Jo bristled at the unfairness of it, but then her cab arrived at Thirty-Sixth Street and she had to put her feelings aside. The Owens house was situated midway between Lexington and Third Avenues on the south side of the street. A narrow alley ran between it and the house on its west side. After telling the driver to wait and Katie to stay put, Jo alighted, climbed the stoop, and knocked.
A few seconds later, the door opened. “May I help you, miss?” inquired a smiling butler.
“I hope so,” Jo said. “I’m looking for Eleanor Owens.”
The butler’s smile curdled. “There’s no one here by that name,” he said brusquely, closing the door.
“Wait, please!” Jo said, stopping it with her hand. “Can you tell me where she’s gone?”
“I must ask you to release the door,” the butler said coldly.
“Mr. Baxter, is everything all right?” A maid carrying a coal scuttle had stopped on her way through the foyer. She looked Jo up and down.
“Perfectly fine, Sally. Go about your business,” the butler ordered.
“What’s going on, Baxter?” another voice said. It belonged to a well-dressed, gray-haired man who’d appeared in the doorway.
The butler took a step back and Jo saw her chance. She quickly pulled a calling card from her pocket and handed it to the gray-haired man. It was a terrible risk using her real name, but she had no choice. An Eleanor Owens had lived here. Maybe her Eleanor Owens. She had to find out where she’d gone.
“Mr. Owens, I presume? My name’s Josephine Montfort. I’m searching for an Eleanor Owens, and I wondered if perhaps—”
The man’s face darkened. “There’s no Eleanor Owens here,” he said.
“Samuel? Who’s that at the door?” a woman’s voice, tremulous and thin, called from within.
“Mr. Owens, if I may—” Jo started to say.
“You may not. Good day,” the man said. He tore up her calling card, threw the pieces on the floor, and slammed the door in her face.
Jo stood there, blinking at the s door knocker, flabbergasted. “You’re lying, Mr. Owens,” she said. “I know you are. What I don’t know is why.” She turned, still smarting from the rude treatment she’d received, and walked down the stoop.
“I guess that line of inquiry is cut off,” Katie said archly as Jo climbed back inside the cab. “Where to now, Nellie Bly?”
“Home,” Jo said with a sigh.
“Thank goodness.”
Jo sank down in her seat, deeply discouraged not to have found Eleanor Owens. Eddie would have found her, she thought. He’s a real reporter, not a pretend one like me.
She pictured his handsome face and wondered what he was doing now, on a Wednesday afternoon. Sitting at his desk at the Standard typing madly, she imagined. How lucky he was, she thought, to be able to do something important with his life. Something that mattered.
The cab made its way east, then turned onto Park Avenue and headed south. To Gramercy Square. And her house. And a long, dreary evening full of nothing that mattered.
Jo stared up at her bedroom ceiling and counted the number of squares in the pressed tin. It was eight a.m., time to start her day, but she didn’t want to get out of bed. If she did, she’d have to look at it—her gown for the Young Patrons’ Ball.
It had arrived from the dressmaker’s yesterday. It was black, of course, with a high neck and long sleeves. Katie had hung it over the door of her wardrobe so the creases would fall out. It floated there now, at the edge of Jo’s vision, like a specter.
Jo turned on her side, away from her wardrobe, so she couldn’t see the gown. She was still annoyed with Grandmama for insisting she attend the ball. She didn’t want to go in the least.
Except maybe she did.
Because Eddie Gallagher was a cad. And she was an ungrateful wretch who should be thanking her lucky stars that a decent man like Bram Aldrich wanted to take her to the biggest social event of the season.
It had been nine days since she’d seen Eddie, since he’d kissed her in the shadow of Della McEvoy’s, and she hadn’t heard a word from him. He couldn’t pay a visit, of course, and they didn’t have a telephone—her mother thought them vulgar—so he couldn’t call. But he hadn’t even sent a note. Every time the post arrived, Jo had eagerly sifted through it, looking for something from Edwina Gallagher, and every time she’d been disappointed.
She told herself he hadn’t written because he had nothing new to tell her, and she tried her best to believe it. But he could’ve written for another reason—to tell her that her eyes were like limpid pools of moonlight and her lips were as soft as rose petals, or whatever it was that sweethearts wrote to each other.
The day after he’d kissed her, all she could think of was how wonderful those kisses were. Now, convinced he didn’t care for her, she wondered why he’d kissed her at all. And why she’d kissed him back. What had she been thinking? She’d never kissed Bram on his lips, and she’d known him her entire life. Why had she been so forward with a boy she barely knew?
Jo groaned, suffering an agony of remorse, and pulled her pillow over her head. She would have stayed that way all day, but a knock on her door got her going. It was Katie with her morning tea.
“You’ll want to drink up quickly, miss,” she said. “There’s a girl here to see you. She says it’s urgent.”
Jo sat up, intrigued. “It’s a bit early for visitors. Who is she?”
“A Miss Sally Gibson. She apologized for the early hour, but said she’s out on an errand for her employer and can’t stay long.”
“How strange. I don’t know anyone by that name. What does she want?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. All she would say is that she has something you want.”
Jo threw back her covers and got out of bed, eager to meet the mysterious Miss Gibson.
“Where’s Theakston? Where’s my mother?” she asked, tugging at her nightgown. “Help me get this thing off.”
“Mr. Theakston’s at the florist’s ordering the weekly arrangements. Mrs. Montfort is at the cemetery. She left half an hour ago. After she visits your father’s grave, she plans to call on your aunt Madeleine,” Katie said, lifting Jo’s nightgown over her head.
“Good, I should have at least an hour before Theakston returns. Longer for Mama,” Jo said.
She stood naked as the day she was born as Katie handed her a pair of bloomers. She felt no self-consciousness in front of her maid. Someone—a nanny, a maid—had been dressing her her entire life. Jo stepped into the bloomers and buttoned them at the back. Next, she pulled on a cotton chemise. A stiff silk corset went over that. Jo held it in place as Katie tightened the laces. Finally, a dress—one made of black crêpe—went over her head.
“I can manage the buttons,” Jo said. “Do my hair, would you? Then take Miss Gibson into the drawing room.”
Katie brushed Jo’s hair, pinned it up, and hurried downstairs. Jo finished with the long row of buttons, brushed her teeth, and followed her.
Sally Gibson, small and sly-looking, was standing by the piano holding a silver vase as Jo entered the drawing room. She was inspecting the hallmark on its base.
“Are you an admirer of Louis Tiffany’s work, Miss Gibson?” Jo asked archly.
Sally turned to Jo and Jo realized she did know her—at least, she knew who she was. “You’re the Owenses’ maid,” she said.
“Yes, I am,” Sally said.
“Why are you here?” Jo asked.
Sally gave Jo a cunning smile. “To tell you about Eleanor Owens,” she said, putting the vase down. “If you make it worth my while.”
Jo’s pulse leapt like a highly strung horse, but she quickly reined it in. She was excited by this unexpected turn of events, but wary, too.
“How did you find me, Miss Gibson?” Jo asked.
“I picked up the pieces of your cal
ling card. The ones his lordship threw on the floor,” Sally said sarcastically.
Jo remembered handing Mr. Owens her calling card when she visited his home two days ago, and Mr. Owens tearing it up.
“I’m going to get right down to business, Miss Montfort,” said Sally. “I know all about Miss Eleanor, and I’ll tell you everything—for twenty dollars.”
“That’s a good deal of money, Miss Gibson,” Jo said coolly. She was bargaining with Katie so often lately that her negotiating skills were improving.
“For some, maybe,” Sally said, taking in Jo’s well-appointed drawing room.
“I’m looking for information on Miss Owens because I want to solve a crime. Perhaps you should tell me about her not for money, but because it’s the right thing to do,” Jo suggested.
Sally snorted. “As far as I’m concerned, the right thing to do is to get a bit of cash together so I can go to Coney Island next summer.”
“Five dollars,” Jo offered. “Your Eleanor Owens may not be the one I’m seeking.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten.”
“Done.”
“Please sit down, Miss Gibson. I’ll be back in a moment,” Jo said.
She hurried to her bedroom to get the money. On her way, she saw Katie and asked her to bring refreshments to the drawing room. A few minutes later, with ten dollars in her purse and a cup of tea in her hand, Sally started to talk.
“Eleanor was Mr. and Mrs. Owens’s only child,” she said. “She grew up at the house on Thirty-Sixth Street, but she went away.”
“Why wouldn’t Mr. Owens tell me that?” Jo asked.
“He never talks about her. No one else is allowed to, either,” Sally explained. “It all started when Miss Eleanor fell in love with a man her parents didn’t approve of. He was divorced. He had no children, but the Owenses wouldn’t allow Eleanor to even consider a divorced man. At least, that’s what Mrs. Kroger said.”
“Who’s Mrs. Kroger?” asked Jo.
“The Owenses’ cook,” Sally replied, helping herself to a lemon wafer. “Or rather, she was. She died two years ago. She’s the one who told me Eleanor’s story. She said that Eleanor got engaged secretly. Her fiancé had to travel for his work—to Zanzibar in Africa—but promised to marry her when he returned.”
Jo’s ears pricked up at that. Van Houten had offices in Zanzibar. Her father and uncle had spent time there as young men, overseeing the firm’s eastern base of operations.
“Her fiancé bought her a ring with sapphires and diamonds in it,” Sally continued, “and he gave her a pendant in the shape of half a heart with his name engraved on it. The other half, which he kept, had her name on it. They met secretly at night in the weeks before he left. In a bower in the Owenses’ garden. The house has an alley running along one side, as you might’ve noticed. There’s a brick wall between the alley and the garden. It has a wooden door in it that bolts from the garden side. Eleanor would unlock it at midnight and let him in.”
Sally brushed cookie crumbs off her skirt. “One thing led to another and Eleanor ended up in the family way. She didn’t find out until after her beau had left. She wrote him immediately, but mail takes a long time to get from New York to Zanzibar, and it was well over a month before he received her letter. And then it took another month for his reply to arrive. He told Eleanor that she was not to worry, that he would come for her. But by then she was showing, and her father was furious. He and Mrs. Owens told everyone that Eleanor had gone away on a tour of Europe, but really they’d locked her up in her room. All she could do was read and make things for the baby—clothes and toys. And wait for her beau. But he didn’t come. When it was her time, she was taken to Darkbriar in the dead of night.”
“Darkbriar?” Jo echoed, confused. “Why? That’s an insane asylum.”
“Eleanor became difficult,” Sally explained. “She tried to break out of her room several times. She insisted on keeping the baby. She flew into rages and had weeping fits. The Owenses said she was not in her right mind and had her committed.”
Jo knew Darkbriar; she’d seen it countless times. It had been built in the early 1800s as a place for the wealthy to hide family members who heard voices or saw things that weren’t there. It was situated on the edge of the East River, between Thirty-Fourth and Forty-Second Streets on what had once been brambled farmland. The city had long since pushed up to its gates, but behind them, Darkbriar stood, brooding and timeless, its stone buildings blackened with soot, its cemetery dotted with headstones, its shady grounds sheltering well-dressed, hollow-eyed men and women.
“And did Eleanor have her baby there?” she asked, grimacing at the idea of being forced to deliver a child in an asylum.
“She did. It was a girl. Mrs. Kroger saw her. She said she was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. The delivery was hard, though. Eleanor took ill with a fever and the baby died.”
“How awful,” Jo said, saddened. She hadn’t expected a story as grim as the one Sally was telling her.
“I suppose it was,” Sally said, as if the thought had never occurred to her before. “A Mr. Francis Mallon, one of the orderlies, had the baby buried on the grounds. He gave the death certificate to Mrs. Kroger but instructed her not to tell Eleanor the truth. Her rages were getting worse, Mr. Mallon said, and her doctor didn’t think she could cope with the death of her baby.”
Jo poured more tea into Sally’s teacup. Sally shoveled sugar into it, stirred in some milk, and reached for another cookie—as comfortable in Jo’s drawing room as if it were her own.
“When Eleanor recovered, she asked for her child,” Sally said. “She had to be told something, so Mr. Mallon told her that the baby was well and had been taken to an orphanage, along with all the pretty things Eleanor had made for her, and that she’d be placed in a good home with loving parents. He’d hoped that would calm her, but it didn’t. A few days later, she broke a window, attacked him with a shard of glass, and escaped.”
“My word,” Jo said, amazed by Eleanor’s courage. “Where did she go?”
“To search for her baby. She went to every orphanage in the city, begging for the child. But of course no orphanage had her; she was dead. When Eleanor’s parents heard she’d escaped, they asked the police to find her, but Eleanor eluded them. Mrs. Kroger saw her once. She tried to talk to her but Eleanor ran away.”
“Is she still on the streets?” asked Jo hopefully. If Eleanor was in the city, perhaps she could be found.
“No, she’s dead,” said Sally, dashing Jo’s hopes. “Her body was pulled out of the East River two months after she escaped from Darkbriar. A fisherman found her off Corlears Hook. It wasn’t possible to identify her properly. By her face, I mean. The fish … well, you can imagine. The authorities identified her by the jacket she was wearing and a piece of jewelry—a pocket watch her parents gave her for her eighteenth birthday. Her pendant was gone—the one with her fiancé’s name on it. So was her engagement ring. The police said she was probably robbed and then pushed into the water by the thieves. In their haste, they missed her watch.”
“When did this happen?” Jo asked, remembering that her father had written down a date by Eleanor Owens’s name in his agenda.
“Eleanor had the baby in 1874,” Sally replied.
Jo sat back in her chair. She couldn’t believe it. She’d actually found the Eleanor Owens in her father’s agenda, and had learned that 1874 was not Eleanor’s birth year but her child’s. Jo was elated, but the feeling dissipated as she realized that she still didn’t have the answer to the most important question: why did her father make the notation in his agenda? Who was Eleanor Owens to him?
An ugly thought had gripped her when she’d first seen the notation, and it came rushing back at her now. Could he have been the father of Eleanor’s child? And if so, did that have something to do with his death?
Jo did som
e quick calculations in her head. Her father had been in Zanzibar in 1874, just like Eleanor’s fiancé. Jo felt a sickening dread in the pit of her stomach. Had he been with Eleanor Owens before he left? He’d been married to Jo’s mother then. Had he been carrying on with Eleanor at the same time? Had he told her some ridiculous story to hide that he was married?
“What about the baby’s father? Did he ever return from Zanzibar?” she asked apprehensively.
“No, he didn’t,” Sally said.
Jo tried to keep her voice steady. “Do you know who he was? Do you recall his name?”
“He was a partner in … Oh, what’s that big shipping firm called? Van Houten! That’s it.”
Jo felt sick. “Please, Miss Gibson,” she said. “You must tell me his name.”
“Stephen Smith.”
Jo closed her eyes and exhaled raggedly, immensely relieved.
“Are you all right, miss?” Sally asked, peering at her closely.
“Quite,” Jo said, regaining her composure.
“Stephen Smith, it turns out, died at sea,” Sally explained. “Seventeen years ago. Shortly before he was due to return to New York. His ship was lost in the Indian Ocean during a storm.”
Jo knew that. The first time she’d ever seen Smith’s portrait, during a trip to Van Houten’s, she’d asked her father who he was. She knew the faces in the other six portraits, but not his.
“Mr. Smith drowned,” her father had replied. “A long time ago.” She’d wanted to know more, but his tone had been forbidding, so she hadn’t pressed him.
“Mrs. Kroger didn’t think that Eleanor ever knew Mr. Smith had drowned,” said Sally. “She was in Darkbriar by the time his death made the papers here. It might’ve been a comfort to her to know she hadn’t been abandoned. He was a nice man, Mrs. Kroger said. Mrs. Kroger always felt bad about what had happened. Unsettled. That’s the word she used.”
These Shallow Graves Page 14