CHAPTER FIVE
Leona wished she didn’t feel so vulnerable and raw, that the memory of smoky, reeking overcoats and a ragged blanket were enough to protect her from the sharp dread of Charlotte’s impending visit.
When Gil clattered down the stairs, she forced a smile for his sake as he entered the parlor grasping the ends of his necktie. With a winsome smile, he presented himself before her with a bow.
“A little help? My hands are nervous today.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine, darling.” She smoothed the points of his collar and re-arranged the cloth around his neck before beginning the knot again. “You’ll make a wonderful impression on those bankers.”
His skin, shaved smooth, still warm and damp, gave off the scent of tobacco and pine.
She tied the wide black cloth with sure hands, aware of his smile as she concentrated on the four-in-hand.
He passed her the ruby tie pin, her wedding gift to him, and she attached it.
On her left hand, the ruby in her wedding ring winked in the morning light.
“Coffee, sir?” Mrs. McCarthy asked.
“Not this morning.”
She retreated toward the kitchen, then called out, “Mrs. Gladney, Mrs. Montgomery’s carriage is here.”
Leona stepped back from her handiwork. “Do you have a minute to talk with Charlotte?”
Gil spun and checked his reflection in the window. He bent and kissed her forehead.
“Thank you, no,” he murmured. “I must go. I’m late as it is.” He kissed her once more and rushed from the parlor.
On the heels of the slamming of the kitchen door, Charlotte’s voice reached her from the hall. She braced herself, shoulders back, spine straight, and chin up. She wasn’t ready to hear what her friend had to say but she’d act as if she were.
Charlotte swept in, Mrs. McCarthy in her wake as she shed her coat, hat, and gloves to reveal her sky-blue taffeta dress.
She gave Leona the impression of white silk ribbons, tiered ruffles, and blonde ringlets caught in a whirlwind.
Charlotte rushed toward her, her face grim with concern as she embraced Leona and held her tight.
Leona pushed her gently away and led her to the breakfast room. Mrs. McCarthy poured coffee, brought out a plate heaped high with scones and a pot of butter, and left them alone.
“I would spare you stupid gossip,” Charlotte began as she added milk and sugar to her coffee. “But this is not mere tittle-tattle to pass the time. It’s dangerous, ugly talk that must be dealt with, if it’s not already too late.”
“Charlotte!” Leona’s empty stomach lurched, and she grabbed the edge of the sturdy table. “For Heaven’s sake, what are you talking about?”
Charlotte’s spoon rattled against the side of the cup as she set it down. “There has been a theft.”
“A theft,” Leona repeated.
“Listen.” Charlotte leaned forward. “Daphne Van Wyn’s jewelry box, and all its very valuable contents, is missing. Stolen, it’s suspected, on the very night she died.”
A chill raced through her, having nothing to do with the drafts in the house. “And you think I—?”
“I do not. Leona, I do not think, nor does Oran, nor would anyone with a sound mind, believe you have stolen the jewelry.”
But dark glances and whispers had accompanied her around the room at the wake. “They do. Benedict Van Wyn and his wife, their friends.” Anger surged in, followed by a crashing wave of indignation. “I would never steal from Daphne.”
“I trust you, you know that. As did Daphne. She loved you like one of her own.” Charlotte dropped her gaze to her coffee. Without raising her eyes, she said, “Benedict seems to know about your husband’s financial problems. More than I do, I’m afraid to say.”
Oh, damn. “It’s a terribly sordid story, which is why I didn’t tell you.
Gil is working on a solution with the bankers and all involved.
” Leona tugged at the slipping shoulder of the shawl and tightened it around her.
“I think I’ve spoken to you about Helen and Henry Caldwell-Jones?
You must have read in the newspapers that Henry stole all our money and left town. Left Helen behind, too. The bastard.”
Charlotte looked her in the eye and nodded. “I had no idea of the extent of it, Leona. Though you have been distracted lately. I spoke to Benedict before the wake yesterday. He suspects everyone in the household from the butler to his grandmother’s personal maid, Winifred. And Audrey. And you.”
Disbelief washed away her growing dread, reason struggling to overcome the absurdity. “There were no signs of a break-in? Aren’t the police investigating?”
“I asked him those same questions. He said if a thief got into the house and back out again, they must have known how.”
A terrible thought caught in Leona’s throat, and she had trouble speaking for a moment. She cleared her throat. “Charlotte, the same night Daphne—what if—this thief—hurt Daphne?”
“The idea has occurred to me.” Her brown eyes glimmered with tears. “And another, darker one as well. Benedict inherits the bulk of Daphne’s estates. Frederick, Benedict’s widowed father and—what was the brother’s name—Alfred?”
“Albert,” Leona said.
“Albert and Frederick died in the war. Albert’s daughters passed before the age of five, and his wife died of childbed fever.
This leaves no one else to inherit but Benedict.
” She picked up a scone, buttered it, then set it down on her plate.
“He told me he is speaking with the police. He is not an easy man to talk to.”
Leona covered her eyes. “This is abominable. I can’t—I can’t believe it.”
“It happens all the time, my dear. Heirs get impatient for their inheritance.” Charlotte shook her head, picked up the buttered scone, and put it down again. “I love Mrs. McCarthy’s scones. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
Leona glanced at her own empty plate. “We are both very upset. You’ll have to take some with you to spare her feelings.
” She gathered the thread of her thoughts.
“People commit terrible crimes for money. We know this too well. But Mr. Van Wyn has blamed me for the jewelry theft. I saw it on their faces, Charlotte, at the wake. They’ll naturally conclude—if there’s more—I thought our problems couldn’t get worse. ”
“There will be an investigation, and we’ll learn—if not the truth, then something.”
“But her doctor, the coroner? They believe something unnatural happened to her?”
“I don’t know the answer to all of this.” Charlotte reached over and patted her hand. “I wanted to warn you, Leona. Your husband’s financial issues make you vulnerable.”
“I realize that now, thank you. Has Mr. Van Wyn spoken to Audrey?”
“Are you two not friends?”
“We were once,” Leona admitted. “But not for a long time. I offended her because I have strong opinions about the use of laudanum.”
Charlotte nodded. “You do.”
“Mr. Van Wyn has a reputation for philandering. Do you think there might be something between the two of them?”
“She is very pretty.” Charlotte raised well-shaped eyebrows. “Apparently, in the morning when Winifred couldn’t awaken Daphne, they sent for Benedict. And that’s when he also
realized the jewelry box was missing. There was time for someone to take advantage in the confusion.”
“But Audrey is a witness? She stays at the house nearly every night.”
Charlotte’s keen eyes glittered. “I don’t know, my dear, because she seems to have disappeared.
Winifred and Audrey had proximity to Daphne and the jewelry because Daphne is so trusting.
Benedict said it was worth a small fortune.
He wanted to put it in a safe deposit box, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Too sentimental by far, he said.”
“I don’t think—” Leona studied the coffee in the cup, acid burning her throat. “No, not Audrey.”
“And not you, either. What about Winifred?”
“She’s new to the household so I couldn’t say. But might it be a professional thief? One who could slip in and out undetected. And—and what if Audrey or Winifred or both witnessed something and are right now in hiding?”
Charlotte sighed. “Oh dear, the investigators will have a time of it before they discern the truth.”
“This doesn’t change the fact Mr. Van Wyn is attempting to steal my reputation.” Leona clutched her head, banging her elbows down on the table. “Gil might just go mad when he hears about this. He has enough to worry about.”
“Word will get out, Leona. When the newspapers pick up the story of the theft. Who knows what else they’ll have to say? It’s best you’re prepared.”
“It would be best to find out who stole the jewelry. And what the coroner had to say about her death.”
“I don’t suggest you go to Benedict yourself.”
Leona crossed her arms on the table, resting her chin there. “Yes, I know.”
Van Wyn had approached her more than once when she found herself left alone with him at Daphne’s, his hands wandering where they had no business to roam. She’d put a stop to his oafish behavior with a well-aimed knee.
She said, “I’ll talk to the staff, to Timothy, the butler and Vera, the cook. And Winifred. They might know where Audrey went.”
“But wouldn’t they have told Benedict if they knew something?”
“Yes, but I’m sure he won’t tell me anything. I want to talk to Audrey myself.” She snapped her fingers. “And pawnshops. Won’t the thief want to sell the jewelry somewhere?”
“That’s a good start, my dear.” Charlotte cocked her head, her gaze probing.
Leona stood and paced. “I can’t—I won’t sit around the house, waiting for the police or the newspapers to knock on our door. And Gil has so much to worry about, he doesn’t need all this now.”
“I was right to warn you. Please be careful,” Charlotte admonished as she got to her feet. She glanced at the untouched scones with obvious regret. “I’m due at the soup kitchen at noon, and I have a few errands to run. Won’t you come with me?”
“No, thank you, not today. But would you read the first bit of the memoir? I only want your opinion, though, as it’s not ready for Oran yet.” She turned away, but jolted to a stop, breaking out in a cold sweat. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“Daphne’s copy. I left it with her, and it’s still at the house.” She rubbed her forehead. Could this day get any worse?
They stepped into the hall, where Mrs. McCarthy joined them by the coatrack.
As she helped Charlotte into her coat, Leona hurried up the stairs to her study.
In the drawer lay her copy of the first pages of the memoir and the Ned and Zed stories.
She took these up, then rushed down the stairs again.
How would she get the manuscript back now?
It would be disastrous if someone read it and guessed who the authoress was simply because she was there that day.
Charlotte placed her feathered hat on her head with an expectant air and a smile. “I’m dying to read it.”
Leona held out her own green-ribboned packet. “It’s not ready, but I think you’ll make sense of it. You may as well read the new Ned and Zed, too, as Daphne—” She choked on the last few words. “It’s the only copy I have to hand as I gave one to Ruth.”
Charlotte hugged her, then took the folio. “I will protect it with my life. Have you given any thought to your next project?”
The desire to write lay pinned deep beneath her grief, out of reach. But she’d made a promise to herself to help with their broken finances. “Another Little Ned and Zed—”
Charlotte shook her head. “Something else. A romance? Without artillery and horses. That’s my suggestion, by the way. Oran is quite happy with what you’ve given him.” She glanced at the clock. “I must fly. Don’t forget, it’s your turn to host the Brooklyn Ladies Suffrage meeting next week.”
She kissed Leona on both cheeks as Mrs. McCarthy opened the door. Charlotte’s carriage waited in the street. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes, goodbye.” Leona watched her departure a moment longer, thinking of her comment. Could she write a romance, leave the war behind? Isn’t that what Charlotte really meant?
Before anything else, she had to find her memoir.
***
I T TURNED OUT TO BE an excellent day to brood, reclining on the divan as the morning’s conversation stole the stuffing out of her will.
Too overwrought to make plans yet. For a while she wandered the long road of emptiness—numb and outside of herself, lost. Until she gave in to her grief for Daphne with a flood of tears and sobs too painful to hold inside.
Eventually she drifted into sleep, though never wholly sinking deep. The netherworld, where dreams and memories intertwined, crept between the damp cracks of her vulnerable spirit. Dreaming, but not asleep. Remembering, but not awake.
Sweat drenches her, the bands binding her breasts steaming—she licks the salt from her lips, wipes the sting from her eyes.
Mosquitoes feast on her, whining in her ears while she lies in her hiding place in the dreary woods.
She’s waiting for dawn, because it’s too dark now for her to find the hollow log where she’d hidden her Union uniform.
She dares not move, not to slap the little bastards feasting on her or to ease the pain in her hip from the rock she’s lying on.
The anxiety creeps up on her in waves, leaving her panting with terror in the dense air.
She fights against the deep desire to stand and run toward camp, to an imagined safety that will get her killed.
“Wait for the light,” she whispers, belly down in the mean, forbidding woods, what the secesh call The Wilderness. “Just wait.”
Leona jolted awake with the sharp scent of pine and cedar overlying the smell of rotting vegetation strong in her nose. She put her hand to her shoulder, where it felt like someone had gripped her. But when she opened her eyes, no one stood by the divan.
“Jack?” Oh, dear, she meant to call Gil’s name. “Gil? Are you here?”
Leona rubbed her eyes. Foolish. She didn’t believe in spirits, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling his hand on her shoulder had given her the hard shake she needed to get out of the Wilderness.
More important than anything, she had to go to the Van Wyn house and ask for the return of her folio.
She hoped no one had opened it and discovered the identity of Captain John Barrington.
Perhaps this was the reason she’d had the dream-memory of hiding in the Wilderness and the wild fear of discovery.
Their problems were growing ever bigger. She’d conduct her own interviews with the Van Wyn house staff and find out what they knew. If Gil had to spend long hours away from home to get them solvent, she had work to do too, before gossip destroyed their lives here in the Heights.
?