'd counsel you to respect the truth, in your
dealings with my father and Mr. Traut," Fox said
stiffly.

Fletcher gave a little laugh.

"That's what I always say."

He retreated, and Fox knew he would waste no time in
spreading the word of Fox's fat lip.  

Fox spent the day as quietly and industriously as he
could.  He left the office once at midmorning, for a
walk to the piers.   For endeavors of commerce,
industry and shipping, there was no substitute for
direct observation.  He lunched at the Club, with
Father and DT.  Neither man asked about his injury,
although it forced him to leave much of his meal
untouched.

He broke from his work briefly to tend to his personal
finances.  He devised the details of a trust that
would provide comfortably for Sheila Fontaine.  Perhaps 
he would buy her a house, as well.  A house in the country.

As the workday approached its close, Fox realized he
would have to go back to the east side that evening. 
He had promised a picture to the bowlegged boy he had
photographed.  Benny Pinsker, that was his name.  

He really had to bring a picture to young Benny as soon
as he could.  And he could stop by Penazek's for more 
sunflower seeds.  And he should thank Shayna.  And 
since he was going there anyway, it would be rude not 
to call on Miss Katie Scully.

He took the streetcar home because he didn't have a
coat.  He entered his home through the front entrance,
because he was Fox Mulder.

Edgar the butler, who greeted him at the door, must
have noticed the lack of coat and the swollen lip, but
of course he said nothing.  Skinner was waiting for
Fox in his suite, and he wasn't as reticent.

"I see what happens when I take the night off," he
said stonily.

"Draw me a bath, please," Fox said.

"Where were you, Mulder?"

"Oh, and I'll need you to go down to Miss Fontaine's
tomorrow.  I left my coat and camera at her place."

Fox leaned down to untie his laces, but Skinner made
no move to start the bath.

"If you choose to pass your time with women such as
*Miss* Fontaine, you can keep track of your things or
retrieve them yourself," Skinner said.  "And what
happened to your mouth?"

"I fell down some stairs," Fox answered, standing up
to remove his shoes.

"Your father suspected you'd been in a fight," Skinner
said.  

"He said nothing to me about that," Fox answered.

Without warning, Skinner grabbed Fox's hands, first
right, then left, turning them over to check the
knuckles.

"You haven't thrown any punches," Skinner concluded.

Fox's flash of resentment turned to controlled anger.

"Miss Fontaine's house, right away, Skinner.  I'll
draw my own bath."

To be continued...


Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story, part 3

Skinner knocked now before entering Fox's bedroom. 
That was one of many changes, and one of the good
ones.  There was a new distance between the two, 
and if Fox missed the companionship, he also 
realized that it was a necessary adjustment.

In any event, he had little time for loneliness.  

Fox stood shaving in his bathroom, the taps wide 
open, and Skinner must have knocked quite forcefully.

"Enter," Fox called.

Skinner's reflection appeared in the mirror, watching
and silent.  With a pang, Fox remembered his own
youthful fascination at watching his tutor shave. 
That was long ago, when Fox was a smooth-faced boy 
and Skinner had hair on his head.

"Your father came up here last night, before you 
returned," Skinner said at last.  "I told him you 
were fast asleep."

"Very good," said Fox.

"He asked to see you at breakfast this morning.  He
and your mother wish to speak to you."

"I see."

"He said he had looked for you down in the darkroom. 
He asked who was responsible for the 'chamber of
horrors' he found there."
 
Fox felt as if he'd been slapped.

"He called my photos a chamber of horrors?" he asked.

"I'm sure he was reacting to the subject matter, not
the artistic merit.  I chose to tell him that I had
taken up the hobby," Skinner said.

"Oh.  Well, good that you told me."

"Yes, Mr. Mulder.  Any instructions for today?"

"I left some notes from the Powhattan Mill meeting. 
They need to be transcribed into something coherent," 
he said.  Deciphering Fox's chicken scratch notes and
typewriting them would keep Skinner busy all morning.  
"That will do, Skinner."

Fox whistled the funeral march as he finished shaving,
his discomfort tempered by his secret happiness.  It
had been three weeks since Katie Scully had watched over
his battered body.  

Three weeks of walks in the evening, spirited talks over 
coffee and spending time with the most fascinating 
creature on the planet.  Fox would be so engrossed 
in their conversations, he'd completely forget how 
much he wanted to kiss her.  It would have been perfect 
if not for the fact that Fox Mulder was a stranger to
Katie Scully.  Mathew Fox was her "fella."

Fox completed his morning ablutions and went downstairs
to breakfast.

"Good morning, Mother.  It's a rare pleasure to see
you up so early.  And Father, I'm honored you'd care
to breakfast with me."  He kissed his mother on the
cheek and bowed his head toward his father.

"You've grown so thin," his mother said.

"You always say that, Mother."

"Sit down, Fox," said his father.

Fox seated himself at the table and signaled for
Edgar to fill his cup.  The emptiness across the 
table was a yawning chasm.

"Isn't this nice?  All of us together," Mother said.

Fox swallowed hard.  Somewhere Samantha was sitting
down to breakfast--he hoped.

"Nothing's more important than family," Father said.

Cook had produced rations enough for a regiment.  Fox
busied himself with a fresh brioche.  

"You've been like a phantom," Mother said, with a
small smile.  "Out with your friends, night after
night."

"I was home on Tuesday," Fox reminded her.

"Mrs. Schuyler was heartbroken that you declined her
Arabian Nights social," Mother said.   

"Diana was disappointed as well.  And her costume was,
er, quite authentic," said Father.

Mother cleared her throat, obviously less impressed
than her husband.

William Mulder leaned forward to address her, as if
Fox wasn't in the room.

"Well, think about it, Teena.  The boy's mad about
chorus girls, and he grumbles that the young ladies he
meets are flighty and dull.  The Fowley widow is
perfect for him."

"Yes, Bill, but we're talking about the mother of our
grandchildren.  Diana seems so... hard."

"Hard?  Well, makes a perfect match with his soft
head."  Fox pushed back his chair from the table, and
Father hurried to mollify him.  "I'm joking, son, of
course."

"And you're very amusing," Fox said.  "But I must be
off."

"But your breakfast!  Cook will be crushed," Mother
protested.

"That's my curse.  I can't make a move without
breaking someone's heart," Fox said, folding his
serviette and dropping it on the table.

"Fox!" His father's command was quiet but sharp. 
"Diana is expecting you at a late supper tonight at
Delmonico's."   

"And I'm not to disappoint her," Fox concluded.

His father gave a nod.

"You're a smart boy, Fox."

Fox could wait and ride to work in the car with
Father, but that was something he avoided even on 
a good day.  He took the streetcar, and he'd been 
at his desk a scant ten minutes when Morris Fletcher
sauntered into his office.

"Sorry, Mr. Mulder, but you're wanted in the back." 
Fletcher didn't even try to hide his glee.

Father wouldn't be in so soon.  He knew it was DT who
had summoned him.

Fox dropped into the chair across the older man's
desk.

"No doubt I've disappointed you as well," he said.

"No, you have not."  Traut looked him in the eye, but it
wasn't a staring contest.  He was concerned and
curious.

"Then you're the only one," Fox said.

"You've never disappointed me, Fox.  At times you've
surprised me, but you've never disappointed me."

Traut had always been a good listener, but Fox resisted 
the urge to air his grievances.

"Thank you for that.  Now, why did you want to see
me?"

"You're aware we're looking to extend ourselves
further into insurance," DT said.

"It's a strong industry," Fox agreed.

"I have an appointment with Zeus Insurance
Underwriters this afternoon.  I'm going to pass 
it on to you."

"Why?" Fox asked.

"Two reasons.  First, you have an uncanny instinct
when it comes to money.  I tell you a cargo ship is
lost in the North Sea, and you tell me the price of
apples will go up in Indiana."

"But that's easy--"

"Easy for you, maybe.  But the second reason isn't
about profit, it's about people.  You can weigh a man
with your eyes.  I don't know how you do it, but it's
as if you see right through to his character."  Traut
leaned back in his chair.  "It's a gift, Fox, and one
I value highly."

"Thank you, Dewitt."   

"Feeling some pressure at home?" Traut asked, kindly.

Fox shook his head.  What happened at the Mulders'
breakfast table should not become public conversation.

"Diana Fowley's a handsome woman," DT said.

"She is that," Fox agreed.

Traut pulled his chair from behind the desk to bring it
closer to where Fox sat.

"Marriage doesn't have to be a cage, Fox.  It can
be... a nest.  A canary is a prisoner in his cage, but
an eagle may soar," he said.  "An eagle might even
have two nests, if that's what suits him."

When Fox and Samantha were little, Traut used to delight
in telling them stories, usually classics from Aesop
and LaFontaine, and usually with animals.  Fox was
amused despite himself.

"Two nests.  That's a lot of eggs," Fox said somberly.

"Eggs are to be avoided," Traut said.

"No eggs?"

"Eggs belong in the first nest."

"The one that's not a cage?"

DT smiled.

"I see I've made myself clear," he said.

It was clear all right, but two nests would not suit.  
Diana Fowley might be perfectly happy knowing that her 
husband had "a nest on the side," and Sheila would 
probably sing like a bird in that arrangement, but he 
didn't love her.  The only person he wanted to spend 
time with was Katie and she didn't seem like a second 
nest kind of girl.

Fox felt less burdened as he returned to his own
office, not because of Traut's theories on matrimony
or his delicate way of expressing them, but because of
his sincere approval.  A glance at the ledgers should
have been enough for Fox to gauge his success, but for
some reason the praise of a man he admired meant just
as much.  
 
A light rain was falling when Fox rode up Fifth Avenue
to the Flatiron Building and the offices of Zeus 
Underwriters.

As Fox saw it, insurance was one of the simplest types
of enterprise.  You assessed the liability in terms of
value and likelihood of loss and you set your rates
accordingly.  Certainly there was an element of
chance, but you manipulated circumstances to reduce it
to its minimum.  The insurer strove to set the rates
as high as possible, but that was mitigated by the
desires of the purchasing party and competition from
other would-be insurers.

Joseph McGrath was chief executive officer of Zeus.
He was a beefy man of around fifty, obviously used to
giving orders.

"You're Mr. Mulder?  I thought you'd be older," he
said.

"I will be," Fox promised.  "What can you tell me
about your business?"

McGrath delivered a detailed description.  Fox
listened attentively, reasonably impressed with the
man's knowledge and candor.

At length Fox asked about automatic sprinklers, and
McGrath stared blankly.

"They've proven effective time and again," Fox
prompted him.

"They're *expensive*," McGrath gasped.  "I don't want
to put my customers out of business."

"Mr. McGrath, do you know the maximum height of a fire
department ladder?  Do you know the reach of a fire
hose?" Fox asked.

"About six stories," McGrath answered.

"But many people work above the sixth story," Fox
reminded him.

"The buildings are fireproof.  That's the point." 

There was much to recommend Zeus, and McGrath himself
seemed like a reasonable, intelligent man.  Fox knew
DT would back him if he simply walked away, but he
girded himself for a different approach.

"Mr. McGrath, are you married, sir?  Do you have any
children?  I had a feeling you were a family man."

"I have a family, Mr. Mulder, but I fail to see what
that has to do with fireproof buildings."
 
How had the priorities become so out of order.  Fireproof
buildings were all well and good, protecting the property.
Zeus Underwriters advocated the building of fireproof 
buildings, offering lower premiums to businesses housed
in them.  When Fox had asked what incentives Zeus extended
for employee safety, McGrath had looked at him as
if he'd sprung a second head right out of his shirt collar.

"Factory buildings are expensive to replace," McGrath had 
told him.  "The workforce is plentiful.  Ten laborers are
turned away for each position filled."

After hours of looking over Zeus's policies and finding 
himself horrified at the lack of concern for life and 
limb, Fox told McGrath that he had enough information.  
Mulder & Traut would be getting in touch with them at 
a later time.   At last, they shook hands and Fox took 
his leave.  

It was nearly eight in the evening when Fox left the 
Flatiron.  In the hours he'd been inside, the drizzle 
had turned to a torrent and the sky had become black.

Fox stood in the lobby, fastening the buttons on his 
topcoat and watching the rain pour down.  Through the 
glass, he spotted the newsboy whose photograph he'd 
taken weeks before.  The poor kid wasn't having much 
luck selling papers as potential customers rushed by 
in the rain.  

Fox exited into the torrential rain, cursing himself 
for forgetting his umbrella.  Wind blew the rain down 
Fifth Avenue in sheets.  

"Paper!  Get yer evening World!  Get the whole World for
a penny!"

The newsboy struggled to hold onto the paper as he hoarsely 
shouted his sales patter.  

The look of desperate gratitude on the child's face broke
Fox's heart as he proffered his penny for a newspaper.

"Tough night?" he asked, tucking the soaked paper under
his arm.  

"The papers are all wet," he said, close to tears.  "I
gotta make good on 'em whether I sell 'em or not."

"How many do you have left?" Fox asked, holding his coat
collar closed against the wind.

"Got a couple hunerd, and they ain't gonna sell, that's
fer sure."

Digging in his pocket, Fox extracted two singles.  "Here.
Now they're sold."

"Golly, Mister.  Thanks!"  Under the brim of his fisherman's
cap, raindrops sat on the boy's light-colored eyelashes.  
The expression of joy on the boy's face touched something 
inside Fox.  

"Let's get rid of these," Fox said, lifting the heavy bundles
of wet newspapers.  Ink ran off his hands as he dumped them
into a nearby garbage can.  "You know, I'm famished.  You
look like you could use a hot meal, too.  Why don't we
walk on down to Hoffmiller's for a plate of sauerbraten."

"Sour what?" the boy asked, hesitantly.

"Sauerbraten...it's like pot roast.  Trust me."

Around the corner on West 21st Street, Hoffmiller's 
German Restaurant was a short walk.  The boy trotted 
along, having little trouble keeping up with Fox's 
long-legged gait.

In the restaurant's steamy warmth, they hung up their 
drenched coats on hooks by the door.  The newsboy doffed 
his soaked hat, revealing a mass of curly hair that must 
have gotten him called "carrot top" every day of his life.

The waiter showed them to a booth and they slid in.  Fox
waved away the menu as unneeded.  He ordered a plate of
sauerbraten with potato dumplings and red cabbage for the 
kid and a bowl of chicken consomme for himself.  He didn't 
want to get too filled up as he still had a late supper 
with Diana to suffer through.  

"Hey, I remember ya," the boy said, looking at Fox for
the first time in the restaurant's better light.  "How
come yer rich now?" 

Fox winced inwardly, remembering his generous impulse of
three weeks past.  Tipping a quarter for a penny newspaper
had been foolish when done wearing Mathew Fox's clothes.

"I came into a windfall," Fox said.  "So, who do I have
the pleasure of feeding tonight?"

"Charlie Scully," the child said, extending a dirty hand.

Taking the boy's hand, Fox felt the earth shudder as his 
two lives collided.  What were the odds, he mused, that 
a red-headed boy named Scully wouldn't be related to Katie.

"Pleased to meet you, Charlie Scully," Fox said, carefully
avoiding any mention of his own name. 

Fox flagged down the waiter and ordered a beer.  Glancing
at Charlie's freckled face, he added a sasparilla for the
kid.

"So, tell me about yourself, Charlie.  Do you have any 
brothers and sisters?"
 
"I got a brother and two sisters," Charlie said.  "But 
they're all older'n'me, so mostly, it's just me and Ma.
My Da died last year."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Fox said.  Katie had talked very
little about her family.  He knew her father was dead, and
that she had siblings, but very little else about her.  The
urge to pump this child for details was very strong.  

The waiter arrived, bearing the beverages as well as a huge 
platter of food for Charlie and Fox's bowl of soup.  Charlie's 
eyes widened at the sight of such a bounty.  

After several minutes of concentrated eating on Charlie's 
part, Fox prompted him for more details.  Charlie shared
that his brother, Bill, was a longshoreman--something Charlie
thought was thrilling.  Fox thought it was terrifying.  

Charlie's elder sister was married and lived a few blocks
away.  But it was the second sister Fox was interested in
hearing about.  Charlie seemed both awed and a little 
disapproving as he talked about Katie.  Charlie obviously
adored her, but the prevailing family attitude toward an
independent young woman showed through. 

"So, your sister is a nurse.  That's quite admirable," Fox
offered, feeling horrible at the idea of using this kid to
ask about Katie.  But whether he felt horrible or not, Fox
seemed unable to control the urge to investigate.  "Must
keep her very busy."

"I guess.  We don't hardly see her no more.  She use ta 
come 'round and see Ma, but Katie says she got work to
do at night.  Ma don't believe her.  She thinks Katie got
a fella comin' 'round the settlement house."

Whether it was his under-active conscience or his infrequently
utilized sense of self-preservation, Fox Mulder knew
it was time to change the subject.  No matter how much 
he wanted to question Charlie about how much Katie might
be interested in this "fella," this was dangerous territory. 

For the rest of the meal, they talked about baseball and
the recent World Series.  Fox favored the Detroit Tigers,
while Charlie was more of a Pittsburgh Pirates man.

After dinner, Fox ordered Charlie an enormous apple strudel
which the child inhaled before the waiter got back to the
kitchen.  Fox checked his pocket watch, remembering his
date with Diana.  He flagged down the waiter and paid the
bill. 

Fox and Charlie stood under the restaurant's awning, watching
passers-by struggle with their umbrellas.  The rain pounded
down so fiercely, the drops bounced as they hit the pavement.

"Thank you for dinner, Mister," Charlie said, pulling his hat
down over his mop of hair.  

"Charlie, how would you like to go home in a hansom cab?"

"Gee!  No foolin'?"  Charlie was practically dancing with
happiness.

"No fooling," Fox replied as he attempted to flag down a cab.  
Ten wet minutes later, Fox was successful at they climbed up
into the cab.  

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Clinton Street," Charlie replied.  The boy was apparently 
unable to sit still while the cab moved through the city 
streets.  After a few blocks, Charlie asked Fox if they
could go to the settlement house instead of home.  

"I fergot, Ma tole me I gotta stay with Katie tonight.
Missy--that's my other sister--and her babies are at our 
place 'cause that bum of a husband o' hers drank the 
rent money again.  There ain't enough room for me an' 
it's Friday so I don't hafta go to school tomorrow."

"Does your sister stay with your mother often?" Fox asked.

"Whenever they get evicted.  Bill says she made her bed
and oughta lie in it now, but Ma feels bad 'cause of the
babies."

"Well, then, let's get you to the settlement house."  Fox
gave the driver his new instructions and wondered if
the night could possibly get any more complicated.  He
unwittingly befriends Katie's brother, on the same night 
he is forced to meet with a woman he doesn't want to marry
and now has to come within feet of Katie as he delivers
Charlie to her door.

"Driver, I'll get out at the corner,"  Fox called out.  
He extended his hand to Charlie.  "Take care of yourself,
young Charlie."

"Thank you, Mister."

Fox hopped out of the cab, instructing the cabbie to take
Charlie on to the settlement house and paying him generously.
From his vantage point a half block away, Fox watched the 
cab continue to the settlement house where Charlie
got out, ran up the front stoop and disappeared inside.

The rain had almost stopped, but the night sky was still 
overcast with clouds as Fox walked down the street.  Maybe
fate would smile upon him, after all.  He'd only be slightly 
damp by the time he walked the mile to Delmonicos.

The maitre-d'hotel lead him to a windowside table
where Diana sat sipping a glass of wine.  Across from
her, his back toward Fox, a gray-haired man sat
smoking a cigarette.  Like Fox, he wore business
attire rather than evening wear.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Fox greeted her.  

"I was admirably entertained," she said, with a nod
across the table.

"Then I am in your debt as well," Fox said, turning to
address her companion.

"Not at all.  Mrs. Fowley's company is a reward in
itself, and I was eager to see you again, after so
many years."

They shook hands, Fox expressing great pleasure at the
reunion as he racked his brain to remember the man's
name, or even where they had met.  

Fox took his seat beside Diana.  She reached for his
hand and held it on her lap.

"Do you know what I missed most when I was abroad?"
asked the man Fox couldn't quite remember.  "The food.
One can't get a good beefsteak in England."

England, thought Fox.  We met when I was in England.

"Then you must join us.  Delmonico's is famous for
their steak," Diana said.

"I wouldn't  dream of intruding," the man said,
stubbing out his cigarette.    "Have a wonderful
night."

"Oh, we shall," Diana laughed.  "Fox owes it to me,
after making me wait."

The man departed.  If only there was a way to do so
gracefully, Fox would have dearly loved to move to his
vacant seat.

"Who was that?" he asked Diana.

"Oh, I thought he'd never leave," she answered airily.

"I know I've seen him before, and he remembered me--"

"Is that how you treat all your lady friends?   Arrive
whenever you please and then spend the evening talking
about someone else?"

"Forgive me, Diana.  You look beautiful tonight, and
from this moment you have my undivided attention." 
When he'd walked her home from Mrs. Schuyler's party,
she'd been undemanding and easy to talk to. 
Apparently something had changed.

"I thought we had an understanding, Fox, if not an
agreement.  I thought we were prepared to move on to
an agreement."

"I fear I may have misled you," he said, bracing
himself for her wrath.

Instead she smiled indulgently and squeezed his
captive hand.

"I keep forgetting how very young you are.  Your
commanding presence in the sphere of business made me
forget that in many ways, you are but a child."

"Just so," he agreed, willing to accept her disrespect
if it bought him his release.

The waiter approached.

"We're ready, Dmitri," Diana said, and he withdrew. 
Fox watched him walk away until Diana used a finger to
tap his cheek.

"I know about you," she said.  "Your donation to the
foundling hospital.  Your contributions to the strike
fund."

"Money I gave publicly and without shame."

"Yes, Fox, and I did as well.  Some of the finest
money in the country supports such causes."

"Then I don't see your point," he said.

"I know about your pictures.  In a city full of
elegance and beauty, you photograph tenements and
factory workers."

"A loosely held secret at best," he said.  

"Everyone has something to hide."  Again she squeezed
his hand, and then her voice became gentler.  "You
don't have to give up any of that.  You simply need to
become responsible."

Fox wondered if Harry Houdini had moments like this,
when escape seemed impossible.

"Responsible to your family and to your country," she
continued.  "To the foundlings and factory workers who
rely on the giants of banking and business to keep the
factories open.  To the greater good."

"Surely there's more than one way to serve the greater
good," Fox said.

"You've been a child, with only the responsibility of
a child to your own dreams and fantasies," Diana
concluded.  "You won't know the true joy of
responsibility until you plant your feet in the
world... and become a father."

Panic made him giddy, and Fox began to laugh.

"You call me an irresponsible child, and then you
command me to become a father," he sputtered.

Diana laughed too, and she shook her head indulgently.

"Most men are like children."

There was no gallant way to make her release his hand.
It took both hands and stony determination to get
himself free.

"I'll see you home now," he said.

"No, Fox, you will stay, and eat your steak, and you
will hear the rest of what I have to say."

Indeed, the waiter had returned with two massive
steaks, which he set on the table.

"You see, I don't have much patience for
preliminaries," Diana said.  "Or would you like to
start with some soup or pate?"

"This is fine," Fox mumbled, picking up his fork.

The steak was superb, so good that Fox was able to
enjoy it despite the circumstances.  Cooked medium
rare, as he would have ordered it himself if he'd had
been allowed the chance.  

Conversation turned to more comfortable matters. 
Diana sought his advice about selecting a camera.  She
asked him to explain the debate over baseball's
sacrifice fly, and whether he thought it should be
allowed.

And then, when he was reluctantly deciding that he
couldn't eat another bite no matter how delicious, she
put her hand on his knee.

"You do need a wife, and frankly you could do no
better than a wealthy lady who knows all there is to
know of how to bring pleasure to a man."

"I am sure that you do, but--"

"You haven't the slightest idea."  Her smile was
almost a taunt.

"Really, Diana, you make me sound like a blushing
virgin," he protested.

"Poor little rich boy.  They tell you you're swell and
you believe them."

Her hand slid higher on his leg, and he gasped.

Fox was speechless.  He had no words to say, and not
the breath to say them.

"Before you reject me, I want you to know what you're
giving away.  That's all I ask of you, Fox."

Fox asked a question that sounded like, "Whahabahah?"

She called to the waiter.

"Dmitri, call for my carriage."

"C-c-carriage?" Fox managed.  

She brushed her lips along his cheek and whispered in
his ear:

"I know so much about you, but I'm very good at
keeping secrets.  All I ask is that you take one night
to see what you've been missing."

She started to rise, and it snapped him to action.  A
gentleman must never sit when a lady stands.  And of
course he must slide back her chair.

Diana's laughter tinkled with delight as she took his
hand.

"Come with me, my sweet boy. . . "

To be continued.... 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story, part 4

"Diana, please," Fox said as she steered him through 
Delmonico's.  "This isn't right."

Fox found himself in a rather unique position for
a young man.  Diana had offered him one evening in
her bed to show him what marvels marriage to her
would entail.   Most men would consider it enviable
in the extreme.  To Fox, it was infinitely 
uncomfortable.  

"People are looking at us, Fox.  We'll continue
our discussion outside."  Diana's voice was warm 
and persuasive, her hand on his arm like an iron
band.  

"Diana," he hissed as tried to pull his arm out of
her grasp.  It was true, their passage through
the restaurant had attracted a little attention 
from the other patrons.  He stopped resisting, not
wanting to make a scene.

"I'd prefer to walk, Diana."  Now that they no 
longer had an audience, perhaps he could get free.

"Don't be silly, Fox.  It's late and my carriage
is right here."

Before he knew what happened, he was beside Diana 
in her carriage and she was giving her driver the 
order to take them home.  To her home.

"Fox, dear, you have to trust me," she said, taking
his hand.   "I know how to make you happy."  

Diana studied his hand, turning it over in her hand.
"You have the most beautiful hands I've ever seen on
a man.  I can picture them doing a thousand things."

Her evening wrap had fallen open, revealing decolletage
barely restrained by the lowcut bodice of her dress.  
Diana placed Fox's hand on the warm curve of one 
breast.  

"I have so much to offer you, Fox.  You need someone
who can give you both pleasure and guidance.  I can do
that."

It would have been so easy to let it happen.  Diana
would be a skilled lover, a courtesan disguised as
a society paragon.  His parents would be pleased. 
After all, marriage to Diana would be financially
advantageous and the match would align the Mulders 
with the lofty Schuylers.  If only this didn't feel
so terribly wrong.  He pulled his hand away.

"This is a mistake," he said as she reached up to 
caress his cheek.  Fox recognized he was on very 
dangerous ground.  

"Darling," Diana said, sliding her arms around
his neck.  Her breath was hot on his face and her
mouth was inches from his.  "Oh, darling, how
can something so wonderful be a mistake.  You're
such a beautiful, beautiful man.  So untamed,
so passionate."

With that, she kissed him, long and wet and deep.  
He tried to push her away, but she mistook his 
resistance for ardor.  His struggling only increased 
Diana's aggression as she pressed herself against him 
all the harder.  Her hands were everywhere: ruffling 
through his hair, sliding over his chest and shoulders, 
measuring him through his clothes.  

"You're so strong," Diana murmured against his
mouth.  She pushed his top coat and suit jacket 
open and began to unbutton his shirt.  When one
wouldn't give way, she pulled the shirt open, 
scattering buttons to the floor of the carriage.
Diana's hands were all over his chest, cool 
fingers massaging his flesh through the soft cotton 
of his undershirt.  "I can hardly wait to get you home..."

Finally, Fox managed to grab her shoulders and
push her away.  "Diana," he asserted, "I will 
not be railroaded into your bed." 

"Oh, my sweet," she said, her hand straying to his groin.  
"It doesn't appear that I'll have to force you to do 
anything."

In truth, he was hard.  Only a dead man would have had
no reaction to Diana's caresses.  She cupped him, her
fingers deft and practiced.  Gathering his strength, 
Fox pushed her hand away.

Arousal was not a state he was unfamiliar with.  It 
meant exactly nothing except that he was a young 
healthy man and Diana was an expert at how to handle 
a man.

"Driver!" he shouted, his voice embarrassingly
desperate.  "Driver, I'll get out here."

Fox was afraid the carriage wouldn't stop and he'd
be forced to jump, but the driver pulled up on the 
horse and the carriage drew to a stop.

He hopped down, pulling his coat around him to hide
his unbuttoned shirt.  His face was flaming and sweat 
prickled at his skin.  The erection had only subsided
a little and still tented his trousers.

As the carriage pulled away, he could hear Diana's
laughter.  

It could be weeks before he learned the total cost for
thwarting her passion.  The financial and societal
power that made Diana a good match also made her a
formidable enemy.  Mulder & Traut was too large and
well regarded to suffer any lasting damage, but it
would be a short season indeed if Mrs. Schuyler let it
be known that the Mulders were no longer the right
sort of people.  Fox wouldn't miss the invitations,
but his parents would, especially Mother.

Maybe Diana would accept defeat quietly.  She could
tell her aunt that Fox Mulder had ceased to amuse her,
without offering further explanation.  After all,
tonight's events reflected poorly on her own conduct.

But that was the hell of it.  While Diana could
concoct any story she liked, Fox was forced to keep
silent.  The night's events were such that they could
not be related by a gentleman.  Even if they knew the
truth, Mother and Father were unlikely to be
sympathetic.  Mother would point out that he cozied 
up with showgirls for his own selfish pleasure, but
refused to sleep with a well-born lady when his
family's fortune and future depended on it.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked the
five blocks to his home.  The evening air felt cool 
through his undershirt as his coat pulled open.  Fox 
sincerely hoped his parents had retired for the night,
saving him from the embarrassment of having to explain
the state of his clothing.

This was the perfectly wretched end to a perfectly 
wretched day.  Being taken to task by his father at
breakfast had certainly been an inauspicious beginning.
Fox still wasn't sure how he was going to deal with 
Charlie.  One false move and his double life would be
uncovered, effectively ending his romance with Katie.

Fox was relieved to reach home without encountering 
any acquaintances.  The junior footman opened the door.  
He gawked in surprise at Fox's disarray as Fox 
reluctantly allowed himself to be divested of his coat.   

"Your parents are waiting in the library," the footman 
said.

"Say I will join them shortly," Fox said.  His plan to
dash upstairs for a dressing gown, like so many of his
plans today, was thwarted.  His mother burst into the
foyer, his father close behind.

"Fox, is that you?"  Mother asked.  "We didn't expect
you home so early."

Father looked him over with great satisfaction and no
little amusement.  Fox raked one hand through his hair,
holding his shirt closed with the other.

"I trust that you and Diana have become better
acquainted."

"Don't keep us in suspense," Mother said.

Fox felt hopelessly besieged.  Good God, what Samantha
must have endured.

"I'm very tired," he said, and his father let out a
phony laugh.

"But how was your date?" Mother asked, an edge of
uncertainty in her voice.

"The steak was perfect."

"Now you know that's not what I meant," she protested.

"Let's, er, wait and see what Diana thinks about it,"
he said.

"I suppose we'll have to wait, Teena," his father
chuckled.  "You've raised the boy too well, I'm afraid.
He's far too discreet to discuss a lady."

His mother laughed indulgently, stretching up to 
kiss Fox on the cheek.  He couldn't remember the last
expression of affection he'd received from his mother.

"Well, then, goodnight, Fox."

Sleep was in short supply that night as Fox tossed and
turned and wondered how his mother would react to life
as a social pariah.  When he finally drifted off, he
dreamed Diana was tearing at him with sharp claws.

His body felt sluggish the next morning.  Fox sat on 
the end of his bed yawning.  The knock at the door was
soft.

"Come," he said.

"Good morning," Skinner said.  "I wasn't sure you would
be awake."

"I don't think I am," Fox said, stifling another yawn.

"You could go back to sleep for a few more hours," 
Skinner said.  "Your father was in quite a state this 
morning.   I haven't seen him this pleased since he and
Pierpont Morgan stopped the market crash.  He said you 
should take the morning off--something about being 
exhausted after a busy night."

Since Saturday was a short day for Mulder & Traut,
Father had effectively given Fox the day off.  He 
must have been very pleased, indeed.  Was it disingenuous
to take advantage of his father's generosity when 
it was only a matter of time before the facts came
to light?

Further sleep was an unwelcome option as it might 
lead to more nightmares.  Fox shivered, pulling his 
dressing gown around his shoulders.  "I've slept
enough," he said, shaking his head.

Skinner seemed to be enjoying Fox's discomfort a
little too much, but he made no comment.  A few weeks 
ago, he'd probably have joked that the chorus girl days
were behind him as Fox had developed more sophisticated 
tastes.  In light of their still somewhat strained 
relationship, Skinner had apparently chosen to be 
circumspect.

"In that case, your mother has requested you join her
at breakfast."

"Tell her I'd be delighted."  

Fox would begin to gently prepare his mother for the
disappointment that was sure to follow.  His father
would be angry and derisive, but Fox was accustomed to
that.  His mother's pain concerned him more.

She was waiting for him and he kissed her on the cheek
before taking his seat.  Edgar poured coffee for both.

"She's a lovely, lovely girl," Mother announced.  "She
sent me a note.  One for you as well, naturally."

"What did she say?" Fox asked, keeping his voice calm.

"Why, I was waiting for you, dear.  We can read them
together."

He ripped the envelope in his haste to open it. 
Diana's handwriting was sure and bold.

   Dear Fox,

   I'm overwhelmed with remorse and embarrassment.  
   I beg you to forgive me.

   Perhaps it is unreasonable, but I pray you find 
   it in your heart to allow our friendship to endure,
   despite my unpardonable display.  I've felt so 
   alone since Hirum died, and the depth of my feelings 
   for you led me to deceive myself that you might feel 
   the same way about me.  I now understand that you 
   do not, and never will.

   I ask you for one great indulgence.  I was foolish 
   and made no secret of my infatuation, and now I  
   cannot bear for the whole world to know that I gave 
   you my heart, and you cast it aside.  I would be 
   forever in your debt if you would allow me the public 
   charade of your affection for a very short period.  

   Our courtship will be brief and end with our mutual
   decision to part ways.  I hesitate to ask so much of
   you, but I know you to be a generous and honorable 
   man.

   Yours in friendship,

   Diana

Fox read it twice, afraid at first that he had
misunderstood.  But Diana's request was very clear,
and it meant his salvation.

"Your face gives you away, Fox.  You really do love
her," Mother said.

"Is it that plain?" he asked, feeling like an actor in
a play.

"Your apprehension before you read her note, and then
your relief," Mother said.  

"And what did she say to you?" 

"She hopes to become closer to the family.  And she's
proposing me for the executive board of the Orchid
Society."  She beamed.

"Her powers know no bound," Fox noted dryly.

Mother eyed him shrewdly.

"I don't envy you, Fox, to live in such times."

"Really?  In most ways I count myself fortunate. 
Aeroplanes, moving pictures. . . "  He avoided mention
of motorcars, knowing she held them in low regard.  
Nor did he mention cameras, for which he was truly 
grateful.  The modern camera gave him the joy of the 
artist, which he would not have known otherwise.

Mother shook her head.

"Roosevelt was no better than a Democrat, and Taft may
prove worse.  He's talking about a government tax on
income, Fox, can you imagine?  Our world is changing,
and not for the better."
 
"You'll always have the Orchid Society," he said with
a grin.  Mother smiled back, her dark mood broken.

"You always were impertinent, young man.  Your father
has given you the morning off, you know."

Fox's quick wit told him to speak now before she could
saddle him with some blindingly dull social
obligation.

"I have an errand downtown.  There's a property I want
to see," he said quickly.

"Pity.  I thought we might inquire about the purchase
of one of those automobiles."

"Mother, you surprise me," Fox said, placing his hands
over his heart.  "You always referred to automobiles as
'those wretched smoke-belching abominations'."

"Well, we can't be the only family on Fifth Avenue who
doesn't own one, can we?" his mother said, with a coy
smile. 

Fox promised her his participation at another time,
and set off on his "errand."

He had dressed casually, but he knew that his clothes
would be a noticeable departure for Mathew Fox.  He
hoped he had become a familiar enough figure around
the slums that the change wouldn't matter.  Then he
could dispense with the increasingly complicated
business of his secret wardrobe switches.  Besides,
it had gotten too warm for his peacoat.

As for Katie, he'd tell her the truth if she asked.  
That he had decided to dress better.

He stopped first at Penazek's.

"Mr. Fox!  I know what you want!" Anna greeted him. 
Her father was scooping dried beans from a barrel 
into a wooden bin.  

"How could you know that?" Fox asked.  Anna never
tired of the game

"You always buy the same thing."

"I do?  Then today I'll buy some elephants."

Anna was delighted.

"We don't have any elephants," she giggled.

Fox contorted his face to grotesque, despairing
sorrow.  Even Penazek gave a snort of amusement.

"Just one?  A little one?" Fox asked.

"We don't have any elephant at all."

"I don't care if it's fresh," he said.

"We have roasted sunflower seeds," the girl said.  
"And they're fresh because papa roasted them this 
morning."

Fox sighed.

"OK." 

"Mr. Fox, I remember something," Penazek said
suddenly.  "Anna, go upstairs, tell Mr. Frohike 
the picture man is here."

Melvin Frohike lived above the grocery.  The intense
little man was a newspaper reporter who boldly
described himself as "muckraker extraordinaire."

Months ago, Fox had taken a photo of little Anna 
peering through the front window of the grocery
store.  When Anna had proudly shown Frohike the 
photograph, the little man had seen something of 
Fox's ability to frame a photo and illuminate the
subject.  He'd arranged a meeting with Fox and 
asked for several photos to show his editors.

Fox had only a few minutes to wait until Frohike
bounded through the front door behind Anna.

"Mathew Fox, I've been looking for you!  You're a
hard man to reach."

Fox smiled, extending a hand in greeting.  "I've
been busy with a few things."

"I owe you some money," Frohike said, digging in his
pocket.  

"I can't imagine how, Frohike.  I'm very sure I'd
never lend you a penny."

"Quite the jokester, aren't you, longshanks.  Just for
that, I should keep this to myself."

Frohike held up a check.  It was made out to Mathew
Fox in the amount of $5.00.  

"The Atlantic Monthly?" Fox asked, awestruck as he 
snatched the check out of Frohike's hands.  

"Yes, you untalented wretch.  For some inexplicable
reason, they liked that photograph you took of the
three factory girls leaving work on a Saturday night."

Fox remembered the photo well.  He'd caught the three
young women walking arm in arm, full of laughter and 
the joy of youth and the prospect of a whole Sunday to 
themselves.  He'd called it "Quitting Time."

"I sold a photograph," Fox said, softly.  "I actually
sold a photograph."

"They want to see more."

"I've got more," Fox replied.  "I've got plenty more."

"Good.  Well, you know where to find me," Frohike said,
clapping Fox on the shoulder.  "Now get to work and take
more pictures."

"I will.  Have no doubt about that, but first--I want 
to celebrate."

"You gonna celebrate with Katie?" Anna asked.  She'd been
hanging on every word of the conversation.  In a stage 
whisper, she told Frohike, "Mr. Fox has a girl."

"A great skinny lunkhead like you has a girl?  Well, I 
guess there's hope for all of us."  

Fox bid them all goodbye and practically flew the few
blocks to the settlement house.  He found Katie in an
empty classroom, putting a rather lifelike baby doll
in a box.  

"Mathew!" she exclaimed with a smile.  "I didn't expect
to see you today."

With a glance at the door, he grabbed her by the arms
and kissed her soundly.  

"Mathew Fox," she laughed.  "I don't know what has 
gotten into you."

"I'm rich!" he replied, pulling the check out of his
pocket.  "Rich as Rockefeller.  I sold a picture." 

"Five dollars," she said.  "Oh my goodness, it's
from the Atlantic Monthly.  This is wonderful, Mathew."

"I want to celebrate," he said.  "Let's go somewhere."

"I really should complete the supply inventory.  And I..."

He stopped her with another kiss, this time without 
caring if anyone saw him.  "You're coming with me to 
Coney Island and we're going to ride all the rides and 
see all the sights and eat cotton candy.  The supply 
inventory can wait."

"You're very bossy when you have money in your pocket,
aren't you?" she asked, laughing.  "All right.  I'll 
be ready in a few minutes."

Katie Scully may have been the only girl in all of New 
York City who said she'd be ready in a few minutes and 
meant it.  He'd barely settled in a chair when she 
presented herself before him, a trim little straw hat 
perched on her rich auburn hair.  

After a visit to Rosenbloom's Pawnshop to cash Fox's 
check, they left for the beach.  Katie fussed at him to 
be careful with such a large sum of money.  

The streetcar ride to Coney Island was long enough for
Fox to fantasize about Katie in a bathing suit. Of 
course, Katie would be almost as covered up in a swimming 
suit as she was in her high-necked shirtwaist and
floor-length skirt.  Still, maybe he might catch a 
glimpse of stocking covered ankle.  Unfortunately, this
early in the season it was too cold to go swimming.  
He'd have to wait for his glimpse.

"I haven't been back since Steeplechase Park was rebuilt,"
Katie said, craning her neck to see out the streetcar
window. 

"I've never been to Coney Island," Fox confessed.  His family 
had summered in Newport every year since he was a child.  In
truth, he'd probably have been happier spending Sundays at
Coney Island than suffering the stiff social life of boring
tennis games and tea dances.  

"You've never been?  Oh, Mathew, that's so sad."  Katie was
looking at him the way she did every time he ate a meal in 
her presence.  Fox was convinced that Katie worried about him
and thought he was deprived.  

"I've been to lots of other places, Katie," he said, 
smiling at her.  "I just never went to Coney Island."

"Well, I'm going to show you around.  Should we start 
with Luna Park?  We can take a 'Trip to the Moon' there.  
Or should we go to Steeplechase?"

"The moon first," Fox said.  "Definitely, the moon."

They walked through the massive archway that led to Luna 
Park and Fox paid the fifty cents that admitted both of 
them to the "Trip to the Moon" ride.  Once aboard the 
"ship" that would carry them to the moon, Fox put his 
arm around Katie's shoulders.  They gasped as the craft 
appeared to rise in the air.  When the ship seemed to 
pass through a storm complete with lightning and fierce 
rain, Katie tucked into his side, covering her face with 
one hand.  Fox was in ecstasy.  

He was delighted at the appearance of midget moon men, 
leading them through the fairy land that comprised the 
moon.  Katie giggled with excitement at the sight of 
moon maidens offering them green cheese.

A moment later, they passed through a "moon calf's" 
enormous open mouth and found themselves standing in 
the bright sunlight of Luna Park.  

"How marvelous!" Fox exclaimed.  "Where to next?"

"The Shoot the Chute," she replied.  "Over there!"  

They rode the Chute, getting quite wet in the process 
as the boat flew down a huge slide into the lake.  
Laughing, they wandered until Katie noticed the sign 
for "Dr. Couney's Baby Incubator Exhibit."  

"Amazing," Katie said, gazing at the tiny pink and blue
beribboned babies.  "Imagine such tiny babies surviving.  
If the equipment didn't keep them warm, they'd die.  
Still, it seems wrong  somehow to put them on display 
like this."

Fox pointed out that at least they had a chance to live.  
He was very glad, though, to get out of the incubator 
building.  
 
They rode the Helter Skelter and the Tickler before 
growing hungry.  They decided to venture past the gates 
of the park in search of sustenance.   At Feltman's, 
they enjoyed lunch under the maple trees in a Bavarian 
Beer Garden.  

Stuffed with grilled clams and emboldened by a few beers, 
Fox and Katie wandered along the boardwalk, hand in hand.

Only a few hardy souls had actually ventured into the water
on this bright spring day.  Women with parasols and men in
boater hats strolled along the boardwalk.  A few families
stood at the water's edge, their children playing in the 
sand.

"In a few weeks, you won't find a square foot of sand  
not covered by a bather.  The water gets so crowded--people
are elbow to elbow," Katie said as they stood at the 
railing, looking out at the water.  

"Less chance of drowning, I guess," Fox offered.  

"I love the sea," Katie said, wistfully.  "It's so powerful 
and mysterious.  Did I ever tell you that my father was
a man of the sea?"

"No, I don't think so.  You haven't talked much about your 
family."  He knew her father was dead, but he couldn't 
remember if Katie had told him, or if he'd heard it from 
Charlie.  Fox recognized that he was in danger of slipping 
up, and decided to keep quiet.

"He was a fisherman.  His boat went down off Long Island a 
year ago.  I think he always knew something would happen to
him--he and Ma bought a small boarding house so she'd have 
an income in case..."

"I'm sorry," he said, slipping an arm around her.  "Were
you close?"

"I loved him.  I know he loved me.  I just don't think
we ever saw eye to eye."

"Sometimes that's how it is with fathers," Fox offered.  
 
"He was so angry when I wanted to be a nurse.  He thought
only rough women became nurses.  My sister married a weak
fellow who was never able to keep a job and I think Da 
wanted me to do better--to marry a steady man who'd take 
good care of me.  He was terribly disappointed, I'm afraid.  
Said I had a lot of fool ideas."

"People think things are foolish when they don't understand 
them."  

Katie turned to him and smiled, nodding.  "Have you ever 
heard Emma Goldman speak?" she asked.  

"No.  I've read some of her writings, though."

"I attended a lecture two years ago.  She was a nurse, you 
know," Katie said, with a sidelong look.  "I was impressed 
by some of what she said, but mostly by her passion and 
strength.  Da called her a dirty anarchist.  He laughed at 
me when I told him I agreed with some of her views."

"Which ones?" Fox asked.

"That sexuality shouldn't hinge on something as arbitrary
as marriage--that people should express their love for one
another in whatever way they wish to.  Da said I was a 
fool, that I didn't know anything about love or passion."

"He was wrong," Fox said.

"No, I think he was right.  I didn't know anything about
love then," she said, turning to him.  Her eyes were bright 
with tears as she reached up to touch his face.  

"I want to take every bad thing that's ever happened to
you and make it go away," Fox said.  "I've never felt this
way about anyone before.  It's as if I've been waiting my
whole life to meet you."  

His heart felt as if it was going to burst in his chest
as Katie pressed against him, her arms encircling his waist.

"I feel the same way," she said, pulling away from him.  
"Come on.  It's too crowded here."

Katie took his hand, drawing him down the boardwalk to the
steps that lead to the beach.  His knees were unsteady as
they walked down the steps.  

She drew him into the shadows under the boardwalk.  They
glanced up, smiling, at the sounds of footsteps above.  Fox
tipped Katie's face up, leaning down to press a kiss on her
soft lips.  They'd kissed before, but the kisses were always
hurried, one eye on the door in case someone came upon them.

Now he kissed her deep and hard.  Katie wound her arms around
his neck, standing on tiptoe in the sand as she returned each
caress, each kiss.  Fox wasn't sure where this was leading
but he was more than willing to hang on for the ride.  
Katie's warm, pliant body was pressed against his.  He 
stumbled back, finally bracing himself against a pylon.

"Hey youse!  This is a public beach.  None a that funny
business."

Fox and Katie sprang apart at the intrusion of a burly cop
banging on the wood above their heads with his night stick.

"Pardon us, Officer," Fox said, quickly.  "We...just got 
carried away."

"Well, I can unnerstand that," the cop said, eyeing Katie
with open appreciation.  "But ya can't do that here.  Now
go on wit ya."

Katie was blushing madly, and Fox was sure she was going to 
burst into tears of embarrassment.  But as soon as the cop 
left, he heard her peals of laughter instead.  If he hadn't 
loved her already, that would have been reason enough to 
fall in love.

Fox took Katie's hand and led her out from the shadows.  

"Come on," he said.  "I hear the parks are amazing after 
the sun goes down.  Let's go back and ride some more until 
it gets dark."

It was true--at night, Luna Park was illuminated by 
250,000 electric light bulbs.  A recreated Venice, each
arch and curve lined by lights, extended before them.  
Fox took Katie on a gondola ride down a Grand Canal that
was spanned by an illuminated Bridge of Sighs.  

Finally, it was time to go home.  They had to run in order
to catch the streetcar, Fox lifting Katie onto the
moving car, then jumping on himself.  Holding onto the
hanging straps, they stood until the streetcar made its 
first stop and some passengers got off.  Finally finding 
two seats together, Fox put his arm around a yawning Katie 
who settled her head on his shoulder.

Finally, they arrived at the stop near the settlement house
and Fox walked Katie home.  

"I wish I could ask you in," she said, shyly as they reached
the front of the settlement house.  "My little brother is 
coming by in the morning to go to seven o'clock Mass with me."

"I will have to dream of you, then.  Good night, sweet 
Katie," he said, leaning down to kiss her.  He didn't 
look around to see if anyone was watching.  He wanted
everyone to know that Katie Scully was his girl. 

With a final wave, Fox set off for home.  He could barely
feel his feet on the pavement with each step.  It was
probably for the best that they parted tonight.  This was
huge.  Enormous.  Momentous.  They both needed to sleep on
this incredible new development.

Just to know Katie Scully was an honor.  To talk to
her was a privilege.  To hold her in his arms and kiss
her and feel her kissing him back with a fervor full
of selfless passion was a gift beyond measure.  

Fox had lived his whole life in poverty, but tonight he
was rich.  As Shayna Berkowitz would say, "Who knew?"

Mother and Father were in for quite a jolt.  As soon
as his "engagement" to Diana could be played out and
ended, he would introduce them to his real intended. 
It would be a jolt, but they'd survive, and once they
came to know Katie, they would have to love her.  It
was impossible for anyone to do otherwise.

Katie was in for a shock or two herself, of course. 
He had told her that he had a "good job."  He told her
he'd grown up in a comfortable home.  She knew more
about his hopes, dreams and fears than any other
person on earth, but she didn't know his name.

He neared his house, wondering which door to use.  The
front entrance might bring him past his parents, but
he should save the servant's entrance for when he
really needed it.

As it happened, he used neither, because Walter
Skinner was waiting for him, watching from the other
side of Fifth Avenue.

"Mulder!" he called, then trotted across the street.

"Hello, Skinner!  Taking the air on this beautiful
night?"  

"We have to talk.  But not here."

Fox knew a number of establishments that were open
late, but Skinner led him to an unassuming local bar. 
They took a table near the back.

"I know about Miss Scully," Skinner said.

"I'm glad," said Fox, sincerely.  He was bursting with
the need to share his joy.

"You're not to see her again.  Ever.  I'll help you
write her a letter and I'll deliver it myself."

"Listen carefully."  Fox leaned forward.  "I love her.
She loves me.  My father and mother have nothing to
say about it, and you may tell them I said so."

Skinner shook his head.

"Your parents don't know about her.  I told your
father you were with friends.  At shows, at
restaurants."

"Very good.  That's one less problem for now," Fox
said.

"You *listen* to me when I talk to you, you arrogant
puppy!"

"Skinner?"  

"I'm ordering you to break it off with Miss Scully.  Me. 
Your servant.  The nonentity who raised you and tried
to make a man out of you, but failed miserably."  

"That's quite enough."

"You don't understand about girls like Katie.  I know
she's not from your own class, but she is nothing like
your chorus girls.  She is a hardworking, serious
girl, and she takes love seriously, too."

"And you think I don't?"

"I *know* you don't.  You sent me to collect your things 
from Sheila Fontaine and you pensioned her off.  Then 
immediately you set your sites on her successor, but what 
you don't understand is that Miss Scully isn't like that."

Skinner's bald head was glowing red.  

"You're still angry about Sheila," Fox said.  Skinner
had been difficult about going to pick up Fox's coat
and camera from the chorus girl's home, and Fox had
insisted.

"You insufferable snot.  You can't begin to understand
what I'm trying to tell you."

"Mind your words, Skinner, and don't presume on our
friendship."

"Friendship?"

Skinner glared at Fox with contempt, and then he
slapped him.

Some autonomous part of Fox's brain let him return the
slap before he had truly registered the affront.

"You're fired.  Now, let's finish this outside," Fox
said.

"I don't think you can fire me.  Consider this my
resignation."

Skinner's hand came up again but this time Fox caught
his wrist.

"Outside," he repeated.

They walked down a side street.  There was no sign of
life at this late hour.  Fox removed his jacket and
hung it over an iron railing, and Skinner did the
same.  Skinner removed his glasses and placed them in
the pocket.

"OK, little man.  Take a swing."

Many years ago Skinner had taught Fox that if you're
going to punch a man in the face, you should aim for
his nose.  Now Fox took his stance and considered that
Skinner would expect that of him.

And the glasses.  Skinner was inviting him to go for
the face.

Instead Fox went for the gut, landing a perfect
combination that made him think he might just take the
old egghead after all.

"Not bad, boy, but you have to be quicker."

Skinner used the same move against him, but harder and
more relentless, a series of blows so that Fox was
doubled over before he could regroup himself and take
another swing.

With his next effort, fist crunched against cartilage.
Skinner groaned as blood began to drip from his nose.

"That's enough of that," Skinner said calmly.  He
delivered his punches in a measured staccato, landing
nothing below the belt or above the neck.  

It was over in a couple of minutes, with Fox on the
ground, winded and furious.  

"You'll write her the letter when we get home,"
Skinner said.

"No, I won't," Fox said, struggling back to his feet. 
He was very close to vomiting.  If he couldn't hold it
back, he would aim for Skinner's shoes.

"You have your pick of a million girls.  Don't ruin
this one."

"I won't ruin her.  I love her."

"You don't even know her."

"She loves me, too."

"She doesn't even know your name."

"She knows everything about me that matters."

"Mulder, if you don't write that letter, I'll have to
hit you again."

"You think you know everything, about me, about her--"

"Last chance."

Skinner's confidence enraged him.

"You upstart--"

Skinner's fist to his jaw ended his exclamation, and
this time, instead of crumpling to the ground he went
down hard.

"An upstart.  One who betters himself," Skinner said.

The pain in Fox's jaw echoed to his head and down his
neck.  Sparks of light danced before his eyes.

"One who graduates from Penn State, rather than
Harvard, working two jobs to do it.  One who accepts a
position that lets him travel, and covers his room and
board.  Even if he does have to tend to a sniveling
boy who cowers whenever his father speaks."

"I don't care if you're Horatio Alger, I'll never give
her up," Fox said, barely moving his jaw.  

"If you really knew her, you'd understand that she
will never be yours."  Skinner reached down a hand.

"If I get up, are you going to hit me again?" Fox
asked.

"If I have to, but I can hit you down there as well."

Fox let Skinner haul him to his feet.

"You've been spying on me," he said.  "You've followed
me on my father's orders, and if you didn't tell him
what you learned, you've betrayed us both."

"You came home with a fat lip.  Your father reminded
me that my generous salary was supposed to insure
against such unfortunate occurrences," Skinner said.

"Then you started sniffing around, asking questions
about Katie."

"That would be despicable.  I spoke to the young lady
myself," Skinner said.

"You had no right," Fox said.

"We've already established that I'm an upstart."

"Yes, and I'm an insufferable snot.  You still had no
right."

Skinner picked up his jacket and put on his glasses.

"I'm not the one who lied to her.  I told her my name.
I told her I worked for a well-known businessman with
an interest in philanthropy.  She told me about the
settlement house.  She told me about babies starving
for want of milk, and families freezing because they
can't spare a penny for some coal.  Your father, in
fact, made a significant donation.  He doesn't go down
to gawk at the poor, but he's generous in more
substantial ways."

Fox put on his jacket and handed his handkerchief to
Skinner, to hold against his bloody nose.  

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Fox asked.  "She's kind,
and strong and brilliant.  Sure in her convictions,
fearless against her adversaries."

"Willing to persevere against impossible
circumstances," Skinner added.

Fox felt great pity for his tutor, and not for his
meager purse.

"I know I don't deserve her, but she loves me anyway,
and I love her too.  You don't have to tell me she's
not like my chorus girls, I know that myself.  She's
like nobody else, and I want to marry her.  Whatever
she wants, that's what I want for her, and I'll never
hurt her, or let anyone else hurt her."

Skinner looked at him over the bloody handkerchief.

He loves her too, Fox thought.  I know it, and he
knows that I know.

"See that you don't.  Because next time you won't walk
away," Skinner said.

Fox fingered his tender jaw as they walked home.  

"I tried not to mark your face," Skinner said.

"Did I break your nose?" Fox asked.

Skinner shook his head.

"I'll be fine by morning.  You'll look fine, but
you'll feel like you've been kicked by a mule."

"Well, I was . . . in a sense."

They climbed the steps, careful not to make a racket
with their shoes, falling silent as they neared the 
door.  Fox opened it an inch at a time, barely breathing. 
They tiptoed across the foyer, and--

"Fox, is that you?" Mother's voice rang out from the
library.

"Doesn't anybody sleep any more?" Fox asked.

Teena was wearing a mauve brocade dressing gown, but
she was very much awake.

"Good lord, Mr. Skinner, what happened to you?" she
asked.

"Muggers," Fox said quickly.

"Oh, dear," she said.

"They made the mistake of taking your son for an easy
mark," Skinner said.  "Forgetting that I was there to
protect him."

"Thank goodness you were," said Teena.  "Come along
and I'll get you cleaned up."

"I'm fine, really," Skinner said.

"Nonsense.  You were attacked by ruffians."
  
She led him away by the arm, Fox feeling smug as he
followed them to the library.  Mother rang up her
maid, Lucy, to bring a basin and some rags and then 
insisted on tending to Skinner's face with her own 
hands.

"Does it hurt?" Fox inquired solicitously as Teena
scrubbed.

"It's nothing," Skinner said as he grimaced.  "I find
blows to the body are far more painful."

"You're home so late, Fox, and we have a full schedule
tomorrow," Mother said.

"Unfortunately, Mother, I won't be able to join you,"
Fox said.

"The Schuylers and, of course, your Diana, have
invited us for an early luncheon after church,"
she continued blithely.

"I'm sure they will understand if I send my regrets,"
Fox said.

"To the contrary, Diana sent word that she counted on
you to be there.  She said you had promised as much."

Fox felt Skinner's eyes on him.  Skinner knew nothing
about his arrangement with Diana; there hadn't been a
moment to explain it.

"Since she seems to feel so strongly about it, I
suppose I will have to attend," Fox said.

"And you, Mr. Skinner, you're practically one of the
family.  Would you care to join us?"

"Thank you for your kindness, but I must decline. 
I'll be busy myself, after church.  There's a young
lady I hope to see."

At last Mother completed her ministrations and
retired.  Skinner sat very still, examining Fox as 
if he was a particularly ugly cockroach.

"I can explain," Fox said.

"You're beneath contempt.  As soon as I can tender my
resignation to your father, I'm going to fulfill one
final obligation and break your legs."

"It's a sham, Skinner.  Diana asked me to play along
so she could break the engagement without public
embarrassment.  Look, here's the letter she wrote."
Fox drew it from his pocket, where it had rested since
breakfast time.

Skinner absorbed the contents in a glance.

"You dupe.  She'll never let you go.  She'll lead you
step by step till your ring's on her finger."

"It's only for a week or two," Fox explained.

"I should thrash you just for being so stupid.  She's
got you hooked right and proper, and you can't even
see it."


End of Book 1: Mathew Fox's story  
To be continued in Book 2: Katie Scully's story

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Katie Scully's story, part 5

"Dominus vobiscum," Father McCue intoned.  

"Et cum spiritu tuo." 

Katie Scully straightened her spine and tried
to concentrate on the Gospel of St. John.  The
reading was one of her favorites, about the many
mansions in the Father's house.  Unfortunately,
her mind refused to obey and kept straying back
to Mathew Fox's face.  

It was, surely, a sin to be thinking such thoughts
at Sunday Mass, Katie admonished herself.  But no
matter how hard she tried to pay attention to the
priest's words, all she could think about was what
it felt like when Mathew kissed her.  His lips were
so pliant and soft, his arms so strong as they held
her tight.  She'd behaved like a wanton, pressing
herself to his hard body.  Katie bit down on the 
inside of her cheek in an attempt to focus.  

No matter how many reservations she had about 
the Church, the teachings of childhood were bone
deep and Katie stood and knelt and made the 
sign of the cross in all the right places.  Katie
was grateful when it was time to sit for Father
McCue's homily.  After walking all over Luna Park
yesterday, her feet were sore.

She glanced over at Charlie, smiling at his mop
of russet curls.  On Katie's other side, Maggie
Scully listened intently to the priest.  Maggie
was crafty, ensuring her daughter's attendance at
Mass by sending the one person Katie could never
say no to--little Charlie.

Like most Irish Catholic children, Katie had grown
up with the Church as a constant in her life.  She'd
attended faithfully, believed without question, and
prepared, along with the other boys and girls, to 
receive the sacraments.  

But as she grew up, Katie began to see her church as
unyielding and harsh.  Mary O'Malley's brutal husband
broke her nose, knocked out four teeth and wrenched
her shoulder out of its socket and the priest 
instructed her that her place was with her husband.
Kathleen Sullivan refused to name her unborn baby's
father and the church turned its back on both her
and the child.  

As Katie became more aware of the trials of the 
women around her, she found herself more and more
disappointed in a church that did little to offer
comfort or help.  By the time she was fifteen, Katie
attended church only to please her mother.

Katie followed the congregation as they knelt, 
watching Father McCue as he prayed over the host.
When it came time for Holy Communion, Katie stayed
behind in the pew, earning a disapproving look from 
Maggie Scully.

After Mass, Katie and Charlie stood under a tree, 
waiting for their mother to chat with some of her 
neighbors. Finally, Maggie joined her family.  

"That's a new hat you're wearing, isn't it Katie?" 
she asked.  "It's quite fetching."  

Katie's hand flew to her head, touching the brim of 
her smart little straw hat.  Trimmed with navy 
grosgrain ribbon and a bunch of bright red cherries, 
it was nothing like Katie's usual practical, serviceable 
clothes.

"It's new," Katie admitted.  She knew where this was
leading and it made her decidedly uncomfortable.

"You know, I can't remember the last time you spent
money on anything that wasn't for the settlement 
house."

"Katie's gotta fella," Charlie chimed in, dancing 
ahead of his sister's pinching fingers.  

"Now, that can't possibly be true," Maggie said.  
"Katie would surely tell her mother if she was 
keepin' company with someone."

"How is Mrs. Conway feeling these days?" Katie said.

"Changing the subject, are you?" Maggie said.   
"Well, all right.  You be telling us when you're 
ready, I expect.  So, will we be seeing you for dinner?  
I have a nice chicken to roast."

And an eager Tom Colton would probably be there.  Her 
brother, Bill, still hadn't given up, no matter how firmly
Katie tried to convince him that she had no interest in 
his friend.  

Besides, she was hoping Mathew would come around for a
visit.  Something amazing had happened between them, 
something that both frightened and excited her.  She'd
been relieved when he'd accepted her excuse about early
morning Mass.  If he'd come in the house with her, she
wasn't sure she would have been able to deny her need
or his.   

"Come on, Katie.  Ma made apple pie, too."

Katie lifted her brother's cap and ruffled his hair.  
"Maybe," she said.  "I have some work to do back at
the settlement house.  I'll have to see how it goes."

With a pointed look, Maggie Scully nodded.  "Come if
you want.  I'm not waiting dinner, though.  It'll be on 
the table at noon--same as always."  

Maggie and Charlie set off back to Clinton Street, the
boy turning to wave at his sister.  

Katie walked the four blocks from St. Brigid's to the
settlement house, thinking about Mathew Fox every step 
of the way.  She'd felt a connection to this young man
from the first time she'd laid eyes on him as he 
snapped her picture.  Katie'd been impressed by the 
sheer audacity of the man--the chutzpah, as Shayna
would say.  An air of confidence was about him,
as if everything had always come easy.

Every day, Katie met adults who struggled for every
mouthful of food and fought for survival.  They all had 
the same look about them--something that Mathew was 
blessedly free of.  It was apparent that Mathew had 
grown up in comfortable circumstances.  He spoke with 
perfect diction, and his manners were impeccable. 

But Katie wasn't sure how easy things really were for
Mathew, at least in his present life.  His clothes were
shabby and hung on his frame as if they belonged to a 
larger man.   She worried that he didn't take care of
himself.  Katie was sure Mathew didn't get enough to eat, 
for one thing.

As she walked up the path to the front door, Katie pushed
back a tiny scrap of disappointment.  Somewhere deep down, 
she'd hoped to find Mathew lounging on the front stoop, 
but no one waited for her.

She opened the door and drew out the long pin that 
anchored her smart new hat to her hair.  Katie carefully
placed the hat on a small table at the base of the stairs.

The supplies weren't going to inventory themselves, she
thought as she unbuttoned and folded her cuffs over twice.  
Katie retrieved her record book from the desk in the 
front hall and went into the kitchen.

Pulling a green apron down from a hook, Katie wrapped  
it around herself.  The house had been a grand home at one 
time, though it had grown a little worn through the years.  

Still, she had the marvelous big kitchen to herself when 
the house was empty.  Katie turned up the heat under the 
leftover coffee and went into the large pantry that housed 
the settlement house's emergency food supply.

With her inventory book open, Katie counted the canned
goods and bags of dried beans, flour and rice.  She looked 
up at the knock on the back door.

"Yoo hoo!  Katie?"  Shayna Berkowitz called out.  "I
thought I saw you in here when I was hanging out clothes. 
What are you doing, working in the house on such a 
beautiful day?"

"Good morning to you, Shayna," Katie answered, calmly.

"Why aren't you out with that young man of yours?  I
see him here morning, noon and night.  So, where is he 
today when he could be taking you out for a nice
pic-a-nic?"

"Shayna!" Katie said.  "You're full of questions this
morning.  And Mathew is not here all the time.  He
comes by once in a while to visit."

"Once in a while to visit.  That's a good one, Katie.
Tell me another story," Shayna said, laughing.  

"Do you want some coffee?" Katie asked, fighting back
a smile.  She turned down the heat before it was burnt.  

"I can't stay," Shayna said.  "I left Izzy watching 
his little brothers and I don't trust the three of
them not to tear the house down around their ears."

Katie bade her farewell and went back to her inventory.
She moved on to the school rooms, recording the counts
on books and pencils.  It might have gone more quickly
if she hadn't stopped to listen for Mathew every few 
minutes.  

When the knock came at the front door, Katie hugged
herself, smiling.  He was here.  Mathew had come.

She flung off the apron and straightened her skirt as
the hurried to the front door.  Smoothing her hair with 
a quick hand, she opened the door.  

The face on the other side of the door wasn't Mathew's.
Her heart sank, but she managed to force a smile for
her visitor.

"Mr. Skinner," she said.  "What a lovely surprise."

"I fear you're disappointed, Miss Scully."

"How could I be disappointed.  After the wonderful
things your employer's donation has accomplished,
I feel only gladness."

"I took a chance that I'd find you in," he said.
"After all, it's a fine day and I'm sure you have
plans."

"No," she said, hoping she didn't appear too 
crestfallen.  "No plans."

"I was wondering if we might take a walk," her
visitor said.  Katie nodded and Mr. Skinner said
he'd wait for her on the stairs.  As she fetched
her shawl, Katie reflected on how much easier it
would be if a young woman could receive a male 
business guest without worrying about her 
reputation.  

Walter Skinner had first come to the settlement   
house weeks ago, at the behest of his wealthy 
employer.  The rich were often generous, but in
her experience, it was generosity without 
contact.  They didn't mind sharing a small percentage
of their fortune--they just didn't want to soil
their hands in the process.

But it was different with Mr. Skinner.  Granted, 
his wealthy employer managed to keep his hands 
clean, but Walter Skinner had wanted to know about
the needs of the people that used the settlement 
house.  He wanted details--no matter how ugly they
might be.  It had touched and heartened her to
speak with him.

More than just his interest in the poor, Mr. Skinner
had taken the time to get to know her and some 
of the other staff and regulars at the settlement
house.  He sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and
eating Shayna's rugelach.  He'd asked about Katie's
life, her nurse's training and listened to her
opinions.

They set out down the street, Skinner slowing his
pace to allow her to keep up.  She took a good
look at him, noting that his nose appeared a
bit swollen and red.  He looked as if he hadn't
slept well, either.

"I'm glad you came by, Mr. Skinner," she said. "I
wanted to tell you some of the wonderful things 
that we've been able to do with the funds your
employer provided."

"I'd like that very much," he replied.    

"There's a little boy born with a deformity of 
the foot--a clubfoot.  A doctor I know at Bellevue 
was able to arrange an operation for him.  They say 
he's healing well and may walk normally by the fall.   
I can't begin to tell you how grateful his parents 
are."

"I'm so glad," he said.  "I was wondering, Miss 
Scully, if you would be so kind as to let me take 
you to lunch?" he asked.  

Katie's breath caught in her throat.  Oh, dear, 
she thought, this was certainly going to be awkward.  
She must have missed something in Mr. Skinner's visits.
He'd always seemed so formal and businesslike.  It 
wasn't that he was unattractive--much to the contrary.  
Mr. Skinner had quite nice eyes behind his spectacles 
and though he appeared older due to his baldness, 
Katie realized he wasn't much past thirty.  But her 
heart was no longer free.  She had to decline in a 
way that wouldn't hurt him.

"I...I don't know what to say," she finally blurted
out.  "I'm afraid I'm not free at the moment.  I'm
so sorry."

"No need to apologize, Miss Scully," Skinner said 
after an awkward moment.  "Maybe another time."

"Yes.  Yes, perhaps another time," she agreed, 
relieved that she'd avoided offending him.  

"I believe, Miss Scully, that we have a friend in 
common."

"We do?"  

"Yes.  I believe you know a Mathew Fox."  There was
something almost grave about his pronunciation of
Mathew's name.

"We are acquainted," she said carefully.  "How do you 
know Mr. Fox?"

"I've known him for a very long time," Skinner answered.
"We...ah...we work for the same man.  In different 
capacities, of course."

"I see," she said, uncertainty creeping into her
voice.

"Miss Scully, I've come to have a great deal of 
respect and regard for you.  You're one of the 
finest persons I have ever had the privilege to 
know.  I...I don't want to see you hurt."

"Mr. Skinner, this doesn't make any sense," she
said.  "What makes you think Mr. Fox would want 
to hurt me?"

"It's not that he would hurt you intentionally.  
As I said, I've known him for a long time and
he isn't a bad person--not really.  It's just that
he's...unreliable.  You can't count on him, Miss
Scully."

"Mr. Skinner, I appreciate your concern, but I am
not a child.  I am quite able to make my own 
decisions and choose my own friends."  

"What do you really know of him?  Do you know where
he lives?  What he does all day?"

She was shaking with anger, her hands balled into fists 
at her sides.  If there was anything Katie Scully hated, 
it was being considered in need of protection.  Skinner
seemed pained, glancing away from her angry gaze.

"I think this has gone quite far enough, Mr. Skinner. 
My relationship with Mr. Fox is nothing you need to 
worry about."

"He's not coming by today, Miss Scully.  I'm not sure
he'll be back ever again."
 
"Thank you for your interest," she said.  "It seems I
have a previous engagement after all, so I must bid
you goodbye."

She turned her back and walked away as quickly as she
could without breaking into a run.  What an awful man,
she thought.    Maybe not entirely awful, when she
remembered all the good he'd done, but awful in the
things he said about Mathew.  And they worked for the
same man?  Katie was sure Mathew would explain it all
next time she saw him.

The settlement house was humming with activity when
she returned.  Dr. Diamond was setting up for his
citizenship class, and Mrs. Thibedeaux's little
Shakespeare Players had gathered to rehearse "Julius
Caesar."  Katie completed her inventory anyway.  With
all the distraction, the task required total
concentration.  

In short order the inventory was complete, and still
twenty minutes until noon. Katie decided she would go
to Sunday dinner after all.  Ma's apple pie was like
none other, and if Mathew came while she was out, he
would wait for her.  The settlement house would be
open until Dr. Diamond left at six, but Katie would be
back long before.

And if she stayed and waited, and Mathew didn't 
come...

Enough of that, she admonished herself.  She was
letting that awful Mr. Skinner fill her head with
doubts.  What did it matter where Mathew lived, or
what he did all day?  He had shown her his heart.

Ma's boarding house stood a trim three stories tall,
but it stood proud, like Maggie herself.  The rooms
were bright and airy with windows opening either onto
the street or onto the tiny, pampered garden at the
rear.  No suffocating pass-through rooms or stinking
air shafts for Maggie's boarders.

Like the house, the boarders themselves were "of the
better sort."  Maggie had plenty of sympathy for folks
down on their luck, but she prefered to wait until
their luck had turned before bringing them into her
home.   Her standards were slightly less rigid where
family was concerned.  Missy and her brood found
grudging shelter when the landlord put them on the
street.  

Katie held one nephew on her lap, as his little
brother napped in a pasteboard suitcase decked out 
as a crib.  She was glad for the presence of the 
boarders at the dinner table.  Maggie was forced to 
confine her questions and observations to the general. 
Unfortunately Katie's brother and sister lacked their
mother's sense of decorum.

"Charlie says you got a fella," Missy said, as she
helped herself to a golden brown drumstick.

"That's what Ma says," Charlie explained.  "But Bill
says you don't need a fella, 'cause his friend Tom is
ready to hitch up and drive away."  

"Yeah, just forget about love.  Marry 'im 'cause he's
Bill's best friend," Missy said.

"Love don't last.  A girl's gotta be ready to take
care of herself," said Doris Kearns, one of the
boarders.

Katie knew that the woman spoke from experience.

"With your bookkeeping skills, you'll always be
ready," Katie said.

It wasn't that Maggie shunned factory workers, but
their salaries wouldn't cover her rent.  Her boarders
tended to be office workers and craftsmen.

"Aye, keeping the books is a fine pursuit, clean and
dignified," said Maggie, eyeing her daughters
pointedly.

"Surely there's dignity in ministering to the ill and
infirm," said Charles Burkes, another boarder.  He
smiled at his landlady as he buttered his bread.

"Some of us may have different notions about dignity,"
Maggie sniffed.  

"Thank you, professor." Katie said, using his title to
remind her mother that Burkes was affiliated with the
venerable Columbia University.  

"Mr. Burkes has a laboratory all the way up north. 
Maybe one day he'll take me," Charlie piped in.

"Maybe he'll introduce you to Dr. Cook and Captain
Perry," Missy teased.  

"Morningside Heights, the land of the midnight sun,"
Mr. Burkes said, smiling at Charlie. 
 
"Men.  One minute they're where they belong, the next
they're off hunting for the North Pole," said Mrs.
Kearns.

"May the lord keep them from harm," said Maggie,
crossing herself.

"Please pass the chicken."  

That was Max Fenig.  From his position of dishonor at
the far end of the table, Katie gathered he was in
arrears.

"Now Mr. Fenig, you know the rules here," Maggie said.
"Don't be embarrassing yourself in front of the
others."

"Dmitri's home early today," Charlie said.  Dmitri was
Maggie's youngest boarder, scarcely older than Charlie
himself.  He was a waiter at Delmonico's, and many
nights he returned with a feast of exotic left-overs
from the famous restaurant.

"Have some more cabbage, Mr. Fenig," Katie offered, as
she passed the dish down the table.

"It's Sunday, Ma.  Maybe a wing?" Missy asked.

"Lady Bountiful, are ya?  Go to the kitchen then and
bring him the feet from the stock pot," her mother
answered.

"You kin have mine, Mr. Fenig.  Feets's my favorite,"
Charlie offered.  Katie would have been touched at his
kindness, but she knew he really did prefer the feet.

"We will all eat our own food and be thankful for it,"
Maggie said pointedly.

"Be thankful Billy's not here, or we'd all be hungry,"
Missy said, returning from the kitchen.

"A hard-working man needs a full belly," Maggie
answered.

"And where is that hard-working man?" Katie asked. 
She'd been too pleased by the absence to inquire
before.

"Got himself a contract.  Little favor for Big Tim
Sullivan," Charlie said, with pride.

"Teaching some greenhorns how to vote, I'd wager.  Or
showing a peddler where his pushcart don't belong,"
Missy said.

"Tim Sullivan takes care of the people, and it
wouldn't break your teeth to speak kindly of him,"
Maggie snapped. 

"Katie takes care of the people too, don't ya, Katie?"
Charlie asked her.

"I do try," she answered.

"Do ya now?  Then maybe you'll be the one takin' in
yer poor sister when her husband's off drinkin' up
their rent."

"Ma, the babies!" Missy protested.

Katie patted little Michael, who sucked his thumb and
nuzzled against her arm.  Snug in his makeshift bed,
Jimmy slept without stirring.

"Ack, the babies.  They don't understand a word."

"I'll pay everything I owe, Mrs. Scully.  It's the
slow season is all," Mr. Fenig said suddenly.

"Why then, that's what I'll tell the butcher and the
grocer.  And Mr. Graves at the bank, when me mortgage
is due.  'Tis the slow season."

"I work hard.  And I'm good, that's what they say. 
But... but then the work slows down, and..."  He
looked around the table, desperate for support.

"We know, Max," Charles Burkes said soothingly.  "Soon
the work will pick up, it always does."

"A pity your appetite doesn't slow down as well,"
Maggie said.

"Please, Mrs. Scully, you know how he gets," Doris
Kearns implored her.

"It's the Wobblies, m'am.  They shot McKinley, though
no one likes to talk about it.  And the San Francisco
earthquake--they done that too." Fenig was talking
faster, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

Somewhat belatedly, Maggie relented.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked him.

"They want to silence me," he said in a shaky whisper.

Doris Kearns and Charles Burkes exchanged glances.

"Last week it was the Freemasons," she said.

"And the *General Slocum* up in flames, with all the
little children on board...  " His eyes filled with
tears.

"Well, then, no good in keening when the funeral's
moved on," Maggie said briskly.  "Katherine!  Go fetch
Mr. Fenig a nice cup of tea!"

Katie handed Michael back to his mother and went to
fix the tea.

Poor Mr. Fenig.  Da used to tell him not to worry when
the work was slow, his word was good enough.  Ma was
rougher.

Mr. Frohike, the newspaperman who taught American
history on Wednesday nights, had his own theory about
McKinley.  

"Always look to see who benefits," Mr. Frohike would say. 
"That's the first question to ask."

"I only hope you're not teaching your class that
President Teddy Roosevelt shot poor President
McKinley," she had retorted.

The water came to a boil and Katie brewed a pot of
tea.  And thanks to his display, Mr. Fenig would get
his slice of apple pie along with everyone else.  

Ma cut a huge wedge of pie to save for Bill, to the
groans of Charlie and his sisters.  She divided the
rest of the pie to serve the table.

"I'm a hard-working man myself," Charlie protested as
he eyed the slice on his plate.

Katie had to share her sliver with little Michael, who
toddled over and opened his mouth like a nestling
sparrow.  

"Don't you be feeding pie to the baby," Maggie
admonished her, but Katie wouldn't think of refusing
him.

Dessert was interrupted by someone pounding on the
door.

"Mrs. Scully?  Is Katie there?  Mama sent for her to
run right now to the Lurias'."

"That's Izzy Berkowitz," Katie explained, gently
disentangling herself from her nephew.  "I have to
go."

Ma raised an eyebrow at her.

"Bookkeeping.  Clean and dignified," she said with
finality.

Clean and dignified it might be, but there could be
nothing so satisfying as Katie's mission with the
Luria family.  The young parents were frantic with
worry over their baby, a three-month old girl too
exhausted to cry.

The mother asked anxiously about ice water to cool the
baby's fever, but Katie showed her how a gentle sponge
bath with cool water would work as well.  The father
was in a panic because the baby couldn't keep down her
food.

"Give her little tummy a rest, then.  But boil some
water and let it cool.  We'll see if she'll take a
spoon or two," Katie said.

The baby drank a bit of water and fell into a peaceful
sleep.

"When she wakes you can feed her, but not too much at
first."

"I don't have enough words to thank you," the mother
said.

"I'll be back tomorrow to see how she is.  But you
know how to find me if there's more fever or
vomiting," Katie told them.

Before she went home, she called on another patient
who lived in the building.  Daryl Mootz had a sore on
his foot that simply wouldn't heal, and Katie changed
the dressing for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

Katie was fortunate to have a doctor to work with, an
earnest young fellow named Vitigliano.  She'd asked
him to look at the stubborn wound, but he had no more
idea than she of how to cure it.

It was after six o'clock by the time she returned to 
the settlement house.  Dr. Diamond had left, but Mrs.
Thibedeaux was still in the common room, stitching 
braid she'd obviously scavenged from some discarded 
drapes onto a length of old sheet.

"Oh hello, Katie," Mrs. Thibedeaux said.  "Did you have
a nice afternoon out?"

"Lovely," Katie answered.  "I see you're wardrobe 
mistress as well as director."

"I think the cast will be able to get into character
a little better wearing togas.  Poor things, they're
having a devil of a time with the language."

"I can imagine," Katie laughed.  In fact, it was
almost painful to watch them struggle with their lines.
Some of the actors were still learning modern English, 
much less Shakespearean English. 

Katie helped Mrs. Thibedeaux stitch more togas before
the older woman stretched and groaned.  

"I'm going to have to call it a night," she said, 
wearily.  Mrs. Thibedeaux checked the tiny watch she
wore in a pendant around her neck.  "Oh dear, I had
no idea how late it had gotten.  It's nearly gone 
eight."

Mrs. Tibby, as her players fondly referred to her, 
packed her sewing into a satchel.  

"Good night, Mrs. Thibedeaux," Katie said as she walked
the woman to the door.  "Your players are very lucky to
have you."

And they were.  Poor Mrs. Tibby had buried a husband
and all her children.  The former teacher could have
given up on life--could have dwelled in her little house
and done nothing more, but she worked tirelessly to
help immigrants learn to speak better by introducing 
them to the Bard.

Katie was exhausted as she pushed the chairs back 
against the wall in the common room.  It had been a 
long and upsetting day and she wanted nothing more
than a warm bath and an early night.  She retrieved
her nightgown and slippers from her bedroom, and 
went into the kitchen.  Katie turned down the lamp,
leaving the kitchen bathed in soft, golden light.

She heated water on the massive stove in the 
kitchen.  Running water had been piped into the 
first floor and a flush toilet installed ten years 
before, but that was the extent of the modernization.  

After she checked the doors to be sure they were 
locked, Katie drew the kitchen curtains tight.  
Pulling the old zinc tub out of the pantry, she
filled it with hot water.  

From the cabinet, Katie withdrew the dish that 
held a bar of rose-scented soap, a sea sponge 
and a towel.  Steam rose from the tub as Katie 
slipped out of her clothes, folding them on a
chair.

As she sank down into the hot water, Katie found
her thoughts turned to Mathew.  She'd spent the
whole day waiting for his visit and hoping Mr.
Skinner was not speaking truthfully.  Now, she
wasn't sure what to think.  As Skinner had said,
Mathew never arrived.

Katie sponged fragrant soap bubbles over her
skin, watching them slide down into the warm
water.  She wondered what Mathew would say if
he was there with her.  Would he tell her where
he'd been all day?  Would he take the sponge from
her hand and squeeze the soapy water over her
skin?  Katie blushed, thinking about Mathew 
lifting her from the hot, scented water, carrying
her upstairs.  

"Enough of this foolishness," she muttered to
herself.  Mooning over a man was something Katie
vowed never to do.  It was unseemly, unproductive
and useless.  Katie was not some dreamy-eyed
teenager, after all.  She was a woman who made her
own decisions and her own way in this world.

Katie carefully sluiced a pitcher of clean water
over her body, rinsing off the soap suds.  She
dried her skin and emptied the bathtub by pitcher-
fuls and washed it out.  It was only when the tub
had been replaced and there was no chance of getting
wet, that Katie put on her muslin nightgown.  As 
much as she enjoyed a hot bath, Katie thought, 
the amount of work involved made a lick and promise
wash-up at the sink an attractive proposition.

Katie climbed the stairs to her room.  She turned
up the lamp and smiled at the solitude she had
achieved.  For so many years, she's had to share a
room, first with Missy, then with other girls in
various dormitories during training and her hospital
postings and then with her mother back at the 
boarding house after she left the hospital and 
Missy had gotten married.  

Then the trustees of the settlement house made 
rooms available for staff, and Katie eagerly took
advantage of the opportunity.  Maggie Scully hadn't
been pleased.  She'd insisted that no decent young 
woman would live on her own when she had family to 
live with.  Bill had been livid.  When their father 
died, Bill had assumed the role of head of the 
household and general tyrant.  Katie had told him
to go soak his head when he blustered at her that
she would get a reputation as a loose woman.

The room was comfortable.  The brass and porcelain
bedstand in the room had been tarnished and dirty
when she arrived.  Katie had carefully polished it
until it was beautiful again:  the brass shining
warmly, the porcelain trim creamy white.  Scraping 
a few dollars together, she'd bought a lovely rug 
second hand.  Katie had stitched up curtains and 
covered the bed with a lace coverlet.   She'd even 
managed to cajole Maggie out of a rocking chair and 
small table that weren't being used.

Katie was tired, but not really sleepy.  Removing
the pins from her hair, she shook it down and reached
for her silver-backed brush.  Drawing her waist-
length hair forward, she brushed it until it shined
in the lamplight.

Katie glanced over at the stack of old medical 
journals Vincent Vitigliano had given her.  She loved 
to read the articles and discuss some of the more
interesting points with the doctor.  

Most of the doctors Katie had contact with in her 
nursing career had been dismissive, treating the 
nurses as little more than scullery maids.  Vincent
Vitigliano was different.  He respected both the
nursing profession and Katie Scully as an individual,
and Katie was proud to consider him her friend.

But she wasn't in the mood to pore over case studies
and medical details.  From its place on her nightstand, 
Katie reached for her favorite book.  She oughtn't love 
it so, she thought.  "Pride and Prejudice" was too 
old-fashioned, too romantic for a modern woman.  But 
no matter, she loved Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy 
with a fondness usually reserved for family members.

She'd read half a dozen chapters when she heard the
first *ping* against her window.  A second rap sounded
followed by a third before Katie reached the window.

"Katie," Mathew called softly from the street below.
"Katie!  Are you there?"

"Mathew, what are you doing?" she asked, opening the
window and leaning out.  

"I knocked, but you didn't hear me," he answered.  "I
know it's late, but please, Katie, let me in."

"Where have you been all day?" Katie asked.  "It's 
almost ten o'clock."

"Please, Katie.  I have to see you."

She ought to leave him standing there, she thought,
but the need to see him was too strong.  

"All right," she answered.  "Come around to the 
back door."

Katie pulled a shawl around her shoulders and flew
down the stairs.  She hurried through the kitchen and
unlocked the back door.

"Katie," Mathew said, his face wreathed in a smile.  
"I'm so glad to see you--I missed you terribly."  
 
"I missed you too," she replied.  He came into the
kitchen, moving slowly.  Katie frowned as she noticed
the way his arms were wrapped around his middle as if
to protect himself.  "Where were you all day?"

"I was tied up and couldn't get away."

"Tied up?  On a Sunday?"  Sunday had been a special
day for them since they'd started "keeping company."
Mathew had shown up at the settlement house on the
occasional weekday or Saturday afternoon, but Sunday
had been a day Katie had been able to depend on
seeing him.  To have him absent the very day after 
they'd shared such closeness at Coney Island had
upset her more than she'd been willing to admit.

"I had some...er...family obligations."

"I see," she said, wrapping her shawl more tightly
around herself.  "Family obligations."

"Katie?  Is something wrong?"

"I don't know, Mathew.  Is something wrong?  You've
never mentioned your family and now you have 
obligations.  I don't know what you do for a living,
where you live--"

"Katie, what happened?  You've never questioned me 
like this before."

"Well, maybe I should have.  A man came to see me
today.  Do you know Mr. Walter Skinner? He certainly
seemed to know you."

Mathew nodded weakly.  "I know him.  What...what did
he say to you?"

"He said you wouldn't come here today."

"Well then, it wasn't true, was it?  I'm here."

"Yes. yes, you are, though it's practically tomorrow
already.  But why would he say that?  What
did he know."
 
"He doesn't know anything," Mathew said.  His hand 
crept over to hold onto the kitchen table for support.
"He only thinks he knows.  He sees what he wants to 
see, because...Katie, he thinks he's in love with 
you."

"Mathew!" she said.  "He barely knows me.  How could
he think that?"

Even as she denied it, she knew it was true.  Katie
had sensed the man had deep feelings.  

"He does."  Mathew winced as he leaned on the table.

"What's wrong, Mathew?" Katie asked.  "You're moving
as if something hurts."

"I'm fine," he assured her.   "I thought about you all
day and wished I was with you.  Tell me everything you
did today." 

"Nothing very important," she replied.   "I'm 
glad you're here."

Slipping her arms around him, Katie hugged Mathew 
tightly.  He yelped in pain, almost going limp in her 
arms.

"I knew it!" she asserted.  "You're in a lot of pain.
Don't deny it."

She began to unbutton his shirt, but he grabbed her
hands.

"Stop that, Mathew," she ordered him, and his arms
dropped.  She opened his shirt and pulled up his
undershirt to reveal his midsection.
 
"Oh my God, Mathew.  What in heaven happened to you?"

"Heaven had nothing to do with it," he muttered.  "I 
fell down."

His belly was a mass of bruises, the skin stained purple,
almost black.  The bruising extended up as far
as his chest but seemed concentrated on the abdomen, 
ending before it reached the area below his belt.   
Mathew attempted to move away from her probing fingers 
as she examined him.  His ribs didn't seem to be broken,
but he hissed and then coughed when she pressed 
lightly above his navel.

"You fell down?" she asked, incredulously.  "You need a
better story, Mathew.  This isn't the result of a fall.
I've patched up Bill and his cronies enough times to 
tell the difference between a fall and a beating.  
Someone did this to you."

"Katie, drop it.  Please," he said, desperately.  

Realization dawned on her as she remembered Skinner's
swollen nose.  They had been in a fight.  And since
they worked for the same man, that put Mathew in a 
terrible fix.

"It was that awful Mr. Skinner," she said.  "Is he
your boss?"

Mathew gave a little laugh.

"He tries to be."

"Did he...Mathew, did he have anything to do with
Samantha disappearing?" she asked, softly.

"No," he replied, shaking his head.  "No.  I'm sure 
of that at least."

She slipped her arms around him, gently this time.  
She pressed her nose into the light crop of hair in 
the middle of Mathew's chest, breathing in the scent 
of him.

"Some day soon you'll sell so many pictures you can
say goodbye to your job and that awful Mr. Skinner." 

"Katie," Mathew said, releasing a long shuddering
breath.  He held her closely, his hands stroking her 
hair, tangling in the length of it.  "I've never seen 
you with your hair down.  It's incredible."

Her shawl fell away and Katie was suddenly very
aware that she was standing in the kitchen in her 
nightclothes, embracing a half-naked man.  

This is dangerous, she thought.  Very, very dangerous.
But Mathew was here, smelling of starch and sweat,
his arms as strong as she remembered from Coney Island.

The thoughts that had been simmering below the surface
all day began to bubble up into Katie's consciousness.
It might be dangerous, even fool-hardy, but Katie knew
what she wanted, and it was to kiss Mathew again.

She reached up to bracket his beautiful face with her
hands.  He looked at her with tenderness that gradually
changed to worry as she pulled him down for a kiss.

"Katie, this isn't a good idea," he mumbled against
her mouth.  "You don't know about me."

"I know what I need to know," she whispered between kisses.
Poor Mathew, she thought, always getting bested in fistfights.  
He wasn't a fighter, and he wasn't a tower of strength, but 
he was good and kind and so very beautiful.  She wanted him 
more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

He didn't try to pull away as she tasted his
mouth.  He moaned as she traced his lower lip with
the tip of her tongue.  There seemed to be a struggle
going on inside of Mathew, and she felt him tremble.  
Finally, he found the strength to grasp her shoulders 
and separate from her enough to look at her.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, his eyes burning
into hers, his breath ragged.   

"You would never hurt me, Mathew.  I know you better
than that."

Katie cupped Mathew's cheek as she gazed deep into his
eyes.  Her thumb brushed over his lips in a soft 
caress.   His grip on her shoulders softened to a caress.
Finally, his hands slid down her arms to grasp her hands 
between his.

"I want to marry you, Katie."  His voice shook with deep
emotion.  "I want to be at your side and the whole world 
to know.  But I can't do that yet."

Katie pushed Mathew's hands away and pressed herself 
to him, her arms entwining around his neck. 

"So many words, Mathew.  What you want, what you don't
want.  Do you know what I want?"

To be continued...
 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Katie Scully's story, part 6


"So many words, Mathew.  What you want, what you 
don't want.  Do you know what I want?"

"What do you want, Katie?" Mathew asked, his voice
thick with emotion.  He stroked a finger along her
cheek.

"I want you to kiss me again."

Bending his head, Mathew did his best to oblige, 
pressing his soft, pliant lips to hers at first gently, 
then with passion.  Katie parted her lips and Mathew 
did not hesitate to explore her mouth.  

This beautiful man had just told her that he loved her 
and wanted to marry her, and now her heart felt like 
it was ready to burst in her chest.  

"I love you," he whispered after each kiss.  "I love 
you.  I love you."

Katie's hands skimmed over the smooth skin of Mathew's 
shoulders and back.  With only slippers on her feet he 
towered above her, his arms around her waist.  Katie 
was grateful for those arms; they were the only thing 
keeping her from melting into a puddle on the kitchen 
floor.

Mathew's hands skimmed along her sides, molding the
nightgown to her, mapping out her body under
the voluminous fabric.  She gasped when his hands 
came around to cup her bottom, pressing her against
him.  The length of his manhood was hot and hard
against her belly.

"If we don't stop now, Katie," Fox moaned against her
mouth, "I don't know where this will end."

"I don't want it to end," she replied.  "I love you,
Mathew, and I want to be with you."

Whenever Katie had imagined her first time, it had
never been in a kitchen.  She wanted her first
experience to be beautiful and she wanted it to be
in her soft bed.

"Come on," she said, softly.  Katie took Mathew's hand
and led him through the darkened rooms.  A shaft of
moonlight from the hall window illuminated his face
as they climbed the stairs to her room.  Mathew looked
dazed and dreamy-eyed.

Her room was dark, the moon casting lacey shadows on 
the walls as it shined through the curtains.  How 
appropriate that the room looked like a fairyland on 
this magical night.  Katie turned up the lamp by the
bed until soft light gilded the room.

Mathew hand sifted through her hair, lifting the weight
of it away from her neck and letting if fall around her.  
She unfastened the first button of her muslin gown and 
then another and another until Mathew was able to slide 
it off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Katie restrained herself from trying to cover her 
nakedness.  She didn't need to hide from Mathew.

"You're beautiful," he said, gazing at her with naked
joy.  "The most beautiful sight I've ever seen."

Gently, his fingers traced along the rise of her
breast and she shivered.  Her courage abandoned her
as the room's cool air hardened her nipples and
she realized that for the first time in her life, she
was fully naked in the presence of a man.

Somehow, Mathew sensed her discomfort and shrugged out
of his shirt and undershirt.  He embraced her and 
she nearly swooned at the feeling of his bare chest
against her own naked skin. 

"I'll be gentle," he whispered in her ear.

"I know."

Mathew scooped her up in his arms, grunting in pain
as his bruises reasserted themselves through the haze
of desire.  

"Oh dear," Katie said.  "You're in too much pain."

"I'm fine," Mathew gasped, as he carried her to 
the bed.   "I just have to pace myself." 

He flipped the coverlet back and laid her on the cool 
sheets.  In the lamplight, his skin was burnished gold, 
marred only by the bruising over his midsection as 
he stood by the bed.  

Slowly, he unfastened his trousers and shucked them down 
his long legs until he was as naked as she.  Katie felt
her eyes grow very round at the sight of Mathew's erect
member.  In her nursing training, she'd seen naked men,
but never erect.  To her unpracticed eye, Mathew looked
incredibly large.

"Don't be frightened," he said, gently, as he climbed 
up on the bed next to her. 

"I'm not," she asserted, though she'd have been more
persuasive if her voice hadn't quavered.  

Mathew kissed her and suddenly, her fears drifted away.
His hands stroked her skin, her breasts, her hips, her
belly.  Everywhere he touched, her skin burned as if 
kissed by fire.  He cupped her breast, his thumb grazing
over her nipple. 

"So beautiful," he murmured before taking the rosy tip
into his mouth.  Katie moaned at the sensation of wet
warmth on her skin.   It was unlike anything she'd ever
experienced in her life.   

Mathew's hands slowly drifted along her side, and over
her belly.  Gently, he parted her thighs and found the 
tiny nub nestled in the curls between her legs.  Katie
stiffened, her hands twisting in the sheets.  None of the
books she'd read and none of the whispered confidences of
her fellow nurses had prepared her for the way this felt. 

She whimpered as he brushed his thumb over her, each
touch like an electrical shock.  Her back arched and
her head tossed from side to side.  A gasp escaped her
lips as he pushed a finger inside her and her back arched
in surprise.  

"Relax," Mathew murmured.  "It's better if you relax."  
His mouth covered hers, kissing her deeply.  

She was floating, anchored only by his touch, by the
feeling of his lips on hers and his hand moving on
her, in her.  She was unable to control the movement of 
her hips as she bucked against his hand. 

"Please, Mathew," she said.  "Please...I...I want..."

"Are you all right?"  His voice was raspy, his breath hot 
on her face.  "Do you want me to stop?"

"Please," she moaned.  "Please...don't stop."

Mathew positioned himself above her, supported by his
arms, his hips nestled between her parted thighs.  
Slowly, so very slowly, he entered her.  Her 
eyes were squeezed closed and she grasped his shoulders,
her nails digging into his firm flesh.

Finally, he was fully inside her, remaining still as he 
allowed her body to adjust to him.  

"Does this hurt?" he asked.

She shook her head, but he remained still until she 
began to move her lower body in an effort to recreate 
that amazing sensation of friction between her legs.  

Taking her cue, Mathew's moved within her, slowly at 
first, then faster as Katie locked her ankles over his 
back.  His hips began to pump then, his breath ragged 
in her ear with the exertion of each thrust.

The warmth that had begun with his first touch was
kindled into a steady flame as Katie's hips bucked
under Mathew.  It spread through her, tendrils of
heat entwining through her until the night exploded
into a blinding flash of light behind her closed 
eyes.  She cried out, burying her face in the crook
of Mathew's neck.  

Mathew's hips jerked once and then twice more before
he groaned out her name and emptied his seed into
her.

He collapsed onto her, covering her like a warm,
sweaty blanket.  She stroked the smooth skin of his
back as they both caught their breath.  Mathew
rolled off her, pulling her onto her side to face
him.

"How do you feel?" he asked, touching her face.

"Wonderful," she whispered.  "So wonderful."

Mathew stretched a long arm to turn down the lamp
by the bed and pulled the covers over them.  Brushing 
the damp hair from her face, he looked deep into her 
eyes as if he couldn't believe he was lying in her bed, 
his arm tight around her waist.

Katie was quite sure that if not for Mathew's anchoring
arm, she would surely float up toward the ceiling.
She giggled at the thought.  Mathew must think her mad,
laughing at nothing in the middle of the night.  One
glance, though, and she saw she had nothing to worry
about.  Mathew was sound asleep.

She watched his face in the shifting moonlight until
sleep overtook her.  

Katie woke while it was still dark.  Her bed felt 
empty to her as she realized Mathew was no longer 
in it.  She sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts 
and watched him dress silently in the dark. 

Mathew turned to her, smiling as he buttoned his
shirt.  "Good morning," he said, softly.  "You 
looked so beautiful sleeping there.  I could barely
take my eyes off you."

"What time is it?" she asked, swinging her legs over
the side of the bed and yawning.

"Just past five," he replied, tucking in his shirt.  He
sat on the end of the bed.  "I have to change clothes 
and go to work.  I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's all right," she said, reaching for her nightgown.
"I'd have to get up soon anyway.  I'll make us some 
coffee."

Pulling her shawl around her, Katie descended the stairs
with Mathew following her.  His shoes were loud against 
the steps.  She led him into the kitchen where she turned 
up the light.  

Katie chanced little glances at Mathew as she set about 
measuring out the coffee and filling the pot with water.  
He seemed pensive and that raised little prickles of worry 
along her spine.  He was obviously an experienced man.   
Katie didn't think she could stand it if he was disappointed 
with her. 

"You seem to be moving better today," she said as she cut 
two large slices of bread and set them on the table with 
jam.  She took milk and from the ice box.

"I'm fine," he replied.

"You didn't strain yourself?  Last night, I mean."

"No," he said, smiling and shaking his head.  "No strain.
How about you?  Are you all right?"

"Sure," she answered and it was true.  She was a little 
sore, but she felt alive, energized.  She worried that,
perhaps, Mathew didn't feel the same way.  That fear 
compelled her to push further.

"Is...is something wrong?" she asked, as she concentrated 
on breathing.  "Are you sorry we...."

"Oh, no," he said, crossing to take her hands.  "It was
the most wonderful...most incredible...I could never
regret that.  But--"

"But what?"  

"I should have pulled out, Katie, but I was too far gone
and couldn't stop.  I've never been so completely 
overwhelmed by the experience before.  But what if
something happened?"

Shame rose within Katie as she realized that she'd been 
so careless.  As a nurse, Katie was supremely aware of 
the impact an unplanned pregnancy had on a young woman's 
life.  She'd been so focused on a perfect first time that 
she'd blocked that from her mind and taken a terrible 
chance.  

"I think it was safe," she said.  She'd just finished
her monthly and seemed to remember that was the safest
time.  "Still, we have to be careful from now on."

"Yes," he said, brightening.  "From now on."   

The coffee bubbled over, interrupted them as the liquid
hissed in the flame.  Katie ran to the stove to take 
the pot off the heat and poured them each a cup.

They sat at the scarred oak table sharing their first 
breakfast.  There was something so intimate about the 
act of their hands meeting at the jam jar.  So 
incredibly domestic.

"Someday, when we have our own kitchen, you can cook
me a fine dinner every day," he said, with a sly grin.

"What makes you think I can cook, Mr. Fox?" she asked,
laughing.  

"I bet there isn't anything you can't do," he said,
taking her hands in his.  "Katie..."

"What, Mathew?" 

"You know how I feel about you, don't you?  That I'm 
completely crazy in love with you?"

"Well, I know you're crazy," she said, chuckling.

"Katie, I want to be with you, every day, always, but
I have some...loose ends I have to tie up before we 
can be together."

"What do you mean--loose ends?" she asked.  She didn't 
want to think about Walter Skinner's warning, but she 
heard his voice in her ear--'what do you really know
of him?'

"It's something I have to do for work.  By putting in
the hours now I can get myself free of an obligation. 
I'll be able to tell you more when it's over."

"I saw what Mr. Skinner did to you.  I'm afraid, Mathew."  

"I'll be safe, but I won't be able to see you as often
as I'd like.  We'll be together soon, I promise.   Will
you trust me?" 

The truth was, she did.  There was a whole world of Mathew 
Fox that she didn't understand, but she sensed only love 
and deep commitment from the man before her.  She nodded,
solemnly.   

"I do trust you, Mathew." 

"I promise, it will all work out in the end."  He downed 
his coffee, grabbing his bread and jam.  "I better go
now, if I want to make it to work on time."

Katie followed Mathew to the kitchen door.  He kissed
her deeply before slipping out.  She watched him make
his way through the back yard and out the backyard
with a wave of his hand.  

A twitch of the curtains over at the Berkowitz' window
caught her attention as she closed the kitchen door.

"Oy vey," Katie muttered.   Shayna would have
questions.  Shayna would want answers.

Katie sat down to finish her coffee, and to think, not
about Shayna, but about Mathew.

Her Mathew.  She loved him and everything about him. 
His beautiful voice, so serious, even when she knew he
was teasing.  His intelligence.  The way he listened
to her when she spoke.  His quiet confidence.  The ways 
he kissed her.  Sometimes impulsive and bold, sometimes 
awestruck and careful.

She loved his body.  His long, muscled legs.  His
strong arms and his strong, soft hands.  His chest...
oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, his poor, battered chest
and stomach.  

If she hadn't seen it before, she wouldn't believe
that bare fists could cause such bruising.  And yet
Mathew wasn't afraid of Mr. Skinner.  You would think
he'd be in a twist knowing he had to go back to work 
and that Mr. Skinner would be there.  

Katie should have asked him more about the obligation
at work, which would take up so much time until he
could be rid of it.  How did Mr. Skinner fit in with
that obligation?  Mathew didn't want to talk about it.
He said he would explain when it was over.

Her mysterious Mathew.  Mathew's secrets hung over
them both like gathering clouds, but the mystery drew
her in even as it frightened her.  

"Give me ten minutes alone with him, I'll find his
secrets," Shayna had offered.

Shayna was shrewd and shameless.  She liked Mathew but
she said Katie had to be practical.  

Most of the time, Katie was practical.  She managed
the operations of the settlement house with a keen eye
to wringing the maximum benefit from her limited
funds.  She organized her days so that every task
could be completed. 

What she felt for Mathew wasn't practical.  Shayna
questioned if he could support a family, what his
mother was like, did he snore, what kind of work did
he do with those soft, uncallused hands...

Katie smiled.  Maybe one day she'd tell Shayna what
Mathew could do with his soft hands and soft lips and
hard...

Stop, enough!  Or *ganuk,* as Shayna would say. 

Time for work.  It was still early, but not too early
to call on the Lurias and their baby.

She tidied the kitchen, leaving the coffee pot on the
stove to rewarm later.  She dressed and set out on her
visit.

She found the baby much improved, to the parents'
relief and her own.  The Lurias were effusive in their
thanks.  If they noticed that Katie was in a fog, they
were too polite and grateful to mention it.  She was
back at the settlement house in time to set up for the
open clinic that Vincent Vitigliano conducted there
weekly.

Vincent arrived, and she must have brought him the
records he needed, and filled him in on the patients
he had seen the week before.  She probably told him
about the Luria baby too.

Katie said a silent prayer that everyone would stay
safe and healthy until she could concentrate.  She
knew from experience that she would snap to attention
in the event of a crisis, but she didn't like to take
that for granted.

Vincent was chatting with a grubby little boy,
imploring him to brush his teeth and overcome his
licorice habit.  Katie listened with only half an ear.

"Good heavens, Stevie, you've grown two feet since
your last visit," she heard the doctor say.

"Gettouttaheah, doc.  I always had two feet, see?"

"It says so right here.  Your height is six feet,
eight inches."

Dr. Vitigliano was popular with the patients, and not
just because he was the only doctor they could afford.
With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he was 
especially well liked by the neighborhood females.  
Usually Katie enjoyed the clinic, but today her
thoughts were in a whirl, and in the middle of the
whirl was Mathew.

"Nurse Scully, can it really be true that this young
man is over six feet tall?" Vincent asked.

"I must be the tallest boy in the world!" Stevie
chortled.

"Katie?"

This time Vincent's voice cut through the fog.  He
didn't normally use her first name when patients 
were present.

"Yes, doctor?" she responded.

"Would you mind checking Stevie Kane's height once 
more?"

Katie blushed.  She hated making mistakes, even when
they caused no harm.

Unfortunately the morning was full of silly blunders. 
She found herself writing "left" when she meant
"right," or repeating her questions because she'd
neglected to record the answer.  A few of the patients
became annoyed, but  Vincent responded with his usual
good humor.

She tried to apologize at the end of the day as he was
packing up.

"My mother has a saying: Only those who do nothing
make no mistakes," he assured her.  

"I'll inspect these records again, before I file them
away," she said, stacking the papers in a neat pile.  

Vincent shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by her sloppy
performance.

"I'll see you Wednesday," he said.  "It should be
interesting."

Katie had to think for a moment until she remembered.

"Oh, yes.  Dr. Oppenheim's lecture on the 
electrocardiograph.  Thank you so much for inviting 
me," she said.  

After he left, she made good on her promise to go over
the patients' records one more time.  Mercifully there
were no more mistakes to taunt her.

Last night had not been a mistake.  The morning had
found Mathew fearful about what they'd done, but Katie
had only gladness. 

For as long as she'd understood the concept, virginity
had stood before her like the great divide.  The
virgins on  one side, and everyone else on the other. 
The wives and the widows, who had nothing to explain. 
The loose and fallen women, with their tales of woe. 
And the modern girls like herself, who made their
choice with open minds and open hearts.

Virginity, taller than the Rocky Mountains, because
once you crossed you could never go back.

It was all nonsense.  She was no different than the
day before.  Her body burned for Mathew, counting the
time until they could be together, but that was not
new.  There were sparks from the first time she saw
him, and the smoldering had begun the day that Tom
Colton pulled him off the stoop.

Later that day, Katie was still mulling over her
conversation with Mathew that morning as she swept 
off that very stoop.  The settlement house was 
quiet in the late afternoon as people returned 
home to cook and eat their suppers.  Katie enjoyed
these quiescent periods where she could catch
her breath and her composure.

"Hey, minnow!" a voice called from the front walk.
"You missed a spot over there."

Bill Scully, Jr. stood at the base of the steps,
pointing to a leaf that had escaped her broom.

Katie bit back a retort and kept her expression mild.  
Letting Bill know he had gotten under her skin would
only serve to ensure further teasing.  Ever since 
she was a tiny girl, Bill had called her "minnow,"
saying she was too little for the fishermen's nets.

Seeing Katie's red-faced anger, Missy had tried to
point out how pretty the minnows were, their little
bodies shining in the sunlight as they darted back 
and forth in the shallows.  Katie refused to be 
cosseted--the movement of the fish struck her as 
a pointless waste of energy.

"Hello Bill," she said, dryly.  "A pity you don't 
have anything better to do than point that out." 

"Now, there ain't no call for back talk, minnow, 
'specially when I come by to bring ya somethin'."

Bill climbed the steps, holding out a crockery jar 
wrapped in a dish towel.  "Ma made stew.  Thought 
you might like some."

"Thanks," she said.  She took the jar carefully 
as heat radiated through the dish towel.  In the 
hierarchy of the Scully family, Bill was the favored
elder son, the head of the household.  He was an
unlikely errand boy.  Katie pondered whose idea this 
was--Bill or her mother.

"Let me put this in the kitchen," she said.  Bill 
didn't seem ready to take his leave yet.  "Well, you
might as well come in."

She led him into the front hall and through to the
kitchen at the back of the house.  Her brother glanced
around the room.

"You could fit five of Ma's kitchen in here."

"I guess you could," she agreed, placing the hot jar
on the table.  

"Charlie says you got a fella," Bill said.  "Is it 
that Eye-talian doctor?"

Ah, she thought, we've finally hit on the real reason
for Bill's visit.  He loomed over her, hands on hips.  
Her brother was a strapping man--his muscles had muscles 
from lifting heavy boxes on the docks.  But Katie was 
not easily intimidated.

"And how is this your business?" she asked.

"It's my business 'cause yer my little sister, that's
how.  So is it him?"

"If you must know," Katie began, "Vincent and I are 
friends.  And even if he were, it would still be up
to me to decide."

"Jeez, Katie, nobody said it wasn't up to you.  I just 
can't figure why you don't wanna go out with Tom.  
He's a hard workin' guy--makes a good pay and he don't 
drink much, not like that bum of Missy's.  Tom likes 
you--he don't care that you went off to be a nurse."

"Well, I'm sure that's big of Tom," she said. 

"A lot of fellas don't want a girl that speaks her
mind alla time and lives on her own like you.  Well,
not to marry, anyway.  You shouldn't turn yer nose
up at Tom--you could do worse."

"Well, maybe I'm looking for something more than 
'you could do worse'."  

"Look, Katie--you can't change who you are and where you 
come from.   People should stay with their own kind.  
It's the way things are--not just 'cause I said so.  A 
mick should marry a mick.  That way we all understand
each other."

"Why, Bill?  What's so damned great about the Irish
that I have to limit myself to the men from the
neighborhood?"

"Katie, we're Irish and nothing will ever change that.  
It ain't that many years since they had signs saying 
'no Irish need apply.'  But look--we didn't let that 
keep us down.  Da came over with nothing.  Had to 
settle for half wages, but still, he managed to send
home some money.  Now Ma's got the boarding house and
don't hafta worry where her next meal is coming from.
Nobody is ever gonna understand the fight we got in
us.  You'd just be setting yourself up to be unhappy."

In his own bigoted, small-minded way, Bill had uncovered
a truth that had been nagging at Katie since she met
Mathew.  Were they too different?  Katie knew very
little about Mathew, but she sensed he came from
advantaged circumstances.  

At first, she'd assumed Mathew had sacrificed that 
comfort in the pursuit of his sister and his beloved 
photography.  She'd thought that amazingly brave
and selfless.  Now she wasn't sure what to think.
It seemed Mathew had obligations to a job and maybe 
to a life beyond her grasp.  

But he'd asked her to be patient and she would honor
that request.  He was a good man who made her head 
swim and her pulse race.  She trusted Mathew with her 
heart and that was all there was to that.

"I know you're just trying to look out for me, Bill.
I really do.  But I have to find my own way."

"You're a fool, Katie Scully," Bill said, softly.  
"Ma said mind you don't crack the jar on the stove." 

As he left, Bill slammed the back door a little harder 
than necessary.  

Putting a small amount of the stew in a bowl, Katie
stood by the window and ate.  Even with her mind in
turmoil, her mother's cooking was comforting.  She
spooned a little more into her bowl and put the rest
in the ice box.

The settlement house would spring back to life soon.  
Katie washed up her dishes and went upstairs to the 
largest room in the house.  Now used for meetings and 
larger gatherings, the room had once been a ballroom.  
On Monday nights, it returned to that function as the
folk dancing club met there and learned new dances.

Katie cleared the center of the room, moving the chairs
against the walls.  By the time she had dusted the
piano and set out the music for Mrs. Tibby, who 
accompanied the group.

Members of the group were already entering by the time 
she finished her chores.  It amazed Katie that people 
who had stood on their feet for ten hours in factories
or shops still had the energy to dance.  The group of
young women she met on the stairs greeted her in high 
spirits, though.

Shayna Berkowitz gave her a long, solemn look as 
she passed Katie on the stairs.  Katie fought the
urge to lower her eyes, meeting Shayna with steadiness
that she didn't feel.  "Be careful," Shayna said,
quietly before disappearing up the steps.

When she wasn't actually running a class or program, 
Katie usually worked in the kitchen in case she was 
needed.  Tonight, she'd collected the settlement house's
ledger books from the office and spread them out over
the kitchen table.  Unfortunately, her mind refused to
stay on the numbers and returned over and over to Mathew.

The certainty and peace she'd felt in his arms was going 
to be hard to maintain while they were parted.  How had
her mother managed the long weeks when Da traveled up and 
down the coast, fishing.  If only she could talk to her 
mother about her feelings, but she was sure Ma would 
just echo Bill's sentiments.

Her musings continued until she was roused by a
commotion in the front room.  She heard the heavy
front door swing open, and then a clamor of voices.

Discussing politics was one of the foremost pastimes
here on the east side, and this sounded like a typical
debate.  Katie went to investigate.  By the volume of
voices she expected to find a dozen people in the
front hall but she found only three.

"Mr. Frohike," she greeted the one man she recognized.
"You're making more noise than the folk dancers."

"Sorry, Miss Scully.  I forgot my lecture notes here
last week," the little man explained.  "These
boneheads are John Byers and Ringo Langly."

The other two stopped their bickering long enough to
shake her hand.

"Ringo the Monk?" she inquired with a bemused smile. 
Knocko the Monk was a popular comic strip, about
monkeys with names like Braggo and Rhymo.

"Ringo, as in Johnny Ringo.  Fastest gun in the West,"
the bespectacled young man explained defensively.

"A common outlaw," interjected the one called Byers.

"A modern-day Robin Hood," Langly shot back.

"Against all reason, I'm allowing these gentlemen to
assist in the creation and production of my new
newspaper," Mr. Frohike told Katie.

"Another newspaper?  There are so many," Katie said.

"Assist?" Langly asked with disbelief.

"If by 'assist' you mean write, edit, print and
distribute, I believe the term is accurate," said
Byers.

"Another newspaper because none of the rags we have
now is willing to print the truth," Frohike said.

"Because they're owned by millionaires," Langly said.

"Millionaires like Hearst and Pulitzer control the
newspapers, just as men like Rockefeller and Carnegie
control industry," Byers said.

"And the government, which was formed to serve the
needs of the people, is the puppet of the moneyed
class," Frohike added.

"As if that wasn't enough, you have guys like Big Tim
Sullivan and The MacManus, serving out the public
money like it was their own.  Controlling the voters by
giving them back from the money they stole," Langly
concluded.

"And half the people aren't even allowed the vote,"
Katie reminded them.  The three men looked puzzled for
a moment.

"Oh, the women.  Yes, women's suffrage is another
important issue," Byers said.

"Yeah, sure.  But let's not get sidetracked," said
Langly.

Katie shook her head reproachfully but the three men
were back on their tirade.

"You've got the city bosses and the big
industrialists, but on top of them you've got the
bankers. Rothschild, Mulder, Morgan. . . And those
aren't *men,* those are dynasties," Frohike said.

"The younger Mulder seems a good sort," Byers said
quietly.

"We know the son," Langly said, with some pride.  
"He comes to our shop."

Frohike looked interested.

"The one I'd really like to meet is the daughter.  
Did you hear about her?"

"I seem to remember something," Byers said.

"Old man Mulder wanted to marry her into the Von
Strughold family.  Then she'd be a baroness, and he'd
have connections across Europe and into Africa and
South America.  But the girl wouldn't do it.  She
turned her back on a life of wealth and privilege, 
and she flew the coop," Frohike related.  

Katie thought about her own overbearing family, 
and about Mathew's missing sister. 

"Men.  They never learn," she said.  

Katie felt the weight of someone's gaze and looked up
to see Ringo Langly studying her face.   She gave him
a questioning look.

"Sorry to stare," he said.  "It's just that you look
so familiar.  Maybe you've been to our shop, Canal
Street Lock and Hardware?"

Katie regarded him carefully, taking in the blond hair
in need of a trimming, the spectacles, the thin face. 

"I don't believe we've ever met," she replied. 
"Perhaps I remind you of someone you know."

"I'm sure I've seen your face before.  It's going to
plague me until I remember."

To be continued in part 7...