Closing her eyes tightly as she did when she was small and needed to confess her deepest fears to her mother, Annie said, “Bea, what if it turns out I can’t have children?”
“Why ever would you be worried about that?” Beatrice sounded surprised. “Just because you didn’t get pregnant with your first husband?”
“But I did,” Annie burst out, her eyes flying open to see the concerned warmth in her friend’s clear blue eyes. She then haltingly told Beatrice about her panic when she discovered her pregnancy and how she’d waited to tell her husband until she could talk to her father. How she’d hoped he would know how to protect her and her unborn child from John, who was spiraling out of control. “You see, my father had gone up to Maine on business. I was going to tell him when he got back to New York. But he never came home.”
Beatrice whispered, “And what happened to the babe?”
Annie, gathering her strength to get through this last part of her story, said slowly, “I know I’ve told you that John hid my father’s illness from me, so that I would have no chance to see him before he died. What I never told you was that when I got the terrible telegram from John telling me that my father was dead and buried, I miscarried. No one ever knew. No one but my young servant.”
“Oh Annie, and the way that Miss Laura’s friend’s died has brought it all back again, hasn’t it? My poor child. But surely you don’t think losing a baby, the way you did, means you’ll never have another?” She patted Annie on the shoulder and said, “At least you know you can get pregnant.”
Annie, remembering Beatrice’s own childlessness, felt awful. She said, “Beatrice, please, I didn’t mean to cause you any pain. Let’s not talk about any of this anymore. I was being silly.”
“Don’t be daft, Annie. I made my peace long ago with never being able to have a child of my own. And what would I have done, trying to raise young ones alone after my husband died? But I still don’t understand why you would think that young Mr. Dawson wouldn’t want to marry you if he knew about your miscarriage.”
Annie sat for a moment. “It’s not the miscarriage so much, although I always feel awkward when I mention anything about my past with John, as if it were in bad taste to bring him up to Nate.”
“Then what is it?” Beatrice asked.
Annie didn’t answer for several moments, then she said, “Bea, if you had known that you couldn’t have children before you married, would you have told your husband-to-be?”
It was Beatrice’s turn to pause. “I suppose I would. Secrets of any kind aren’t a good way to go into marriage.”
“That’s what I think as well. I know Nate wants children. He’s said as much, and he was so charming with Mrs. Anderson’s little boy the other day. But I am afraid that he will think differently about me, about marrying me.”
“And are you saying you aren’t sure you want children?” Beatrice leaned in as if she were trying to read into Annie’s heart.
“Oh Bea, no. I long for children. For Nate’s children.” Heat rose to her cheeks as she experienced the strong wave of mingled desire and longing that came every time she thought of Nate and bearing his child.
“Well, my dear, I am having trouble understanding just what the problem is, then. The women I know who had children after a miscarriage could fill a church hall!”
“But you haven’t thought about my mother. Beatrice, I’m the only child she had. My father always said how much I physically resembled her. What if that’s true and the poor mite I lost was my only chance? I have to tell Nate. And I’m afraid that…that he won’t want me then.”
Beatrice reared back and just shook her head at her.
Annie sat and thought a minute, then smiled. “I know what you are going to say. If I were playing Madam Sibyl and a female client said what I just said, I would say that if she really thought that the man she loved wouldn’t want to marry her under those conditions, maybe she needs to re-examine whether that is the man she wants to marry.”
“And, if you were that woman, what would you tell Madam Sibyl?”
“That I do trust Nate. That he’s proven over and over he is willing to accept me just the way I am, Madam Sibyl and all. And this shouldn’t be any different. And if it is, well, better to learn that now than later.”
Beatrice smiled warmly at her, and Annie felt suddenly lighter.
“And there is one more thing you need to know, my dear,” Beatrice said. “I was still working for your aunt and uncle when your parents lived with them and helped deliver you right in this very house. The doctor at your birth told your dear mother that having any more children would ‘be the death of her’ because of her bad heart and all. That’s why she didn’t have any more children. There’s nothing wrong with your heart, so you’ve been worrying your poor self over nothing.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Monday afternoon, February 9, 1880
"NO NAME SERIES - 'Is the Gentleman Anonymous? Is He A Great Unknown' --Daniel Deronda. A Masque of Poets including Guy Vernon, a Novelette in Verse, 1878
Classes had gone well today, and Laura was feeling pleased with the success of Kitty’s first forays into solo teaching this week. Ever since their shopping trip together, Kitty’s shyness with her had eased, and Laura enjoyed the talks she had with her every day at noon as they dissected the students’ progress and planned the next day’s lessons. Such a difference from the loneliness and frustration she’d felt teaching by herself in the one-room school at Cupertino Creek. She also looked forward to her walks home with Barbara and Jamie, hearing the young boy talk about his day, sharing stories with his mother about the funny things their students said and did.
Laura’s good mood was punctured by a feeling of irritation when she saw the janitor, Mr. Ferguson, hovering near the door to the teachers’ room, mop in hand. She’d already decided to seek him out after classes on Wednesday, when she had more time to try teasing out information on his relationship with the janitoress at Girls’ High. But this afternoon, she didn’t have time. It was nearly twenty past three, and she needed to check her mailbox before she went out to meet Barbara and Jamie, who were probably already waiting for her in front of the school.
Consequently, she gave him only the slightest smile as she passed, saying, “Good day, Mr. Ferguson. I would love to talk, but I’m running late.”
“Aye, little lassie. All you young ladies are always in such a hurry. Be careful you don’t slip.” He winked and turned away from her, pushing the mop on down the hall.
For once, there wasn’t anyone in the teachers’ room, and Laura walked quickly over to her box, which seemed empty except for a book. She assumed it was the Elementary Geography that Jamie’s teacher had promised to loan her, but when she saw the title of the book, she gasped.
It was the Masque of Poets, and its black cover with the delicate flowers etched in red brought back such sharp memories of Hattie that she was momentarily stunned. The slender volume, which featured anonymous poems by prominent authors, had been published her last year at San Jose, and she and Hattie had bought copies for each other for Christmas. She’d spent long pleasant hours arguing with Hattie over what authors might have written which poem, although they both had agreed that the one entitled "Pilgrim" was probably by Thoreau. But how had the book come to be in her mailbox? She knew her copy was right beside her bed, since she had read "Carpe Diem," one of her favorite poems, just last night. Was it possible this is Hattie’s copy?
She quickly opened the book to see if the inscription she had written to Hattie on the title page was there, but she was disappointed to discover that this page had been torn out, only a ragged edge of paper sticking out of the binding. Surely Hattie would have taken better care of her copy. The book looked well worn, and she could see that something was tucked into its center. Maybe it’s a note from whoever put the book in my mailbox.
Opening to the page, she saw the object was a pressed rose, its formerly scarlet petals blackened by age. Then with horror, she saw that t
he rose was marking Hattie’s favorite poem, "Husband and Wife," a haunting verse about a loveless marriage and a woman who died at childbirth. Now the words were nearly obliterated by splashes of dark red ink, dripping down the page like blood.
*****
Later that evening, Laura came down to the kitchen to work on her students’ valentines. The room was crowded, with Beatrice supervising Tilly, the young Irish girl who helped out, in the correct way to clean the iron skillets and Kathleen standing at the ironing board pressing the newly washed table linens. In addition, Barbara Hewitt sat in the rocking chair with Dandy in her lap, and Annie welcomed Laura to join her at the kitchen table.
Laura was glad of the company, still feeling shaken by her discovery of the book of poems. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it with Barbara in front of Jamie on the way home, and now that she’d had time to reflect, she wasn’t sure she should bring it up at all to anyone.
The explanation could be very innocent. Maybe Hattie had loaned it to another teacher who thought Laura would appreciate having it as a remembrance of her friend. But then, why the torn-out inscription and no note saying who it was from? And why pick the poem about a mother's death to deface?
What if the person who had been behind the anonymous notes to Hattie knew Laura was looking into the causes of Hattie’s death? Russell knew; she had foolishly told him. Could this then be a sort of warning to let well enough alone? And if not Russell, who else might be behind it? One of the teachers at Clement Grammar? Or a girl from the Greek study group? Surely not the janitor, Mr. Ferguson? Suddenly, the way he hovered outside her classroom and showed up when she visited the teachers’ room felt sinister. What if he were the anonymous letter writer? Maybe Hattie had brought the book to school with her and he’d stolen it. Maybe he’d already used its blood-like defacement to frighten Hattie and was now doing the same thing to Laura?
She shivered but then chided herself for using such a small incident to turn the janitor into some dreadful villain. In truth, anyone could have come in during the day and put the book in her box, even Buck. She’d read out loud from the Masque of Poems numerous times to her students at Cupertino Creek. He could have bought a copy, thinking that he would give her a nasty shock by putting the defaced book in her box. Just the sort of infantile joke he’d play.
Whether the book’s appearance was innocent, threatening, or simply a mean joke, it still unsettled her, and it felt good to be surrounded by friends in the boarding house kitchen, doing normal things, with the comforting smell of pies baking in the oven. She would concentrate on the task of making valentines.
Laura carefully cut out a heart from a piece of red paper and placed it on the front of the rectangle of white card stock. She then picked up an illustration of a small boy on his knees playing marbles, which she’d cut out of one of the Harper’s Baazar magazines. When she put it on top of the heart, she saw that she would have to trim the picture a little in order to make it fit. This would be perfect for her student Frank Spencer. She was pleased he hadn’t tried the trick with the marbles again, figuring this meant she had passed muster with him. Kitty had promised to come up with a brief message for each of the students that they would write on the back of the cards. Annie admired the finished product, and Laura began to feel her frazzled nerves relax.
The bell attached to the front door jangled, causing Dandy to bark, and Laura instinctively jerked. As Kathleen left the kitchen to go see who was there, she turned to Annie and said anxiously, “It’s 8:30. Was Mr. Dawson planning on coming by this evening?”
“No, he told me on Saturday he probably wouldn’t have time to see me all week.”
Beatrice chimed in. “It can’t be Mr. Harvey, forgettin’ his key again, because Kathleen already had to let him in right before supper. I don’t know what is wrong with the man. He can’t remember a simple thing like putting the door key in his pocket when he goes out of the house.”
When Kathleen reappeared, Laura was shocked to see Seth Timmons coming into the room behind her. He stopped abruptly, his grey eyes blinking as they adjusted to the well-lighted kitchen. He stroked his dark mustache and looked slowly around the room. His height and broad shoulders were accentuated by the low kitchen ceiling, and Laura was struck by how very masculine and dangerous he seemed in this domestic setting.
“Ma’am, this is Mr. Timmons, come to see Miss Dawson,” said Kathleen to Annie. “I thought you might think it better, late as it is, if he spoke to her down here. I hope I did right.”
Annie rose and walked over to him, holding out her hand. “Mr. Timmons, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Mrs. Fuller, and I own this boarding house.” She then introduced him to the rest of the women in the kitchen and said, “Would you like to take a seat? Kathleen would be glad to fix you a cup of tea.”
As Seth began to move towards the kitchen table, Laura felt a strong inclination not to have her interaction with him the object of scrutiny by her well-meaning friends. She quickly stood up and said, “Mr. Timmons, I expect you have come to tell me about what you found out on your visit down the peninsula. Would you like to take a short stroll around the back yard while you tell me what you learned? The kitchen can be awfully hot when there is baking going on.”
With irritation, Laura saw him glance over at Annie as if for her approval, then silently blessed her friend when she said, “What a good idea, Laura. Why don’t you take Dandy with you? Here, take this shawl. It should keep you warm enough.”
The terrier seemed to understand he had become the designated chaperone. With his short crooked tail whirling, he trotted to the back door, which Kathleen unlocked. Laura put a mtach to the lantern that hung by the door and carried it out into the chill dark of the yard. She turned and saw Seth speaking quietly to Annie before following her out.
Laura placed the lantern on the bench underneath the apricot tree and sat down. Seth came over and stood in front of her until, uncomfortable having to look up at him, she patted the seat beside her and asked him to please sit. “I will get a crick in my neck otherwise, Mr. Timmons.”
When he sat down, leaving a decorous space between them, she got right to the point. “Did you learn something about Buck that proves whether or not he could have been the man who attacked me?” Or put that book of poems in my mailbox?
Seth cleared his throat. “He could have been, since he came up to San Francisco the first week in January. I talked to Mr. and Mrs. Spears. They sent their regards, by the way, and said to tell you their twin boys miss you. According to them, there were rumors that Buck’s father was so angry at him for being on the losing end of a fight that he sent him up to San Francisco, ‘to make a man of him.’ The Cupertino Creek postmistress told me that Buck is working for his uncle in a North Beach warehouse. I have the uncle’s name, and I’ll track him and Buck down. I came by because I promised your brother to let you all know as soon as I had any information. Wouldn’t like him to think I was holding anything back.”
Laura, again feeling guilty that she had ever suspected him, pointed to Dandy, who was now sitting on Seth’s lap and being scratched around the ears. She said, “You do realize, don’t you, that Dandy’s approval of you completely clears you of any suspicion that you were the man who attacked me.”
When Seth looked startled, she explained. “I expect the only reason Kathleen brought you down to the kitchen was to see how Dandy reacted. I can assure you that if he had taken exception to you, there is no way you would have been permitted to sit out here alone with me. Dandy is the one who rescued me from the attacker.”
She leaned over and patted the terrier on his round head. “Didn’t you, boy? Ran right up and launched yourself at the big, bad man. Made him run away. Everyone in that kitchen is convinced that the attacker is still hanging around the house, because some mornings Dandy has a fit, growling and sniffing along the back gate.”
She then told him about Jamie’s theory that Dandy was unwilling to go on walks because he felt the nee
d to guard the house and Jamie and Ian’s scheme to see if anyone was following them on the walk home from school. “Jamie’s mother and Kathleen, Ian’s sister, quickly squashed that idea.”
“Is there any particular pattern to when Dandy gets upset?” Seth asked.
Laura was surprised she hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. That’s a good question. I’ll ask. Anyway, it might not even be Buck who attacked me.”
Silencing the voice in her head that said Nate would disapprove, Laura then told Seth about the anonymous letter writer. She explained that there was a possibility that the same person who sent the letters to Hattie, threatening to expose her relationship to Russell, could have been Laura’s attacker.
Seth, who had been looking down at his Stetson held loosely in his hands between his knees, straightened to look directly at her. “Are you saying that Miss Wilks was the target of someone who wanted her job and that they attacked you when you got the job after she resigned?”
“That is one explanation. However, since other teachers have also been targeted, the letter writer could be someone expressing a general dissatisfaction, or, as my brother’s client suspects, it might be someone with a political agenda.”
“So that is what you meant when we last talked and you said you thought someone had hounded Miss Wilks to death. Didn’t the threats stop when she quit teaching?”
“As far as we know. But what if they didn’t stop? What if there were more letters, more threats? What if Russell was behind the letters? If he didn’t really want to marry her? If he thought she was ruining his career, he could have taken up where the original anonymous letter writer left off. Pushed her until she felt the only option was to…to take her…”
“Take her own life? Damn it, Laura, I can’t believe you would think Hattie Wilks would throw herself down a flight of stairs on the off chance she might die. She wasn’t stupid, and she was no coward. You were her closest friend. How could you know her so little?”
Bloody Lessons: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 26