CHAPTER NINE #2
His speech cheered her, as she supposed he intended. But she could not make herself talk about the grief that had driven her into the pit of despair.
***
T HEY ATE THEIR DINNER with minimal talk as heavy thoughts seemed to enshroud them both. The candlelight flickered bright and dark across his face. Finally, he set down his fork and laid his napkin on the table.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“The same as always.” He set his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table, chin in hands. “I’m glad to be home.”
“Let’s go to the parlor,” she said.
She brought the plates to the kitchen and put them into a bucket of water to soak for Mrs. McCarthy. When Leona returned, he’d built up the fire in the hearth and was sitting with the notebook on his knee. Dread clutched her. Nothing would change if she didn’t speak.
She put on a bright smile and swept the notebook onto the floor to sit on his lap. His arms came around her. The dread loosened, sinking back into her bones. She curled into his body, breathing in the pepper and pine scent of him. He stroked his fingers through her hair.
“Are you tired?” he asked in a soft tone.
Exhausted . She kept it to herself, nodding.
“You spend too much time buried in books and papers.”
She stiffened, struggling to sit up. “That’s not all I do, Gil.”
“Gently, gently,” he said with a laugh. “You know best, my wife.”
She couldn’t stand it anymore, the secrets, the white lies. They choked her.
“Gil.” Leona pushed against him, so he’d let go of her. She slid from his lap and sat beside him. “We need to talk.”
He squinted at her, his smile fading away. “This sounds very serious. Can’t we talk tomorrow?”
“You won’t be here tomorrow,” she said with a hint of complaint.
He stood and turned away from her. “Is that what you want to talk about? You know I must attend those meetings.”
“Might I go with you?” She held her breath.
“No,” he said heavily. “You know women aren’t welcome in the business world.” He sat beside her again. Opened his mouth as if to say more but closed it again. “No, darling.” He put his arm around her and pulled her against him.
She dropped her head onto his shoulder. “I fear you’re keeping something from me.”
“No, darling,” he repeated in the same flat tone.
Instinct told her otherwise—her stomach, as always, clenched tight. A shadow lived in his eyes and had taken up residence for some time. Maybe even before Henry had left.
“You’re brooding. And giving yourself nightmares,” he chided as if he’d heard her thoughts.
His words, though tenderly spoken, filled her with frustration.
What did her mental state have to do with what was really happening?
She stood and paced again, reining in the urge to snap at him.
Gathered her courage. They could only vault the distance between them with the truth.
Maybe if she confided in him, he would do the same.
She only wanted to protect their life together.
“Something terrible has happened because of Daphne Van Wyn’s death.”
“Leona, come sit with me,” he coaxed in a tone of husbandly demand.
“No, let me get this out.” She halted in the middle of the room, facing him. “It’s something that could make our lives worse.”
“Leona,” he said, his tone cooled. “Speak, then. What have you done, woman?”
She dreaded his coldness. Their marriage was young enough they hadn’t yet learned how to weather each other’s storms very well. But the cold side of her husband made him sometimes appear to be another man entirely.
She told him quickly, getting it over with, sure it was easier to face a line of screaming graybacks than this conversation.
Charlotte’s warning after her conversation with Benedict Van Wyn, the day after Daphne’s funeral; the odd way people had treated her there.
Going to the house, because she’d left her writing behind, and her hope to see Audrey or Winifred.
Hearing noises that frightened her into hiding under the bed.
Benedict’s fury at finding her there, his terrible words.
The detective from the Fourth Precinct, Gideon Day, and the questions she couldn’t answer.
“Do you and Benedict have business dealings, Gil? Has he suffered from Henry’s theft also? This is what Detective Day wanted to speak to you about.”
“Benedict Van Wyn is not one of Henry’s victims. He just fancies himself one. We have, on more than one occasion, exchanged hot words about property development in the area.”
He didn’t seem too angry. Yet.
“Daphne’s friends won’t see me, Gil. Benedict warned them, I think. And then—no one came to the suffrage luncheon the other day.”
“Suffrage luncheon,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. “Is this what had you in such a state today?”
“All of it has me in a state,” she snapped. “And Detective Day won’t tell me what the coroner’s report said about Daphne’s death.”
He stared at her as if surprised. “What does the coroner’s report have to do with your activities, Leona? Why should he tell you? Leave those matters to the police.” He held his hand out to her. “Promise me.”
Now it was her turn to be surprised as she took it and sat beside him again. She settled against him, glad for his warmth. She loved this house, but it cultivated drafts.
“I promise.” She sighed with relief.
“Now, is that all?”
“Yes,” she replied, mellowed. It was all right. Everything would turn out fine.
***
T HE NEXT MORNING, SHE ate a hearty breakfast hoping to appease the uneasy stillness of Mrs. McCarthy trying to be quiet around her.
She could barely explain to herself how her worries had broken their leashes and ran free in her mind.
The excess of anxiety needed an outlet and required action.
Grief had caught up to her and sent her to the darkest place in her soul.
But how could she guard herself against its influence?
A sharp knock at the front door broke into Leona’s worrying, and she went to answer the door herself. She smiled when the visitor turned out to be Ruth.
“Good morning.” Ruth shivered, rubbing her mittened hands together. “I’m a little later than I said I’d be in my note.”
“I’m happy to see you, but what note?”
Halfway through removing her coat, Ruth stopped. “I sent a note yesterday to tell you I meant to drop by to see how you’re holding up, Leona. I can go if it’s inconvenient.”
“No, please stay. You came all this way.” Leona took her coat and hung it on the coat rack. “Mrs. McCarthy,” she said as the woman entered the foyer appearing distressed. “Did a note come for me from Ruth yesterday?”
“I’ll look, m’um.”
“Please. Would you make more coffee also? And serve it in the front parlor.”
“Yes, m’um.” Mrs. McCarthy turned away, heading back to the kitchen.
They moved into the parlor, and Ruth warmed her hands by the fire. “I visited the Teaberry sisters, Leona. They were both ill on the day of the luncheon and had forgotten all about it. They do send their apologies.”
Relief feathered through Leona. “Well, that’s good. I hope they’re better now.”
“Yes,” Ruth said with a smile. “What have you—”
The pocket door to the parlor slid open. Mrs. McCarthy appeared with the coffee, cups, and scones on a tray. After she set it down on the tea table, she pulled two envelopes from her apron pocket and handed them to Leona.
“Set aside and forgotten yesterday, m’um. I’m sorry,” Mrs. McCarthy explained, color flaring in her cheeks.
Seeing the woman’s distress, Leona said, “Thank you, it’s understandable after the day we had.”
Ruth shot her a curious glance.
Mrs. McCarthy nodded. “Anything else, m’um? Miss Appelman?”
“No, thank you,” Leona murmured, anxious to read the second letter.
Once the pocket doors slid closed again, she poured coffee while Ruth helped herself to the scones. Leona glanced through the notes in her hand. One from Ruth in her careful handwriting and the other—
“Well, good God.”
“What is it?”
“Geneva Van Wyn is going to pay me a call.”
Ruth frowned. “When?”
Mrs. McCarthy’s swift footsteps moved to answer the resounding knock at the door.
“Now, apparently.”
Ruth stood. “I’ll go—”
Leona pointed to her chair. “You will not. Stay right where you are.”
The doors slid open again.
“Mrs. Geneva Van Wyn to see you, m’um,” Mrs. McCarthy said.
Leona would have received her in the good parlor upstairs, but it was too late now. She and Ruth rose to their feet.
“Another cup, Mrs. McCarthy, please.”
“Right away, m’um.”
Geneva Van Wyn entered dressed in black silk, looking about her, her Fairy Queen good looks marred by a frown.
The last time Leona had seen Geneva was at the wake.
She blushed all over again as she remembered Benedict’s accusations.
Geneva stared rudely at Ruth, then turned with raised eyebrows to Leona.
“My very dear friend Ruth Appelman. Ruth, Mrs. Geneva Van Wyn.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Van Wyn,” Ruth said.
“Indeed,” Geneva said with a sniff. “Mrs. Gladney, I’d like to speak to you alone. In fact, I insist.” She tapped the thick cardboard binder in her hand for emphasis.
Leona seethed for a moment. “Your husband has accused me of terrible misdeeds. Anything you have to say to me can be said in Ruth’s presence. You and I will not speak without a witness.”
Geneva blinked several times, apparently absorbing Leona’s terms. “Fine. May I sit?” From the edge of the binder, a blue ribbon stuck out like a tongue.
Her heart chilled. “Of course.” Leona held her breath, then stepped forward.
“Where did you find my folio?” The only way Geneva could have known to return it to Leona was if she’d read it.
Or—damn. Had Geneva outfoxed her by bringing it here, wondering if Leona were the writer? Then she’d just given it all away.
“In the Lavender room, where you apparently left it.” Geneva set the folio down on the table between them with a mild look. “It’s quite compelling.”