“I do.” He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket. Josie snatched it and strode to the fire, leaning against the mantel as she read:
My Dear Josephine,
Please do not despise me, Daughter. I could not bear to tell you my involvement at Chadwick’s. Forgive me for not returning to you. To face you and know what I’ve dragged you into—it has been my worst nightmare.
There is nothing I can do to change the past, but hear me now—
Hurry, Josephine.
Has Alvin told you? Men creep about my place, warning me with cocked rifles if I do not supply them. And worse, Dr. Chadwick has found my sin out. He knows that I was seen in New York. The man who was once a friend during your mother’s illness now threatens to turn me in if you do not hurry with a replacement.
What am I to do, my dear Josephine? All are against me.
My time is coming to an end—I am so ashamed.
I love you with all my heart,
Father
“No, no—” She lifted a desperate brow and cupped her hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” Alvin neared.
“The men, Dr. Chadwick, they …” She could hardly form words as her heart ached for the wretched man whom she loved more than any living person. Alvin slid the letter from her fingers. She was too forlorn to resist.
Alvin read beneath his breath. He groaned. “Blasted Chadwick!” He tossed the letter on the hearth.
Josie sank down beside the letter and slowly folded it up. She should burn it. Who might find her out with this evidence? But she could not let it go—not with her father’s familiar script, and his heart, on the page. “How did Dr. Chadwick find out?”
Alvin sighed. “I told him. But he cannot call on the authorities, not with evidence stacked against him.”
“What evidence?”
“I know every grave in Ainsley that sits empty.” Alvin’s nostrils flared. “An anonymous tip to any law enforcer who is willing to come all the way down here will incriminate the doctor, whose secret laboratory is covered in blood and bile.” He placed a hand on Josie’s shoulder. “I will remind the doctor of this as soon as I leave here. Do not worry.”
Josie took in a jagged breath. Alvin’s assurance was only a slight drop in her anxious sea. “But the others, the men with rifles … threatening my poor father?” Tears stung her eyes at the terror aflame in her childhood home.
“That is why I have come, Josephine.” A flash of devilish anticipation crossed his eyes. “It is time.”
“What—” Josie’s mouth went dry. “Not Miss Bates?” All she could consider was Mr. Taylor. The poor man—
“Nay, not her.” Alvin tucked his hat beneath his arm and rubbed his gloved hands together in front of the fire. “A man in town. Visits the tavern often. Found out last night that his heart gave out.”
Josie wagged her head. “The poor soul.”
“Do not worry—he had no family. Practically a hermit, so I’ve been told.” Alvin gazed into the fire.
“He had breath, did he not? That is valuable, regardless.” At the distant shuffling of women from above, she glanced to the stairs, terrified that she’d been so caught up in these matters to forget to keep a keen watch out for any witnesses.
“It is an intricate thing, Miss Clay.” Alvin scratched his chin. The confident man was not so confident as to look in her eyes right now. “That is why I have decided to wait on supplying Chadwick.”
“What?” Her remorse for a stranger fled, leaving behind fear of her almost murderer hollowing out her stomach. She leaned and whispered, “But he’s already desperate enough to blackmail my father …” She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the grave robber who had relinquished her own body to the doctor. “What might he do to us?”
“I said I would stop him.”
Josie swallowed hard. “Be swift, Alvin. And tell those other men to leave Father be.” Had she unashamedly found necessity in her role as a grave robber’s spy?
Her shattered world was grinding to dust.
Alvin gave a sharp nod then began toward the door. “The funeral is during your working hours. You’ll come as soon as you are off.”
“Wait!” Josie ran up to him, staying behind the door, not wanting to be seen with this man by any outsider. “How will I know what to do?”
“Do not worry.” Alvin’s emotionless face softened. “Help will be waiting for you beside the lilacs. Don’t forget to wear black.” He adjusted his hat and stepped into the courtyard. “Oh, and don’t forget your ointment. We need it just in case disease is about. Be there at half past seven. That’s when the gravedigger is set to arrive.”
Alvin slipped away, and Josie slowly shut the door. She pressed her palm against it, choking back a sob. The clanging from the kitchen pierced her ears. Her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed back tears.
Was Mr. Taylor still here? Had Abigail informed him about this unexpected visitor? Josie rushed to the kitchen. Her employer was gone.
Fran glowered at her as she tied her apron. “Abigail told me you had a male caller. That is not allowed at this time, you know.”
“I know.” Josie slumped her shoulders. “Was Mr. Taylor here?”
“Aye. He just slipped through the garden.”
“Oh.” Josie sighed. “Did he know about that man?”
Fran shook her head but pursed her lips. “Well, what did the man want? Abigail said you did not appear very happy to see him. Was it the same man from your father’s farm last Sunday?”
Josie nodded. Her blood raced, and her eyes pricked with moisture.
“So?”
“There’s been a death.” She grazed her lip with her teeth. “I am to go pay my respects this evening.”
The cook’s sullen face softened. “I am sorry.”
“So am I.” Josie shook her head then headed back upstairs.
What gruesome schemes she was part of among these hardworking women, although she was relieved that she’d not mourn one of them tonight. And she was grateful that Miss Bates was alive.
Mr. Taylor had trusted her enough to share some of his story, yet he did not know that Josie Clay would be directing the hands of men captured by bloodlust, greed, and desperation. She refused to think that her father’s greatest motivation was greed when he chose to help with the bodies. Desperation was a terrible temptress. However, she fought to rise above the devastation of Father’s weaving her into this wicked plot.
Braham looked over his shoulder, wondering if someone followed him. Just moments ago, whispers traveled across the courtyard followed by the click of a door. He could barely see anything through the fog. As his eyes adjusted to the dim morning, he was certain that he was alone.
He approached the mill door, which was firmly shut and locked. There did not appear to be evidence of any kind of tampering. Miss Clay must be right—she’d seen a reflection only. Braham looked back again. The thick layer of fog hovered above the paved courtyard. Yet the lit windows of the boardinghouse gleamed in the mist. It was nearly starting time, and Braham had wasted his early arrival sitting in the kitchen.
He grinned. No, not a waste. Admittedly, his mood had shifted greatly, even if his conversation with Miss Clay took him to dark corners of his memory. The ease of her company, the solitude of sitting with someone who had no notions about him, filled him with a new sense of hope. Josie Clay might have some mystery behind her quiet mumblings to herself and her affiliation with that suspicious man who brought her here, but she donned a trustworthy spirit. Her innocence shone bright, like the lanterns through the fog.
He unlocked the door and grabbed the knob. His finger ran along a ridge on the smooth metal surface. Braham held up his lantern. “What’s this?” He removed his glove with his teeth and picked away at a glob of wax with his fingernail. There was splattered wax all down the door. A couple of drops had hardened on the brick stoop.
“Mr. Taylor?” Miss Clyde’s sharp tone cut into the cool air.
>
Braham spun around. His lantern swung from his hand, nearly knocking into the brick wall. “Whoa.” He righted it carefully then stuffed his glove into his pocket. “You startled me, Miss Clyde.”
The pointy woman raised a brow and looked him up and down. “You appeared to be in a strange train of thought.” She stepped up to his level and examined the door. “What then?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was that train of thought?”
“Do you not see it?”
“See it?” She looked down her nose and continued to stare at the door.
“Here.” Braham held the light at just the right angle to reveal the mess of wax.
She scrunched her nose as she squinted, then stood straight. “It appears to be wax, Mr. Taylor.”
“Exactly.”
“Well? What is the problem, sir?”
“Did you dare to bring a candle anywhere near this facility, Miss Clyde?” Braham hoped she would say yes. He could lightly reprimand her and shake his suspicion of tampering.
“Sir, if you remember, I have been part of this mill since the first day your guardian opened the place. I would never bring an open flame anywhere near this factory.” She spat her words. “Besides, it doesn’t appear that anyone entered the door. Those of us with keys know not to use candles.” Her usual bitter countenance soured even more.
Only Miss Clyde, Braham, and Gerald had keys. And as much as he disliked Gerald, he knew the man would never take such a risk to the property. Especially not now, with his plan to profit by selling the place.
Braham cleared his throat and pushed the door open. “Of course. So then. Who has been about, not only with a candle near a mill of cotton, but with an unsteady hand to cause such a mess?”
“There is not much to steal, Mr. Taylor, and there has been no fire.” Miss Clyde briskly entered the dark hallway and lit the gas lights. “Perhaps a beggar was out last night. You know, I’ve noticed that ruffian who accompanied Miss Clay lurking about.”
Braham grimaced.
Miss Clyde continued, “However, you might want to hold another meeting with the girls to remind them of the rules.”
Braham gritted his teeth then barreled down the hallway.
“Will you not go to your office first?”
“No. I must check on the equipment before the girls arrive.”
“Why would you be concerned about that?” Miss Clyde called to him.
“It is what I do every day, Miss Clyde. We cannot afford another accident.” He did not expect Gerald to give him a high recommendation to Bellingham, but Braham was concerned that he’d need to impress the prospective buyer in order to stay on at Gloughton Mill. The more Braham pined over this situation, the more certain he was that the terms of the trust would not hold up if the factory was sold. Would Gerald pass up his chance at his trust money to let go of the mill? Although he might no longer need it, depending on the sum Bellingham was willing to pay for the factory. Braham’s throat tightened as he fumbled with the door to the factory rooms. His future was bleak, indeed.
He made his way between the rows of machines, checking each loom and pipe, each band and wheel. He came to Miss Clay’s station, checked all the nearby machinery with care, and continued on. On his way back down the row, he stopped at Miss Clay’s once more. Just to be certain.
All day, Braham kept a watchful eye on the women, wondering if any of them had attempted to enter the factory. He held a quick meeting at the first break, reminding them of the severity of using open flames and that if they ever needed to retrieve a forgotten item, they must wait until the next work morning.
Miss Clay caught his eye more than once as the day went on. Each time, she’d smile then return to her work. She could very well be considered under suspicion at this point—but he’d rather assume she only cared for his approval.
Just before the noonday meal, a screech went through the place. Braham immediately gave the signal for the water to be shut off. Exactly as he had planned after the last accident with Amelia. He rushed to the area where a group of women had huddled around. His overseers followed behind him. Miss Clay was in the very middle of the huddle.
“What is it?” He pushed through the crowd. The women moved out of his way. He towered over Miss Clay and an injured woman.
“Her fingers are mangled,” Miss Clay said. The woman moaned, tears streaming down her reddened face. Braham tried to remain calm, but the fact that yet another accident had occurred, no matter his watchful eye, weighted his shoulders with grim defeat. He knelt down beside Miss Clay, who was wrapping the injured hand with her apron.
“May I tend to her?” she asked. Her voice did not carry the forcefulness it had when Amelia was hurt. This time, she was respectful and eager. Her sapphire gaze dried up any words that formed on his tongue. He merely nodded then helped both women out of the room.
“A shuttle flew from a loom and slammed against my hand,” the woman moaned as they stepped into the hall. “I’ve been here two years. I have never been injured before.”
“At least it was only your hand. Imagine if—” Miss Clay’s face blanched, and she flung a gaze between Braham and the woman. She bit her lip and looked away.
She implied a more dangerous wound—or possible fatality. Braham swiveled on his heel to return to the woman’s station. He barked orders at his overseer to hold off on powering up again. He inspected all around. The loom’s wooden shuttle was clear across the aisle on the floor, split in two. He could not tell exactly why it had flown off, but he’d never seen a shuttle so destroyed.
Braham had not inspected close enough. Did he really need to though? The factory had only been open for a few years, and it was well run before his uncle had passed away. Either Braham was forsaking a vital task of managing the place, or his guardian had left him with machinery that needed more repair than use.
Reluctantly, Braham requested that Tom repair the loom before the power started up again.
“Quickly, Tom!”
Anxiety snaked around his chest as he spied Gerald and Mr. Bellingham standing at his office window.
Chapter Eleven
Miss Josie, are you very sad?” Liesl asked as she lay on their bed with her diary at her knees.
Josie nodded. She placed her hat on her head and adjusted the black veil that hung from the brim. She unfolded her shawl from the dresser beside the window. Her movements were reflected in the mirror above, but she could not look at herself as she readied for the funeral. She could hardly form a thought in her distressed mind. Liesl did not know that Josie’s sadness was not in mourning but because she pitied herself. That man who now lay in a wooden box, waiting for the desecration by some unknown physician, was nobody she knew. Only an acquaintance of her father’s farmhand. At least, that was the explanation she gave. A far-fetched assumption based on Alvin’s mention of frequenting the same tavern as the deceased. Josie tried not to lie. Her life was as dark as this black veil she wore on her face. More than tears would be hidden this eve.
She did not linger very long in her room but hurried down the stairs, knowing that most women had retired for a night of reading, prayer, or conversation before their eyelids weighted with exhaustion after a long day’s work. As she approached the second floor, the prattle of women was loud enough to allow the stairs’ creaks to go unnoticed by the few who gathered at the hearths and tables.
When she finally stepped back out into the newborn night, barely dark at all, a loud sigh escaped her. Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she began toward the bridge. Its rails gleamed bright with the moonlight, as if it were some unearthly gateway summoning her footsteps. The elm loomed on her right, and just beyond the tree was the garden wall. The savory aroma of Fran’s stew lingered in the night air. Clanking pots and pans disturbed the quiet, and as she passed, the kitchen glow bled through the garden gate. How she’d rather be within the confines of the stone wall than trapped in the vise of grave robber threats.
/> Her footsteps quickened as she drew near to the bridge. She focused on the path ahead, begging for God’s protection despite the unholy predicament. A movement snagged her attention. She could just see the tips of the lilac shrubs lining the graveyard. The chimes of the church signaled that she was prompt—it was half past seven.
The flowery scent met her nose, and she breathed in deeply, hoping for the glorious lilacs to comfort her nerves just as they had done when she’d visit her mother’s plot at home. Yet the closest purple flowers suddenly jerked from her view as a dark figure emerged from along the fence line.
From behind a black veil, a voice whispered, “Here.” And shoved some lilac flowers in Josie’s hands. “Hold on to those. We’ll arrive just as the minister leaves.”
“The minister is there?”
The woman dressed in the same black garb as Josie stepped closer, handing her a handkerchief. “He often meets the graveyard attendant to give one final blessing over the coffin. If anyone asks, we knew him from the mill.” She parted the hanging flowers and peered over the fence. “He used to be an operative—but couldn’t keep himself sober enough.”
Josie’s stomach rolled at the thought that this woman might also work at the mill. No matter how much of a burden her secret had been in the face of her future possible victims, she’d rather bear it alone than share the awful predicament with any other woman. Her hope skittered away this night of her first grave robbing. Any inkling of relief that she might find once her father was safe would never be enough knowing that she was found out by another—even if they were accomplices alike.
Josephine Clayton would forever be tarnished.
Could she strike up the courage to ask who this woman was? Or perhaps Josie was unknown herself? Would they both be anonymous in this?
She was grateful for this dark garb after all.
A soft song rose from the gentle light of the funeral site. It was a melancholy hymn sung by a man and woman.
When the song ended, her fellow mourner knelt down beside a lantern tucked just beneath the shrubbery. She retrieved a candle from her pocket then threw it down. “This is too short.” She dug into her other pocket and pulled out an unused candle, placing it inside the lantern.
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