FORGED by Danielle Teller: Excerpt

FORGED

A thrilling and immersive tale of an impoverished woman turned con-artist by the critically acclaimed author of All the Ever Afters

In the Gilded Age, a time of abject poverty and obscene wealth, a desperate and ambitious young woman strikes out for a new life in the rising industrial cities of America. Naive Fanny is thrust into a Darwinian world where she is cast out and preyed upon, but she’s a survivor and quickly learns from her struggles. Thanks to her close observations of the mercenary actors around her, Fanny discovers the power of illusion and how it can overcome the immutability of social class and the ruthless rules of capitalism.

Shedding her past, Fanny embarks on a darkly thrilling transformation. She becomes Kitty Warren—a forger, con artist, and thief. Exploiting the greed and self-regard of the powerful, Kitty builds her own castle in the sky, yet she finds real pleasure and fulfilment elusive, and soon her foundations start to crumble.

With schemes more wicked than Jay Gatsby’s, yet with more humanity than Tom Ripley, Kitty Warren exposes the dark heart of the American dream, making Forged a gripping narrative and a parable for the ages.

PROLOGUE

T.R. Madden, United States Treasury Department, Custom House

I will never forget the first time I saw Mrs. Catherine “Kitty” Warren, sitting demurely in the empty grand saloon of the SS Great Northern. Of course, I knew of Mrs. Warren’s suspected criminal activity prior to 1902, in my capacity as a special agent of the Treasury

Department; she was already quite notorious by then.

I had boarded the steamer at quarantine to take the declarations of passengers en route to the steamship pier. This was merely a courtesy, to speed the work of the deputy collector so that weary passengers were not overly delayed; I had no mandate to investigate smuggling or enforce fines. While the vessel was being tied up, I was informed that all the passengers, save one, had left the saloon in preparation for disembarkation.

The saloon seemed deserted except for a morose deckhand sweeping the tiled floor. Despite bright sunshine pouring through the domed skylights, I nearly missed the woman in a wingback chair. She had perfectly erect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap—like a deer standing stock still in the woods, she disappeared into the sumptuous surroundings.

I approached. “Pardon me,” I said. “I am Special Agent Madden, of the United States Treasury Department. May I ask if you have made your declaration?”

With a serene smile, she said, “I am unfamiliar with the prelimi- naries, sir, and I find myself quite at a loss.”

She was approximately thirty five years of age, conservatively dressed in a gown of gray satin and lace, her hair impeccably coiffed. Her fea- tures were too strong to be considered pretty, but her mien was pleasant. Her most striking attribute was, without doubt, her eyes: bright, clear, and sea green; I was impressed by the frankness and intelligence of her gaze. Her aspect conveyed a genial approval, as though she saw me as I most wished to be seen.

I noticed the brooch pinned to the shawl in her lap. It was shaped like a butterfly, with a body of black pearls and wings of concentric precious stones; rubies in the center, ringed by sapphires, emeralds, and an out- ermost layer of brilliant diamonds. “That is a spectacular piece,” I said.

Her cheeks dimpled. “It’s only glass, but pretty, isn’t it?”

“I have never seen glass that looked so much like real stones,” I said.

Mrs. Warren laughed and touched the back of my hand with gloved fingertips. “The French are so clever,” she said.

“May I ask your name?” “Mrs. Catherine Warren.”

I was electrified. She was near legendary at Custom House for her jewel smuggling—and her ability to avoid our detection. “Are you expecting someone?” I asked, certain that she was waiting for an accomplice to help her sneak goods onshore.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am quite alone.” She smoothed her skirt. “You seem very kind. Perhaps you could help me?”

So as not to raise her guard, I went along with the pretense that she was unfamiliar with import rules. I described the tariffs in simple terms and conducted her to the deputy collector for her official declaration. I confess that I relished witnessing the end of her putative criminal career. I may even have been thinking about the credit I would bring to our department for nabbing her.

The collector looked seasoned and gruff, with his heavy brow and full white beard, and I was sure he would make a thorough inspection. Mrs. Warren smiled with what, for all the world, appeared to be delight at the prospect of making her declaration. “I have received such expert counsel from this gracious gentleman,” she said, placing her hand

on my forearm. She spoke softly, forcing the collector to lean close.

“I understand that you wish to know about my new jewelry,” she said. “But I am no aficionado. I have a few cheap pieces, my tiny vanities, worth nothing at all, really.”

“Where is your luggage?” the collector asked. “The porter has already taken my trunks for me.” “What did you buy during your stay in France?”

Mrs Warren looked to me, as though I knew. “So little that it is hardly worth mentioning.” She shrugged her shoulders expressively, like a European. “Some linens for my own use. Old secondhand pearls that have not even been strung.” Her laugh was charming, conveying both amiability and modesty. “I have listened carefully to Special Agent Madden here, who has advised me on the import rules, and I’m sure I have nothing of value to declare.”

I fully expected the collector to scoff at her description of pearls as “secondhand.” Yet to my astonishment, he thanked her and waved her on without further questions or comment. After waltzing through customs without paying a penny, Mrs. Warren raised a hand in adieu. Dumbstruck, I did not return the gesture.

“Why didn’t you order a search of her trunks?” I demanded of the collector.

“A woman like that is harmless,” he said dismissively.

“But that was Mrs. Kitty Warren, a known jewel smuggler!” I was almost sputtering.

“Not known to me,” he said, looking for other stragglers. Seeing none, he began to pack his bag.

“The one person you should have detained is her!”

The collector’s smile was condescending. “You are young,” he said. “It’s good to have enthusiasm for your work. But you will learn in time to pick out true suspects. The lady was no crook.”

After that first encounter, I took personal interest in this woman who had so long evaded us. We put Mrs. Warren under surveillance in Paris after discovering that she engaged the services of a jeweler on Rue de la Paix. Major Peterson, chief of the Paris office, made an arrangement with one of the shop’s employees. Whenever Mrs. Warren commis- sioned the jeweler to set precious stones or acquire rare jewels, the clerk would place her items in the display window, using a coded layout. Then one of our men would photograph the items and send images and descriptions back to New York.

In this manner, we developed a catalog of Mrs. Warren’s foreign jewelry acquisitions, which were many, all valued at princely sums. Customs inspectors studied the photographs in hope of recognizing the pieces when they were smuggled into America. There were sapphire rings and black pearl ropes, emerald necklaces and diamond bracelets, all of the highest quality. Unfortunately, detailed accounting was not enough—even when we were tipped off about her movements, she eluded us. She would not arrive on the steamer she had booked, or when her baggage was searched, nothing would be discovered. Then, months or years later, a wealthy socialite at the opera would be spotted wearing one of the extravagances we had documented in what we called “Dragon Kitty’s Treasure Catalog.”

In 1905, just before Mrs. Warren’s financial schemes were exposed to the world, I was perusing an Evening Telegram and saw a photo- graph of her emerging from the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York City. I marked the plainness of her features with some surprise; in my memory, she was a handsome woman. She wore an evening gown and fur stole, but what caught my attention was the elaborate diamond necklace encircling her throat. At its center: a heart-shaped stone of some twenty carats. Just the month before, I had seen that necklace in Dragon Kitty’s Treasure Catalog.

The photograph had been taken the previous night. It was already past suppertime, but I hastened to the hotel. I had even more motiva- tion than before, having endured my colleagues’ ribbing about letting Mrs. Warren slip through my fingers.

The hotel clerk confirmed that Mrs. Warren was indeed still in residence and gave me her room number. I rapped smartly on the door, and a neat young woman in a black dress answered. She looked at me warily as I proffered my official card.

“What is it you want?” the maid asked, none too politely.

Her coldness heightened my suspicions. Serendipity had brought me near my quarry, and I could not miss my chance. Unobtrusively, I moved my foot into the doorframe, preventing the door from shutting on me. “Please convey my card to your mistress,” I said. “I am here on the business of the United States Treasury Department.”

The girl narrowed her eyes but moved aside to let me enter the foyer of the luxurious suite. She disappeared for a full five minutes before the woman herself appeared, clad in an exquisite silk kimono, holding my card. “To what do I owe the pleasure, good sir?” She gazed at me levelly; the angles and planes of her face were exotic in the lamplight, the air tinged with jasmine perfume.

Unaccountably, I felt awkward and jittery, like a boy in a spelling match. In an exaggerated, languorous motion, she brushed curls back from her milky cheek. It was clear that she had no recollection of our prior meeting.

“I am with the Treasury Department, madam,” I said.

“This much I already knew.” She handed my card back nonchalantly. I pulled the Evening Telegram from my overcoat pocket; I had folded the paper so that the incriminating photograph faced outward. “I saw you in the society pages.”

“An admirer from the Treasury Department?” Mrs. Warren’s smile was conspiratorial.

“This necklace.” I tapped the page for emphasis. “We have reason to believe that you purchased it in Paris.”

“Oh, that thing.” She laughed. “Flashy, I suppose. I borrowed it from a jeweler. It is good advertising for them when my photo appears in the newspaper.”

“We have evidence that you bought it from a shop on Rue de la Paix.”

Her shrug was elegant. I could not help notice that her silk robe slipped minutely lower down her shoulder.

“I could search your rooms right now, madam, and if I found the necklace, you would be subject to heavy fines.”

Mrs. Warren tilted her head. “You have a warrant?”

If I’d had any doubt that she was expertly versed in the requirements of the law, it was erased. From her playful smile, it was apparent that she did not fear me. I fumed at the toothlessness of my office—I had no right to enter her rooms, and the police in New York did not take customs matters seriously. Our department relied on the honesty of good citizens, while dishonest lawbreakers made sport of defrauding the United States government.

“I will obtain a warrant,” I said. “If I must spend the night in the corridor outside your door to be sure that you do not flee before I have obtained it, I will.”

Mrs. Warren looked amused. She touched my arm gently. “Never fear, Mr. Madden,” she said. She had registered the name on my card. “There is no need to guard my door; I won’t scurry off into the night.” She treated me like a child who had said something absurd; I was shamed for my zealousness. I knew that someone of her notoriety would not go into hiding over a dispute about a necklace. Nevertheless, I resolved to obtain a warrant as soon as the judge was in his chambers.

Either Mrs. Warren would produce the necklace, or I would find it in her suite. I had her cornered—she would not escape.

The hotel clerk let me use an unoccupied guest room that night, as I planned to go to the courthouse just after sunrise; it made little sense to travel home, to the upper part of Manhattan, so late in the evening. I slept fitfully, fully dressed, awaiting my wake-up call at any moment. It was still dark when the bellboy knocked on my door. I jumped to my feet and splashed water on my face, tidying myself as much as I could without comb or razor.

I expected the lobby to be deserted at that hour, when dawn barely brightened the windows, and was taken aback to see none other than Mrs. Kitty Warren, perched on a settee.

“My dear Mr. Madden,” she said, clasping my fingers between her gloved hands. “It is a lovely morning.” She was different from the night before, with rosy cheeks, a brisk manner, and a scent like clean laundry. “I hoped we could take breakfast together.” She cocked an eyebrow at the surprise on my face. “You do recall our rendezvous?”

“Of course, madam,” I said, recovering myself. “But what of the diamond necklace?”

“Oh, I sent a boy to pick it up at the jeweler’s. The owner will open the shop early as a favor. Come, I have already ordered; I trust that eggs Benedict will please you? I took the liberty of requesting a side of caviar.”

Mrs. Warren removed her gloves and folded them neatly, tucking them into her bag. “You see, Mr. Madden, the European fashions are always ahead of ours, and my friend, Michael Younge—you may know his jewelry shop on Union Square West—he asks me to bring him new designs.”

She paused, and when I looked up from stirring my coffee, I glimpsed an expression of intense observation, like a raptor sur- veying its prey. The moment passed, and with a smile, she continued, “I don’t buy gems in Europe, you see. I gather all of the stones here in New York or, if Mr. Younge advises, Cleveland or Pittsburgh—it is important to match them carefully. I only bring them to Paris for settings. That’s all right, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“According to the revised statutes,” I interrupted, “all merchandise taken from the United States and conveyed to foreign countries to be reconstructed is dutiable upon return at the regular rate of sixty per- cent.” Whether or not Mrs. Warren knew of this regulation—and she almost certainly did—she would be liable for import duties.

Mrs. Warren smiled at me, then leaned forward, speaking in con- fidence, though the dining room was deserted at that hour. “All I got from the French jewelers was advice, and surely we are not required to pay money for a few friendly words of guidance, maybe a drawing or two.”

A tow-headed boy rushed in, carrying a blue velvet box. He came straight to the table and plunked it down in front of Mrs. Warren, his expression like a retriever dog, worshipping its master.

“Ah, Henry,” Mrs. Warren said. “Thank you so much for bringing this little bauble.” Oddly, she introduced me to the boy, saying, “This is Mr. Madden, a diligent and honorable employee of the government of our great country. Mr. Madden, this is Henry.”

The boy ducked his head, then drew himself up, puffing out his small chest. I was at first offended by this eccentric elevation of an errand boy, but when I saw what pride Henry took in the introduction, I grew magnanimous. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and offered my hand. He shook it with a soft, shy grip, then darted away again.

Mrs. Warren opened the box. There was a letter written on thick, cream-colored paper inside, which she handed to me. It was from Younge and Co., signed by Mr. Michael Younge himself. The letter attested that the necklace had been assembled in the United States from gems purchased within our national borders.

“It is really lovely,” Mrs. Warren said, tilting the box up so that the light through the windows sparkled on the diamonds’ many facets. She snapped the box shut and handed it to me. “If you like, you may return this to Mr. Younge yourself.”

I had no riposte. It all appeared to be perfectly legal, though I knew it was not. “I must beg your leave,” I said. I had failed in my duty and was unable to stomach taking breakfast.

Mrs. Warren stood, smiling. “I’m sorry you can’t stay. It was such a pleasure, Mr. Madden,” she said. “I admire the work that you do.”

God help me, I smiled in return. “The pleasure was mine, madam,” I said, like a fool. A part of me actually meant it. When I looked into her luminous eyes, I almost believed her to be innocent. I wanted her to be innocent. I could scarcely have guessed then that smuggling was the least of her crimes.

BUY HERE

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About the Author: Danielle Teller received her medical training at McGill University, Brown University, and Yale University. She has held faculty positions at the University of Pittsburgh and Harvard University. In 2013, Danielle pursued her childhood dream of being a writer. She is the author of the novel All the Ever Afters and of one book of nonfiction, Sacred Cows: The Truth About Divorce and Marriage. She lives with her husband, Astro Teller in Palo Alto, California.

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