Chapter 20
“Fame is a vapor, popularity an accident, and riches take wings. Only one thing endures and that is character.”
Horace Greeley
Marigold turned the full focus of her suspicions on the would-be suitor, Valentine.
If only Professor Currier and her friends the Thayers had believed what Olivia said about Valentine instead of what Valentine said about her.
“There.” Dr. Barker was bringing their meeting to a conclusion.
“We have our information. And you have yours. Thank you. We are much obliged. I should like a copy of the formal report for my files, if you please, Dr. Prescott.” Emilie Barker was nothing if not polite, though her tone said she would have the report even if he didn’t please.
“If I might ask one more question, doctor?” Marigold asked.
“Certainly,” Dr. Prescott said.
Marigold phrased the question that had remained unanswered since their first interview with the town watchmen as delicately as she could.
“Given the evidence that you have shared, combined with the circumstances in which we found Miss Thayer’s body, I feel compelled to ask—was she by any chance with child? ”
“No,” he answered quietly but immediately, though his face colored hotly. “The subject was found virgo intacta.”
“Thank God,” Professor Currier whispered. “She was spared at least that indignity.”
“Indeed, yes. Thank you, Dr. Prescott.” Dr. Barker extended her hand a final time. “Good day.”
They made their way back to the carriage with Professor Currier leaning heavily on Marigold’s arm.
While they had been inside, Isabella had not been idle—as soon as the three Wellesley women returned to the carriage, she was pressing glasses of sherry into their hands.
“I thought we might need something warming and fortifying.”
“Naturally. Thank you for your foresight, Isabella.” Marigold accepted the drink gratefully.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Despite her ordeal Professor Currier was still in full possession of her manners. “You have no idea how welcome this is.” She took a sip and then promptly burst into tears.
Isabella reached for the professor’s hand in a gesture of comfort, even while she sent a fond little smile Marigold’s way, for Marigold had often said the very same words to her dear friend, who always seemed to know when comfort was needed. “I am happy to give what small comfort I can.”
To do so, Isabella began to raise the window shade to give them greater privacy, but her instant expression of reproof as she glanced outside, made Marigold crane her neck to see a familiar figure—the journalist James Wilkerson striding past on the pavement, bound, she assumed, for the same place they had just been.
Marigold’s first instinct was to hope that Dr. Prescott would remember his pledge of discretion when it came to the press.
But her second was that the time for discretion and obfuscation were well and truly past. It would be good for Wilkerson, and by extension the Boston Evening Journal to learn the very real and very brutal facts of Olivia Thayer’s death.
Then they might at last print something truthful in their otherwise shoddy newspaper.
Marigold had been vigilant in canvassing the tabloids, but she had failed to find her plea to the public seeking the identity of the young women amongst them. It was something of a blow to Marigold’s considerable pride that she had so clearly failed to sway Mr. Wilkerson in any way.
She must be slipping.
But despite her personal failings, some small progress, if she could call it that, had been made—Olivia Thayer had been identified, and her family and friends could mourn her, bury her in peace, and seek justice on her behalf.
She would not be one of the girls who were forgotten.
Marigold awoke the next morning with a strange feeling of flatness.
If she had hoped that the identification of Olivia Thayer might lead to a sense of relief, she was mistaken.
Instead, she felt a strange listlessness that wore on as she went through the motions of checking her experiments and preparing her homework for the week ahead. And that would never do.
She attempted to reorder her brain by tidying up her dormitory room, but as she was habitually neat, there was little work to satisfy. It had now been a full week since Olivia Thayer had been murdered, and Marigold had little to show for her efforts besides the identification of the poor girl.
And so she took to her bicycle. The physical exertion of pedaling never failed to lift her spirits and clarify her thoughts. If she had been able to identify Olivia Thayer, then she ought to be able to identify this Valentine fellow.
The last thing anyone had heard from the young man was the telegram he sent to the Thayer family, telling them that Olivia and he had eloped.
In this modern world, surely there would be a record of what office the wire had been sent from?
And perhaps the clerk at that office might remember something about the man?
But first, she needed to do what she ought to have done the moment she suspected the dead girl was Olivia Thayer—speak to her parents.
Yet as she approached their house on Blossom Street, it was clear that a quiet chat was not in the offing—carriages of all sizes and shapes were parked under every available tree, and as she approached the front door, she saw a man taking down the knocker to drape the doorway in the black crepe of mourning.
“Excuse me, sir,” she approached him. “I would like to speak to Mr. Thayer.”
“Receiving condolence calls inside,” the fellow gestured for her to simply proceed through the door and into the crowded house.
Marigold checked to make sure that her sporty charcoal-gray tweed ensemble and black straw boater hat was presentable—one might alter one’s standards for a bicycle ride, but mourning required a different set of customs and protocols.
But she needn’t have worried that she might stand out—she was only one amongst many paying condolence calls.
Clearly, the Thayer family was both well respected and well liked in the neighborhood.
Within a few minutes of entering, Marigold had learned that the iceman’s information had been correct—gray-haired Reverend Mr. Thayer was a former Unitarian minister, who had taught at Harvard before retiring to his family’s home in Wellesley.
Likewise, his white-haired wife was a prominent Transcendentalist thinker and writer who had published extensively on theological and philosophical matters while raising their only child.
Other than the chill temperature—the fires were not lit—the house seemed to Marigold as if it were designed with nothing but her own happiness in mind.
Every wall seemed to be filled with a bookshelf, every window housed a comfortable chair positioned to take best advantage of the light for reading.
The place was a temple to the power of the written word and the value of a lifetime of education.
No wonder Olivia had excelled at a young age. And no wonder Professor Currier had felt herself amongst friends.
Marigold found herself joining an informal line of people waiting to speak to Olivia’s parents, who were seated in wing-backed armchairs on either side of the cold parlor hearth.
Imogen Currier was seated close by Mrs. Thayer, who very often held or touched the professor’s hand for comfort.
Both women appeared diminished and fragile—Mrs. Thayer’s skin seemed nearly translucent, as if it had been worn away by her grief.
Olivia Thayer had been dead a week—old news to Marigold, but fresh grief to everyone gathered in the Thayers’ household.
“My condolences, Reverend Thayer,” she began when it was her turn to step forward and take the man’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, thank you. Alas.” He patted her hand consolingly before he asked, “And who are you, my dear?”
“I was an admirer of your daughter’s rhetorical excellence. My name is Marigold Manners, and I am a student at Wellesley College, where we had so been looking forward to hearing your daughter speak.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Such an unimaginable loss to the cause as well as to us, her poor family. We are all the poorer.” The man shook his head sadly before he seemed to come to a realization.
“Miss Manners? At the college? My dear girl, don’t tell me you are the one who found her? Who brought her out?”
Around them, the low murmur of conversation came to an abrupt halt.
“Was it you?”
Marigold hesitated—one never wanted to make too much of oneself. But in such a circumstance, she had nothing but the bare truth. “Yes, sir, I am afraid it was.”
“My dear girl.” The man rose and embraced her stiffly but with great emotion.
“Come and sit with us.” He moved so she might take the seat he had just vacated but held on to her hand almost tenaciously.
“We are deeply indebted to you for all you have done. Our dear Professor Currier has spoken warmly of your physical and moral courage, and your compassion and determination in bringing our Olivia back to us, and for that we are most profoundly grateful.”
Marigold hardly knew what to say to such effusive praise.
For a moment she was nearly overwhelmed with feeling—this was the sort of approbation she would have given almost anything to hear from her own father.
To be held in such esteem had been a guiding principle by which she had fashioned her life in order to give herself purpose and direction.
And to hear such words from a relative stranger—her heart ached anew for their loss.
And her conscience chided her for ever having suspected Professor Currier. “I am glad I could be of any help, sir,” she managed. “Although I am deeply sorry for the occasion.”