But she didnt belong.
Not in that office, typing up notes and filing signed papers, stamping the backs of checks and sorting telegrams like a secretary. Not in Chicago, either, where the heat-flash of summer suddenly gave way to a winter like nothing shed ever known in Virginia. And Virginia got plenty cold, thank you very much as she found herself reminding coworkers who teased her about her fingerless gloves and layers of scarves.
Not as cold as this, though. November on Lake Michigan, and the whole world might be frozen, so far as she knew.
On the rare occasions when she felt like defending herself, she insisted that there hadnt been time to do any shopping when shed accepted the job offer. Shed packed her things and caught the first train to Illinois, desperate to escape an increasingly unhappy situation south of the Mason-Dixon, where shed come under scrutiny that stopped just shy of an allegation of treason. Shed married against advice, been widowed against her will, and, if it werent for the once-celebrated spys continued friendship with General Jackson, she mightve met a court-martial in her mourning dress.
Adding insult to injury, she hadnt been able to redeem herself yet, as shed become altogether too famous for further espionage work.
Or any other work, as it turned out.
The CSA no longer trusted her, and the newspapers accused her of terrible things. What meager fortune her family possessed was lost in the war, her fathers hotel burned, rebuilt, and then seized for taxes under flimsy circumstances. Hed died shortly thereafter, and her brothers were dead, too, lost to the war effort. One sister had succumbed to cholera while working as a nurse in a field hospital. One served as caregiver to her husband, badly wounded at the second battle of Shiloh.
There was no money, and what was left of her family was starving.
Maria Boyd wrote a book and gave tours, speaking about her time in Union prisoner-of-war camps and retelling her adventures as a spy, but it wasnt enough to keep anyone fed. She turned to acting, and the reviews were good but the pay was poor. She worked as a cab driverone of the only women driving in Georgia, if not the whole continent. A seamstress. A cook. A governess. A messenger.
And still they went hungry.
So when the invitation came from Pinkertonso unexpected and so unlikelyMaria was just desperate enough to take it, for here was a chance at an honest, interesting job that would earn her enough to eat, and to share.
In truth, her options were narrowing by the day. She could turn detective, or she could stoop to the prostitution of which shed so often been accuseda prospect that mightve been brighter in her youth. But so late in her thirties? Shed surely still starve, only more ignobly.
So she leaped, all the way from Front Royal, Virginia, to Chicago, Illinois.
She leaped with all her worldly belongings, which fit in a single steamer trunk and carpetbag. These worldly belongings had in fact included a coat, but the coat was insufficient for even a Virginia winter, never mind one in Illinois, and she wasnt dishonest enough to write off a new one as an expense.
Not quite yet.
She gathered her bag and the case notes she was writing up and moved. Andrew Kellys desk was warmer by far. Maria sighed, loosened one of her scarves, and smiled to feel the furnace-warmed typewriter keys beneath her fingertips. Only three more invoices to record and file and shed be finished for the day.
Allan Pinkertons office door opened with a crash.
The aging Scotsman stormed through it just like he stormed everyplace, as if he could function at no other speed. His eyes landed on Marias now-empty desk, then found her over at her borrowed spot, her fingers hovering guiltily over the typewriter keys.
Maria! he barked. Hed dispensed with any naming formalities months ago.
Yes, sir?
In my office. Ive got one for you.
She exhaled with relief. She belonged in the field. Even when the field was cold and miserable and she needed a better coat, shed rather wander the streets of Chicago in the snow than sit there and type beside the furnace.
She left the warm spot with only a little rue. Her employer held the frosted glass door open as she passed him and took the seat across from his enormous oak desk. A simple name plaque announced that he was the owner of this desk, and the finely stenciled name and all-seeing eye logo on the doors glass announced he was the owner of this office, and that he never slept. Everything here belonged to him, and he liked to make sure everyone knew it.
All right, Mr. Pinkerton. Brief me.
Listen to you there, picking up the lingo like youre one of the boys. Never thought Id see the day, he said, as he parked himself behind the desk, facing her. The wheels on his chair bottom rolled back and forth as he fidgeted. He put his elbows atop a pile of ledgers, reached for a cigar, and lit it. Then he used his knuckles to drag a big glass ashtray within easier reach.
Rose uses the lingo, too.