She pressed the back of her hand against her swollen lips.
~~~
“A quilt?” Jackson asked softly.
Deidre’s eyes had taken on a dazed quality. “Quilt?”
His insides softened. He grinned. “The fireworks.” As if there weren’t enough in that room, rioting through him. “Surely, we can’t disappoint your daughter.”
“Daughter?”
“Don’t tell me you’d forgotten her?”
His words snapped her out of her stupor, her cheeks tinging pink. “No. No, of course not.” She turned in a slow circle as if she couldn’t remember the reason they had entered Penelope’s private enshrined domain.
He spotted a cedar trunk at the end of the bed and went over and lifted the lid. Inside he found household keepsakes, a hope chest of sorts. He’d heard his cousins talk of such things years ago but had never seen one. He set aside a boxed tea set, dishtowels, porcelain knickknacks, and a number of other feminine items that gave insight into the young Penelope he remembered and didn’t remember. Beneath a set of sheets, he found a precisely folded quilt, pieced together from different shades of pink cloth, and tied with a satin ribbon. “Will this work?”
“It looks as if that quilt has never been used,” she said softly, running her hand over the puffed fabric. “I don’t feel right using it. Her sister should have it.”
Jackson was at a loss. “But Ruth said she didn’t want anything…” He was speaking to an empty room. He tossed the quilt on the bed and hurried after Deidre. He found her going into another room down the hall, one that looked nothing like Penelope’s feminine abode.
He walked in behind Deidre and found Lori sitting up in the middle of a double bed, clutching her yarn-headed doll, grinning, her excitement infectious and palpable. “Can I get up now, Mama?”
Deidre sighed with what he thought was mock resignation. “I suppose so.”
Lori hopped off the bed and Deidre proceeded to fold the quilt lying atop. This counterpane was very old and ragged around the edges.
“We’ll use this one,” she told Jackson.
He glanced around at the differences between this bedroom and Penelope’s. This room was so impersonal he couldn’t tell if it had belonged to Ruth, or to her father. It looked as if Deidre had already packed the personals away. He took the quilt from her and followed them out, only half-listening to Lori’s excited chatter.
Jackson ushered his two dates from the cottage at seven that evening. The sun was low. He expected they had approximately an hour or so of daylight left. He swung Lori up on his shoulders for the hike to Serpent’s Point. “Hold on tight,” he told her.
Her tiny hands clamped onto his jawline.
They followed the crowd through the forest into the open air of the bluffs and took the path that led away from the manor house toward the Point.
A few minutes later Jackson spotted Tevi waving him and Deidre over to an area already filling up with blankets, noisy kids running wild, and such. Tevi’s husband, an English lord no less, was sitting on the ground. The sight took Jackson aback momentarily. Not even a year ago would his cousins have acknowledged him on the street. Now, for the first time in his life, he had a family—one that included nobility. He had… friends. This couldn’t have been his father’s overall plan, could it? The thought was unfathomable. “Deidre, this is Tevi’s better half, Baron Edwin Ashworth.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ashworth,” Deidre said.
“Er, Lord Ashworth.” Tevi grinned at her husband’s resigned expression.
“Your wife is a menace, Lord Ashworth,” Jackson said mildly.
“Hi, Deidre.” Lydia wore trousers and was stretched out beside her husband, Preston, on a blanket they shared with Jo and Wyn.
Jackson made the rest of the introductions. Setting Lori on her feet, he took the quilt from Deidre and spread it out.
“Where’s Ruth?” Jackson asked.
“We couldn’t talk her into coming. I thought she’d jump at the chance. I suppose it’s too soon,” Tevi said. “Hello, Lori. Would you like to sit by us?”
The exuberant child from earlier that day had retreated back into the shy little girl who clung to her mother’s skirt and the ragdoll she clutched in her free hand. Lori maneuvered as far behind Deidre as she could, hugging the doll to her chest.
Jackson lowered himself to the ground. “Quit terrifying her, Tevi.”
Tevi stuck her tongue out at him, while her husband raised his aristocratic brows.
Jackson caught the soft, but unmistakable sound of a giggle from Lori as Deidre followed him down to the ground. He took that as an encouraging sign.
“What do you think about us coming by tomorrow to start boxing things up, Deidre?” Lydia said.
“Oh, that will be fine.” She glanced at Jackson. “That might be a good time to go through Reverend Knox’s papers too. The ones in the house, I mean.”
Jackson nodded. “I can do tomorrow as well.”
“Of course.” Deidre spoke with a breathless rush.
Once the fireworks started, Jackson found himself compelled in watching an enthralled Lori. There was something so engaging about her. She lay flat on her back, facing the sky, gasping and awing at every burst of color and spark that lit the black sky.
At times, she reminded him of his mother from way back, when Jackson must have been Lori’s very age, before his mother had turned bitter and had taken to her bed. Back before his cousins had come to live with them. He had a sudden urge to hug this engaging child but knew such an action would likely terrify her.
He met Deidre’s eyes. How serious-minded she was. So true and inspiring. He aspired to be her… hero. He thought of that kiss in Penelope’s old room… so sweet, so responsive. He swallowed his groan and broke eye contact, and stared up into the shimmering, flowering lights that faded into streaks of smoke. He was desperate to learn who killed Charity. To learn if Deidre and Lori were still in danger.
15
Despite Deidre’s determination to lie abed the next morning, even as sleep eluded her, she rose early, leaving Lori still dead to the world. She showered and dressed and found Mrs. Phillips already in the kitchen, though it was only seven.
The older woman set two cups of fresh coffee on the tiny kitchen table. “Did Lori enjoy the fireworks?”
“Enraptured was more like it.” Deidre grinned. She sipped the steaming brew and let out a soft rush of air.
“You’re falling for him, aren’t you?”
“It’s horribly obvious, isn’t it?” Deidre shook her head, a familiar hopelessness filling her. She had never been the lively, vivacious, gregarious character Charity had been. “He’s practically my brother-in-law.”
Mrs. Phillips dropped into the chair across. “Nonsense,” she said with her usual pragmatism. “Charity is gone. You’d never even met the man.”
At least not as far as Mrs. Phillips was concerned. The only other person who knew about that meeting between Deidre and Jackson when Lori was a baby was Charity. And Charity was gone, leaving Deidre buried under a mountain of guilt. Jackson was turning out not to be the wastrel she’d believed when she’d met him four years ago. Somewhere along the way, he’d even quit drinking. There was the possibility he’d been on a bender for only that one night.
Dread consumed her. She didn’t look forward to enlightening Jackson to Lori’s true parentage. He would hate her for sure, she thought glumly. An overwhelming urge to burst into tears threatened her. She had to tell him the truth. Her greatest fear was that he would try to take Lori away. The very idea had her biting back bile, but her conscience refused to allow her to keep such a basic truth from him. It just became a matter of finding the right moment to tell him.
A brisk knock filled the house, and Deidre blinked back the sting behind her eyes. “Who on earth could that be at this hour?”
Mrs. Phillips started to rise, but Deidre stopped her. “I’ll g
et it. You finish your coffee.”
She hurried into the small foyer and peered through a small window to the porch, then opened the door.
Tevi, Lydia, greeted her with wide smiles. While Jo’s was less exuberant, it appeared genuine all the same.
Tevi held up her offerings. “We come bearing boxes.”
Deidre moved back from the door, inviting them in.
“We have able-bodied men at the ready once we finish packing up,” Lydia chimed in. She waved a piece of paper. “We also managed to finagle somewhat of a list of the things Ruth wouldn’t mind keeping.
Jo followed in last. “Sorry to arrive so early. It’s actually quite rare for the three of us to be in one place at the same time.”
“Not at all. Please. Would you care for coffee?”
“Certainly,” Lydia said.
With no objection from the others, Deidre led the three sisters to the tiny kitchen and introduced them to Mrs. Phillips. “Lori is still sleeping. She had an exhausting day yesterday. Mrs. Phillips, I so believe we’re going to require more sustenance.”
They moved to the dining room and laid out a plan of action, enjoying a plate of muffins and scones Mrs. Phillips had managed to pull together. It was decided that Lydia and Tevi would tackle Penelope’s room, while Jo and Deidre would start with Ruth’s list in the bedroom Mrs. Phillips was using.
“Jackson should be here soon. He said there are some files he needs to look at, so he volunteered to pack the household office,” Jo said.
That left Mrs. Phillips to box up Reverend Knox’s clothes for donating, since Deidre had already cleared the bedroom of his personal effects.
It was decided by consensus that the furniture, kitchen supplies, and books from the office would be left for the incoming parson.
Deidre was astonished at the weight lifting from her shoulders now that there was an established plan of action.
Lori walked in rubbing her eyes. “I want to help.”
“You can help Mrs. Smith and me,” Deidre told her. “Or Mrs. Phillips.”
“I’ll help Mrs. Phillips. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“A very good plan, my dear. Let’s get you some breakfast and then dressed so we can get started, hmm?” Mrs. Phillips led Lori through to the kitchen.
“She’s an adorable child,” Jo said softly.
Deidre smiled, aware of another stab of guilt pounding her flesh. “I couldn’t be more proud.”
Ruth’s list mostly consisted of shoes, a few clothes, and a box that had belonged to Penelope. “I think I know the item she means,” Deidre said. The troop followed her up the stairs. “I always feel strange when I walk in here.” She went over to the closet and took the box from the bottom of the closet. “I think this is what Ruth was speaking about.” She handed the box to Lydia.
Jo’s gaze went to the cedar chest that stood at the foot of the bed. “Oh, how lovely. There’s a hope chest.”
“It is. The items inside tell their own story,” Deidre said. She glanced around the room. “Outside of the clothes, I think it’s all right if everything else stays.”
“Is anyone here?” Jackson’s voice floated up the stairs.
“We’re up here,” Tevi called down.
Deidre went warm all over. “Perhaps I could see Ruth’s list?”
Jo handed it over.
“Ruth’s room is this way,” Deidre said to her, leading Jo out and Tevi and Lydia behind.
They walked down the hall in silence and opened the door to the next room. Deidre stood aside allowing Jo to enter.
“Goodness,” Jo said, as she took one look at the twin bed. It was made up with a soldier’s precision, with nary a crease. “That bed is perfect, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Mrs. Phillips is quite the companion.” Deidre went to the closet took out the six brown, black, and navy-colored, out-of-fashion dresses and laid them on the bed. She did the same with the shoes. There were only three pairs. “I know I shouldn’t say anything, but it doesn’t appear Ruth had very much.”
“Yes.” Jo’s curt tone, which Deidre found curious, did not invite confidences.
“There’s no mirror.” Jo moved over to the dresser and picked up a wooden handled hairbrush. “Ah, here’s a handheld one.”
Deidre had also been relieved to see it the other day. No woman, especially one as young as Ruth, was indifferent to how her hair looked. It brought her to a normalcy Diedre had been concerned about. “If you’ll clear the dresser, I’ll get a box.”
Jo nodded. “Of course.”
Deidre slipped out of the room and made her way down the stairs to the front porch. On her way back, she heard rustling coming from the private office and peered in.
Jackson sat at the small escritoire stacked with loose papers. He was looking through a ledger of sorts.
Deidre moved into the room. “What do you have there?”
“Knox’s financial records. I imagine Ruth will be highly interested in this. Her father’s frugality has paid off, leaving a nice little nest egg for her. Nothing substantial, but at least the man left her something.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.” Relief hit Deidre with a thump in her chest. Ruth was alone now; she needed—no, deserved—something for all she’d suffered. It didn’t escape Deidre notice that Ruth’s situation was very similar to her own.
There was one significant difference between them, however: Deidre had Lori.
16
Junior found the brick building off 47th Street and Laurel Hill Boulevard easily enough. It was to his great advantage that the Spences’ residence was a basement apartment accessible from the street. A decorative iron railing marked the unremarkable space. Unfortunately, the lock was not so easy to pick. He’d have to break it. What did he care, so long as he could get in and out without detection? He pulled on a pair of tight-fitting gloves, and after a quick glance to the street above, he busted the glass next to the door. He reached inside and twisted the lock, then pulled out his hand, scraping the inside of his wrist just above the glove for his trouble. Shit.
Quickly wrapping his wound with a white linen handkerchief, he turned the knob and slipped inside.
The dark apartment was illuminated only by high, narrow windows that showed white-painted walls and an array of a child’s artwork, proudly framed and displayed throughout a small living area. The couch and two chairs didn’t look all that old. Charity had received a considerable payoff from Victor Montgomery after all. As one of the estate attorneys, he should know. There was a large cabinet for a radio, but no television—a fad that would likely never take off.
The color scheme throughout the space was entirely feminine with its soft ivory and bluish hues.
Junior went through a swinging door that led into an immaculately clean, tiny kitchen. He went down a tiny hallway that led to two small bedrooms.
Stepping into the first one, he felt as if he’d been sucked into a doll’s house. The bed was pristinely made, and in the corner, was an even smaller bed adorned with a ruffled pink coverlet. Shuddering, he forced himself farther into the room and strode to a wardrobe. There were two rows of hangings, one for a taller person, the other for someone considerably shorter.
After a quick cursory look, he moved swiftly to the vanity. There, on the top, was a slip of paper telling the recipient to meet at the burial grounds at the Trinity Church. He stuffed the note in his pocket started a more methodical search.
Everything he saw showed how much the occupants cared for the child that lived there. Each drawer he opened reinforced his initial impression, giving Junior more insight to other possible strategies if he was unable to locate where Charity had hidden her proof of his past.
He found nothing in the wardrobe, beneath the bed, under or behind or in the dresser’s drawers. Nothing taped to the backside of the mirror. He dumped the contents of the drawers uncaring of broken bottles, fragile knickknacks, or delicate fabrics, looking for hidden mechan
isms.
His search turned up nothing. Absolutely nothing. He pulled to his full height, his simmering fury boiled to the surface and scanned the room, hardly able to see through the red haze blurring his vision. It landed on a child’s toy box. He stormed over to it, and jerked it up and scattered it contents onto the floor, then searched every inch inside and outside of the box. Nothing. He wanted to scream out his frustration but didn’t dare. Instead, he lashed out with his foot, kicking a miniature version of a baby’s crib, shattering wood into splintered pieces.
A second bedroom held even less than the previous one. The small bathroom—again—held nothing. Nothing in this cheap apartment. Nothing. Damn you, Charity. Where is it? He forced himself to take a deep breath in a futile attempt to slow his pounding heart. It took several. He looked down at his gloved hands and realized that nowhere had he left anything that could indicate he’d been there.
Of course, what would it matter? It wasn’t as if he worried about going to jail. His father owned one of the most diverse, most successful law firms in the city. But his father would not be happy. But the thought of his father cutting him out of his due sickened him. He needed to fly the coop before one of the neighbors caught him snooping around.
This had been a monstrous waste of time. He slammed out the door with force and stomped up the steps to street level.
“They ain’t home, sir.”
The words jerked Junior from his fogged fury, pulling him up. “Uh, yeah. So I found.” He touched the tip of his newsboy cap to a young boy, then adjusted it, carefully shielding his face. Then nodding sharply, he hurried on his way.
17
Reverend Knox’s bookkeeping was immaculate. In most cases, the handwriting was harsh and slanted to the right. Other entries were markedly different, showing more rounded letters that leaned to the left. Of course, it made perfect sense for Ruth to help her father with the household accounts. Jackson was no handwriting expert, but the difference between the two scripts was starkly evident to him—the harshly overbearing compared to the easily oppressed.
A Dagger Cuts Deep Page 8