What made it even worse was that she knew that it wasn’t Vera Deming who sat alongside Nell and watched her play every day. No, more likely it was the nanny. One of the two young women who had left in the carriage with the family—perhaps both. The idea was shocking. How could any woman with so much time on her hands need even one full-time nanny, much less two? Where Mollie had grown up, everyone took care of their own, unless circumstances made it impossible—and even then, the children were usually cared for by a relative or a very close friend.
To know that another woman was raising her Nellie, calling her “mama”, being cuddled by her—that was hard enough to bear. But to know that she was being raised by the staff, who could quit or be replaced at any time, on a whim, was devastating.
She looked away from the toys, tears blurring her vision. Then she spied something sticking out from under the settee. Reaching down to pick it up, she saw it was a tiny, soft pink sweater. Flowers were embroidered across the front of the cardigan with silk ribbon, and the little buttons were made of mother-of-pearl.
It was Nell’s.
In the three short months that Nell had been in her arms, never once did she don a garment so luxurious. Mollie ran her fingers over the knit. She wasn’t familiar with the yarn—mohair? Cashmere? She didn’t know much about fine fabrics, though she’d heard about them from the lady’s maid at her old job.
Could I ever give her things this fine? Even if Noah became the most successful shopkeeper in town, and even if he accepted Nell, would we be able to provide such wonderful toys, and excellent education for her? She remembered Mr. Deming’s words. They could provide her with the best of everything. Was it fair to tear Nell from the home she’d known for two thirds of her young life? Would Nell resent her someday, because she didn’t get the privileged life that she could have had?
Mollie clutched the sweater to her breast, tears streaming down her face. Is it wrong to pursue Nell, even though I have the legal right to? Am I being selfish? She buried her face in the sweater. She couldn’t even bring herself to answer that question. Living without Nell seemed an impossibility. Just breathing without Nell, or laying in bed every night with empty arms, was an agony. It was only sheer force of will that made her get up every day, paste on a happy smile, and pretend that life was wonderful. It was only her desperate need for her daughter that kept her going.
She inhaled the scent of the sweater. It smelled wonderful—like baby and talcum powder, but also different. The perfumed smell of Nell’s soap, mixed with the smell of a baby-turning-little girl. It was familiar, yet so different at the same time. She’d missed out on so much. She couldn’t miss out on any more.
My baby won’t be raised by strangers. What good are sweaters and dolls galore, if you don’t have your one true mother? The woman who loves you above all else, who would give her life for you? This woman, this Vera, doesn’t even bother to carry Nell out to the carriage! It was one thing for a woman to leave her child with a babysitter because she must work to feed her family, or perhaps to attend the occasional social engagements—but to leave every aspect of a child’s care to someone else?
No! My Nell may deserve fancy sweaters and dolls, but she deserves her real mother so much more.
Mollie wiped the tears with the back of her hand. She might not have much more time, and she needed to see the room where her baby slept…where the majority of her toys and all her clothing would be. She had to see it, to touch it, to hold it all in her hands.
Quietly she walked through a second door to the room, into the hallway, and back toward the rest of the house. By instinct, she made her way to the back stairs, which would be used only by servants. Even in an empty house, Mollie would have felt strange walking up the main staircase instead of using the servants’ stairs.
The thought amused her. Once a servant, always a servant, I suppose.
She took hold of the railing and began to ascend. Halfway up, she was startled by the sound of a voice coming from above.
“Yes, Madam, I’ll fetch it on my way back from bringing your breakfast dishes down to the kitchen.”
Mollie froze mid-step, her heart leaping into her throat. Someone’s here! Who could it be? Did I overlook a lady’s maid? Then she remembered—the elderly mother! She must be upstairs in bed, and someone must be here with her! She cringed, berating herself for forgetting something so obvious.
She didn’t even dare turn around. She just crept backwards down the stairs. When her feet hit the tiled floor of the back hall, she turned, cringing at the scraping sound her shoes made, and tip-toed hastily toward the door she’d entered from. Mollie could hear the woman descending the servant’s stairs just as she slipped through the door and pulled it quietly shut behind her.
The snick of the door snapping into place was like a cannon in her ears. She waited, listening at the door. The maid’s footsteps echoed through the service hallway that she had just left, fading away. She had gone into the kitchen.
Scanning along the wall beyond her, Mollie could see that the section of the house where the kitchen must be had no windows overlooking the back yard. She sighed with relief as she scanned the yard, then crossed it carefully, avoiding the icy patches on the thin layer of snow. Only when she was back to her little hiding spot, panting more from the shock of nearly getting caught than from her fast walk across the yard, did she realize that she held something in her hand. She looked down.
It was Nell’s little pink sweater.
Mollie folded the sweater with great care and stuck it in the large pocket of her coat, then turned up her collar against the wind and made her escape down the alley before Jefferson could return.
***
The house appeared empty when Noah arrived home.
Again? What is going on?
For the fourth time in as many days, Noah arrived to the aroma of dinner cooking, but no wife to be seen. Each day, Mollie was locked away in the bedroom, and whenever he asked why, she always gave him a different, vague answer.
He strode straight for the bedroom door. “Mollie?” He tried the handle.
Locked.
Again.
“I’ll be right there,” came her muffled reply through the door.
He sighed with frustration. “Mollie, what is going on?”
“Nothing.”
He could hear shuffling, as if she was organizing something or putting something away. Was she changing her clothing? Perhaps she’s just fixing herself up for you. She may have gotten dirty keeping the house all day.
Footsteps approached the door, then the key clicked as she turned it in the keyhole. The door opened.
“I’m so glad you’re home!” she sighed, seeming a bit out of breath. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said stiffly, bending to receive her kiss. He could see that she was still in the same clothing she’d worn when he left that morning. And she hadn’t been fixing her hair, because he could see a few wisps that had come loose from her bun. Her eyes were tired, almost puffy-looking, and the brief smile she flashed his way wasn’t any more sincere than the few smiles he’d gotten from her in the last few days.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, sweeping past him and walking toward the kitchen. “I’ve made enough for an army. I swear, I’ll never get used to cooking for one. My family may have been smaller than most, back home, but it’s still strange cooking for half as many people.”
“Mollie…”
“I made a cherry cobbler with some of the cherry preserves I bought at the mercantile last week,” she said as she walked over to peek into the oven.
“Mollie…”
“I really think you’ll like it. It’s a new recipe that I got from Madeline Porter when I ran into her at the mercantile, and she swears by it.”
“Mollie!”
She turned, startled. “Yes?”
“What is going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why do I kee
p finding you locked away in our bedroom every day when I come home?”
“I…I was just laying down, taking a rest.” She averted her eyes and turned to pick up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup that simmered on the stove.
“With the door locked?”
“Well…you know in Boston, we always locked our doors. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, by any means, but being in such a big city, it wasn’t immune to crime.”
“The front door was unlocked.”
“Was it? I suppose I should be making sure it’s locked, shouldn’t I?” She kept stirring, without turning to look at him.
“Mollie, I feel as if you’re trying to hide something from me. What’s wrong? Have I upset you somehow? If I have, you can tell me.”
She turned, flashing him a brilliant smile, which didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course not. You haven’t done a thing.”
He hesitated, unsure if he should bring up his mother’s observations. But her evasiveness left him no choice. “Mother said she’s noticed that you’ve been returning from your morning excursions later and later each afternoon.”
She sighed, tilting her head back slightly, and he knew she was rolling her eyes at the ceiling. “Did she, now?”
“Where are you going every day?”
She turned then, hands on her hips. “Am I to give you an account every time I go to the store, or visit a friend? Can I not take a walk to get some fresh air, or relive my boredom? I’m home alone all day, Noah. You have your customers and your mother to talk with everyday. I have no one. And I don’t appreciate being given the third degree just because your mother has nothing better to do in the afternoons than to stare out the window and make note of my comings and goings. You don’t see me interrogating you about where you go on your lunch breaks each day, do you?”
He bristled at her snide comment toward his mother. “No, but you don’t see me sneaking off during my lunch breaks, or locking myself in our bedroom all the time.”
“Sneaking off? Is that what you call it when a woman comes and goes from her own house in broad daylight? I didn’t know that your mother was my keeper. Perhaps now I know why you bought a house right next to her—so she could mark down the daily activities of your wife, and find fault with them!”
“I never said she found fault with you or your activities.”
“Well, clearly you do!”
“I do not. I’d merely like to know what my wife does during the day. If you’re so bored, perhaps you should come to the store and work there in the mornings.”
“Why, so you and your mother can keep track of what I do all morning, as well as all afternoon? No, thank you.”
“Well, there’s apparently not enough to keep you busy at home—at least, the way you behave. Although I can’t help but wonder—how is it that you have all this free time to gallivanting all over Helena, while putting dinner on the table later and later every day, and falling farther behind in the laundry?”
“How dare you? I am not behind in the laundry. I simply chose to do it on a different day this week. You haven’t run out of clean clothes yet, have you?”
“Yet is the operative word,” he muttered.
“My, my, the list of my faults seems to be endless! Well, then, if I’m such a terrible wife, why don’t you serve up dinner yourself, while I go lounge around in my bedroom, avoiding my duties—since that seems to be what you think of me!” She thrust the lid down on the pot, and stormed out of the room. Seconds later, the bedroom door slammed hard enough to reverberate throughout the house…followed by the snick of the bedroom lock.
Noah ripped his hat off his head and threw it down on the table—which had yet to be set for dinner. That wasn’t how he’d planned the conversation to go. He didn’t want to accuse Mollie of anything, or make her feel like he was being watched. But clearly something was going on, and though the sub-par housekeeping of late had irked him, the idea that his wife might be hiding something from him was far more bothersome.
He’d botched the whole thing, and was no closer to finding the truth. Perhaps her activities were nothing to be concerned about—maybe she really was just lonely or bored. But his gut told him there was something more going on.
And he was determined to discover what it was.
Chapter 19
Monday, March 2, 1891
Mollie peered around the hedge, watching the house. She had grown tired of watching the house from afar, witnessing the servants coming and going each day, and seeing very little of Nell. Once she’d been inside the house, seen and touched Nell’s things, it made her yearn even more to see her daughter up close.
The fact that Noah was watching her closer—coming home earlier or leaving later in an obvious coordinated effort with his mother, in order to find out where she was going—made things even harder. She could only spend half the time she wanted to observing the Deming home. The urge to do something rash was becoming overwhelming.
To make matters worse, Noah was talking about having a telephone installed in the house. The shop’s new telephone line had been installed last week, and he had mentioned several times how “nice” it would be to be able to “check in” with her once in a while.
She couldn’t let that happen.
The crunch of footsteps in the distance startled Mollie, and she shrank back into her niche between the wall and the hedge. Fortunately, the servants almost always came down the alley from the opposite direction, making it nearly impossible for them to discover her. She heard the footsteps stop at the back gate to the Deming property, and the squeak of the gate opening. Then it clanged shut, and the footsteps crunched across the yard. It was the cook returning from his morning break, to begin the midday dinner.
Mollie watched him cross the backyard, and wondered for the hundredth time why she tortured herself this way. What could come of skulking around the Deming home? They clearly weren’t about to give Nell up, or even let her see her. What was the point?
She remembered the tense weekend she and Noah had endured. She barely spoke to him until Saturday morning, and his irritation with her didn’t seem to pass until Saturday night. By Sunday, they were talking again, though the conversation was stilted and awkward. She was risking her marriage to steal out every day and keep her vigil in the niche. Then she would return home to spend half the afternoon locked away in her bedroom, curled up in a ball on the bed, clutching Nell’s sweater and weeping. Something had to change. Things couldn’t go on like that for long, she knew, without terrible consequences. But she couldn’t stop herself.
Once the cook was inside the house, Mollie was able to relax a little bit. Why am I doing this? What is the plan? She didn’t know. Or maybe I don’t want to admit it to myself.
If she was honest, she’d have to admit to herself that the idea of snatching Nell and fleeing with her had crossed her mind more than once. But mostly, she just had the vague idea that if she watched and waited long enough, she’d come up with some way of convincing the Demings that Nell belonged with her, and that giving her up was the right thing to do.
The servant’s entry door opened again, and Jefferson emerged. He strode across the yard and left via the gate. Mollie held her breath, then let it out when she realized he’d turned right and gone down the other end of the alley, as usual. After a few tense minutes, she looked back up at the house.
All seemed quiet.
The urge to see Nell was overwhelming. She knew the cook would stay at his duties in the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Deming had left by carriage not long ago.
I know which room she plays in when she’s downstairs. Maybe she’s there now. The thought curled around the edge of her mind, taking root and blossoming into a plan before she could stop it.
It wouldn’t be hard to figure out which window belonged to the conservatory where Nell played. It was on the opposite side of the house from the driveway, and was shielded by a dense row of juniper trees planted along that side of the house, forming a narrow corridor of privacy
between the trees and the house.
I could slip in there without being seen by a neighbor. Just one quick peek. That’s all I need.
Scanning the alley and then the yard, she saw that all was clear. She pushed through the narrow gap between the back wall and the tall hedges, and stole across the yard. Her feet crunched through the hardened shell of snow that covered a thin layer of snow underneath. She arrived at the side of the house in moments, slipping between the trees and the house. She ducked under the window of what she thought might be the butler’s pantry, and then approached the tall wide windows just ahead. They had to be for the conservatory.
Mollie removed her bonnet, wanting to keep as low of a profile in the window as possible. Then she peered just beyond the outer frame of the closest window. Inside, she could see the brunette that she had seen holding Nell the day they got into the carriage. She was sitting on the edge of the settee, leaning forward. In front of her, on the floor, was Nell.
There was no doubt this was her child. Though she’d changed quite a bit from the newborn she’d once been, she still had the same color hair—a bit of red from Mollie, and a lot of blonde, from her father. Her skin was fair and clear as yet—no trace of freckles. But everything else about her was all Mollie. Her mother had often commented—in an almost disappointed tone—that Nell looked almost exactly like Mollie did as a babe. Big blue eyes, pale cream skin, and a tiny little nose. Nell’s looks were all very much the same, except that she was older—more little girl than infant. Her grin seemed wider and her arms and face were chubbier. And she was big. Oh, so big!
Mollie’s heart seized in her chest at the sight of her little girl. She sat on the rug, with dolls scattered around her. She reached forward, clutching a doll to her chest, holding it as if it was a baby.
“She wants me,” a voice said from somewhere inside the room. It was muffled, but it came from somewhere other than where the nanny sat.
“No, she doesn’t.” The nanny waved off the speaker. “She’s just playing with her dolls. Imitating.”
Mail Order Devastation (Montana Mail Order Brides, Book 4) Page 13