Her brother? Henry tried to make himself believe that the odd creature who had just descended the stairs could be in any way related to the elegant, very proper Mrs. Oliver. Not wishing to seem rude, Henry approached the strange man and held out a hand.
“Hello, Mr. Ramsay. Pleasure to meet you.”
Instead of responding in kind, Quentin looked down at the ground, swallowed hard, and then hurried off without acknowledging Henry at all. Henry stood with his hand hanging in the air, feeling ridiculous.
“Please excuse him, Mr. Hamilton.” Was that a small smile playing around Mrs. Oliver’s lips? It would be the first one Henry had seen from her. “Quentin can be a bit eccentric. He means no discourtesy. It is just the way he is.”
“I see.” Henry lowered his hand, still feeling foolish.
“May I offer you a drink?” she asked. “Red wine, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
She turned and disappeared into another room. A bottle opened, followed by the sound of liquid being poured.
As she reappeared with two glasses of wine, his thoughts, scattered by the house and by the unexpected appearance of Quentin Ramsay, finally returned to the seduction of Mrs. Oliver. He accepted a glass and took a sip. Although Henry knew relatively little about wine, this one had a smoky, chocolaty taste that spread warmth through his body.
She led him to another room off the entranceway and lit a lamp. She sat on the red velvet settee, leaving him the wooden armchair. Henry tried to figure out the best way to crack that impassive stare. Sensing that he would have to do most of the talking, he took another sip of wine, hoping it would relax him.
“Mrs. Oliver, I very much appreciate your hospitality,” he began. “You are the most pleasant person I’ve encountered since leaving Baltimore. Traveling can be quite lonely at times.”
She looked at him for a rather long moment before nodding. “I don’t travel much these days, myself. I prefer to stay by the water.”
“I see.” The wine and the whiskey before it made him feel a little bold. “Well, my family’s home is very close to the Patapsco River. If you were ever to find yourself in Baltimore, I would be delighted to host you for a visit.”
“Would you?” she said in a chillier tone. Perhaps he’d pushed too far. They’d scarcely met and he was already hinting that she should travel to his house. Easy, Hal.
“And who lives with you in Baltimore?” Mrs. Oliver asked at last, rescuing him from the awkward silence.
“My father. My sister, Sorrow, lives with us as well, but perhaps not for much longer. She talks of finding her own place in the world.” He chuckled, thinking of his headstrong little sister. She had clashed repeatedly with Father since graduating from college; Winslow Hamilton considered it faintly scandalous that his daughter was more interested in a profession than a husband. Indeed, Henry had been slightly nervous at the prospect of leaving the two of them alone together.
But his little sister was feisty and knew her own mind. And if she had to, she could take care of herself. Of that much, Henry was certain.
A small furrow appeared between Mrs. Oliver’s eyebrows. “Did I hear correctly? Your sister is named Sorrow?”
“It’s a tad peculiar, I know. Our mother died giving birth to her, and for some reason our father insisted on commemorating that sad event by giving the poor girl that name.” Henry hated the name and the reason for it, believing that burdening an innocent child with such an ever-present reminder of tragedy was quite unfair. His sister was strawberry-blonde, pale, and as sweet and sunny as her name was dark. He’d insisted on calling her Sally since they were both children.
“I see. It is quite a distinctive name,” Mrs. Oliver said. The wine stirred feelings in him as he attempted to keep his eyes on her face and not on the body he envisioned under that black dress. Despite his efforts, he became terribly distracted by a vision of cupping her bare, full breasts as she arched her back in pleasure.
“Write down your address for me, Mr. Hamilton. If I do happen to travel to Baltimore, I should like to be able to notify you. Perhaps we could meet again.” The abrupt request jarred Henry. Had the woman sensed what he was thinking?
She indicated a desk in the corner, with notepaper and a pen set out. He wrote out his address and then, on an impulse, “Looking forward to hearing from you.” He hoped that would help to keep him in her mind after he’d departed for home.
“Would you like to meet my daughter?” she said.
Her question felt like another bucket of ice water thrown over his imaginings. A daughter? Henry supposed that this only made sense, although he wondered how on earth he would fit Mrs. Oliver’s peculiar brother and a daughter into the plan he’d concocted for gaining her affections. Having to win over three people sounded far more daunting than having to win over only one.
“Of course. I’d be delighted.” What else could he say? Perhaps her offer to introduce him to her child was a sign that she trusted him.
And perhaps she was on the hunt for a new father figure in her daughter’s life. Maybe he and Mrs. Oliver wanted the same thing for different reasons. As she stood and turned away from him, he smiled.
Mrs. Oliver lifted a lantern from the table and led him out of the sitting room to a door in the hallway. She paused, glancing back at him.
“Please be careful on the steps. Lucy prefers the basement, and it’s rather dim down here.”
Lucy? What sort of a child—and a girl, at that—liked to linger in dark, dank basements? And why didn’t Mrs. Oliver just call the child upstairs?
He trailed his fingers along the damp wall as they descended, following the beam of Mrs. Oliver’s lantern. The smell of salt water grew heavier, and once again Henry caught that unpleasant odor he’d smelled in the air back by the tavern. It made him think of a tide that washed up dead things to rot in the sun.
Icy fingers played along his spine, and for a fleeting moment he thought about excusing himself. But he needed to make a good impression on Mrs. Oliver. Her money was bound to be useful to him one way or another, whether he persuaded her to invest in the renovation of Tidepool or to marry him.
And he dearly wished to impress his father with his ability to find wealthy associates.
They crossed the basement in the circle of light provided by the lantern, and reached another door that Henry could barely see in the darkness. Mrs. Oliver raised a small white hand and knocked.
“Lucy? There’s a gentleman here who’d like to meet you,” she called as she opened the door.
Footsteps, quick and sounding oddly moist, approached them. Henry craned his neck to see in the gloom.
Lucy stepped into the light and Henry Hamilton’s stomach turned ice cold.
Dear God, that is no child! What in the Hell—
Chapter Two
SORROW
Sorrow Hamilton
October 1913
* * *
Winslow Hamilton absolutely forbade his daughter Sorrow to travel in search of her missing brother. She stood in front of the elaborate oak desk in his study, her hands clasped in front of her, feeling like a naughty student being called on the carpet. The odor of stale pipe smoke—a smell she had grown to detest—hung heavy in the air of the study.
“It is unsafe for young ladies to travel alone, Sorrow,” he said, frowning and folding his arms over his chest. “And unseemly.”
I’m 21, for God’s sake, Sorrow thought but did not dare say. He can’t stop me if I want to go.
“But that isn’t true. Betsy Mueller travels solo all the time and has come to no trouble.” She studied the neat piles of paper arranged on Winslow’s desk, digging her fingernails into her palms and trying to hold back her rising temper.
“Bully for Betsy Mueller. She is not my daughter. You are.”
Sorrow had known this would be difficult. Winslow had very firm ideas on what young ladies could and could not do, and his “could not” list was considerably longer and included many of the things tha
t most interested Sorrow—things such as traveling on one’s own, without a relative or another companion.
She sometimes considered it a small miracle that Winslow had allowed her to attend college. His belief in the importance of education overrode his idea that Sorrow was best kept at home until a suitable husband swept her off her feet. Women were likely to get the vote before much longer, Winslow said, and an educated voter was a better bet for the future of the United States.
But this was about Henry. Her father couldn’t expect her to just sit in the house while her brother was still missing.
“I must know what’s happened to Hal. It’s been over two weeks. He wouldn’t simply vanish like this with no word to us.”
Winslow fixed her with a glare. Sorrow often thought that Winslow’s steel-gray eyes and matching hair suited his personality perfectly. He had all the warmth of a slab of granite as he stared up at her.
“I know that perfectly well. And I am as concerned as you are. But what exactly do you think you’ll be able to discover in that place?”
Sorrow raised her chin as she stared down at her father. “Whatever there is to know.”
Winslow shook his head. “I’ve been speaking with some investigators. Those men have the knowledge and the experience to find out where he is. That is no role for you, and I won’t have you running off to God knows where trying to find him. I do not need to be searching for two missing children.”
With that, Winslow turned from Sorrow and busied himself with some paperwork on his desk, his favored way of telling his daughter that a discussion was over. Sorrow fought the temptation to slam the door of his study as she left. Slamming doors was something else young ladies didn’t do.
But whatever he thought, Winslow was not winning this argument.
Henry had looked after Sorrow her whole life. While Winslow seemed to hold Sorrow responsible for her mother’s death in childbirth and kept a chilly, reserved distance, Henry made sure she was washed, well dressed, and entertained. In the school yard, he’d fight any children who made fun of her name. He helped her with her schoolwork and listened to her confidences.
When she was old enough to understand why she’d been named Sorrow, Henry reassured her that their mother’s sad fate was in no way her fault, and he bore her no grudge.
Sorrow considered her brother the only true parental figure of her life, and her best friend as well. If she had dropped out of contact for over two weeks while traveling, Henry would have moved Heaven and Earth to find her. This she knew as well as she knew her own name.
And she would do no less for him, whether Father liked it or not. No detectives knew Henry the way she did. She’d be able to think like her brother, to imagine what he might have been drawn to that could account for his silence now.
The last she had heard from Henry was a short letter to her and Winslow, telling them that he had arrived in Tidepool. “Not sure what on earth Charlie sees in this place. Shabby. Smells like a load of dead fish. Looking forward to leaving.”
He wasn’t on the steamer back to Baltimore on the day he’d arranged for Sorrow to meet him at the pier, and he sent along no explanation for his absence. None of his friends or colleagues had heard anything from him, and as the days rolled on without any word, his silence grew more ominous.
Henry had been known to extend a trip by a few days if he met interesting people to travel with, or if he had been particularly taken with a place. But try as she might, Sorrow could come up with no situation in which Henry would have stretched out his trip so long without getting word to them. Perhaps he’d sent them a message that had gotten lost somewhere along the line. Perhaps he’d walk into the house any day now wondering what the fuss was.
Sorrow could no longer stand the suspense.
Since Tidepool was the last place where Sorrow had received any news from Henry, Tidepool was where she would start looking for him. Maybe someone there had learned of whatever plans he might have had. Why Henry might tell this mysterious someone his plans without notifying his own family, Sorrow didn’t know.
But she intended to find out.
The next day, as soon as Winslow departed for his office, Sorrow slipped into Hal’s bedroom, which was beginning to feel colder and emptier as the days passed without his return. His chair sat pushed back from his desk and turned towards the door, as if he’d jumped up to greet someone with great eagerness. Sorrow couldn’t bring herself to put the chair back in its proper place, and so she remained standing.
A map of Maryland sat unfolded over his desk. Tidepool, such a small dot on the map that Sorrow had to strain her eyes to see it, looked to be a brief, straightforward buggy ride from Ocean City. If she took the 6:15 am boat to Claiborne and made the connection to the train to Ocean City, she could potentially be in Tidepool by late afternoon.
She folded the map up and took it from her brother’s room.
The following morning, well before the sun rose, Sorrow edged out of bed, got dressed as quietly as she could manage, and left a note by her father’s place setting in the dining room.
* * *
“Dearest Father:
Please don’t be angry. I am going to Tidepool. And I shall not leave until I get answers to at least some of my questions about Hal. I will keep you informed of anything I learn. I’m sure you will understand that I simply cannot rest until I have some clue as to where he might be now.”
* * *
Despite her conciliatory words, Sorrow doubted very much that Winslow would understand her actions. She held her breath and took slow, careful steps as she eased her small suitcase down the stairs and out of the house. She hurried to Pier 8 at Light Street and tried to blend into the waiting crowd, her hat pulled low over her head. She hoped that it was still dark enough that spotting her in the throng of travelers would be difficult.
Especially if Father decided to rise early today of all days and found her note.
After all the passengers had boarded the steamer and it began its roll out of the harbor, Sorrow turned her back on the pier. She feared she might see Winslow running along the docks, his red face contorted in fury as he pursued her, intending to leap onto the boat and drag his daughter back to land.
But as the steamer picked up speed and Baltimore’s tall buildings gave way to rolling farmlands and water under a rising sun, her fear of Winslow abated and she smiled. She had done it. She was traveling alone for the first time in her life. Something inside her soared, even if the reason for her trip troubled her deeply.
I’m coming, Hal. Please be there. Please be all right.
As Sorrow glanced at the other passengers on the steamer, her fingers drifted up to her hat and she began fiddling with the hatpin she’d used to secure it. The pin, which had belonged to her late mother, had an opal set at its top, and the gem caught the sun’s rays and gave off bursts of color that always captivated Sorrow. As a child, she’d believed the opal must have magical powers to produce such beautiful hues.
But for this journey, Sorrow was more interested in the rest of the pin. Any mashers who attempted any sort of indecent liberties with her were going to get a big, extremely painful surprise. Baltimore had recently enacted a ban on hatpins long enough to deal out damage to a potential attacker, and Mother’s hatpin violated that ban by several inches. But getting in trouble for using it was a risk Sorrow was willing to take if it meant fending off unwanted attention.
She made her connection to the train in Claiborne without incident. But by the time she reached Ocean City in the early afternoon, the long day of travel had started to tire her. As she watched people heading to the boardwalk, she pondered spending a night in Ocean City. Perhaps she could take a room somewhere, have a fine dinner, and head for Tidepool first thing in the morning, fully refreshed.
But she knew she’d spend that night worrying about Henry. What if he’d come to some kind of trouble while in Tidepool? Her need to find him, or at least a clue to his whereabouts, won out over her weariness.
She had to rent a horse and buggy for the last part of the trip. After consulting Henry’s map one last time, Sorrow left Ocean City. After traveling down a dirt road that wound through trees and stretches of grass, she arrived in Tidepool late that Tuesday afternoon.
She knew that Henry must have taken a room at Cooper’s Inn and Tavern, as there was nowhere else for a traveler to stay in Tidepool according to Henry’s colleague and friend Charlie Sherman. The stable workers directed her to the place.
“Excuse me.” She stopped one of the workers, an older black man with a long, wrinkled face.
“My brother came here a couple of weeks ago. Tall fellow? Blond hair? Nicely dressed?”
The stable hand stared at her without responding. She tried again.
“Henry Hamilton? He came from Baltimore. Do you remember seeing anyone like that here? Did he perhaps say where he was going after leaving this place?”
The man regarded her for another moment and then shook his head.
“Can’t recall, miss. Lots of people come through here.” He turned away without meeting her eye.
She was left to carry her suitcase alone. As she made her way towards the inn, she found the stable worker’s claim about lots of people coming through Tidepool rather difficult to believe. She passed very few people on the streets compared to what she might see on an average stroll around Baltimore, and everything looked as shabby as Henry had said in his brief note.
As Sorrow passed a cemetery on her way to Cooper’s, her eyes were drawn to a hand painted sign stuck in the ground close to the gates. The wood bore a stark message painted in square black letters:
If ye give not willingly, the Lords will rise.
Whatever on earth that meant and whoever the Lords were, the graveyard looked positively vast for such a small town, and Sorrow shuddered.
The odors of salty air and fish breezed past her as she headed down the main street, which was still dirt rather than pavement. Shopkeepers emerged from weathered storefronts to eye her as she passed. Her purple silk dress was a veritable riot of color in this small, drab place. She wanted to shrink inside herself.
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