by Jen Turano
The absurdity of that had her releasing a small laugh, that laugh fading straight to nothing when her foot bumped into her satchel and a feeling of dread spread from the tips of her toes all the way up her body.
Telling herself she was being a complete ninny but knowing she needed to put the absurd idea to rest, Permilia leaned over and opened the satchel, pulling out the box she’d assumed had been from her editor.
Placing it on her lap, she considered it for a long moment, then flipped up the veil that was still obscuring her view, knowing there was little point in hiding her identity since she was no longer Miss Quill and could no longer bring about the wrath of society due to her articles.
Reaching for the box, she untied the twine and then found herself hesitating as she considered the package.
“What do you have there in the box?”
Lifting her head, Permilia found that the woman sitting in the seat in front of her had twisted around and was now leaning over the back of her seat, her gaze fixated on the box in Permilia’s lap.
Not certain she cared for the interest the woman was sending her way, Permilia settled for a shrug. “I’m not certain.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “I once had a friend who had a box she wasn’t certain about. When she opened it, she found a nasty surprise.”
“What type of nasty surprise?”
“A dead mouse, or perhaps it was a dead bird, but it was definitely something dead.”
Glancing at the box again, Permilia frowned. “Perhaps it might be for the best if I wait until I get home to discover what’s in here.”
“Maybe it’s not something dead.”
Knowing she was being ridiculous, because in all probability the box really had come from her editor, Permilia forced fingers that didn’t seem to want to work properly into motion, lifting the top off of the box a moment later. Bracing herself, she looked down, finding a folded note and a box stuffed with cotton.
Plucking out the note, she felt a sense of relief when she noticed what was scrawled across the front of it—For Miss Quill.
It was from her editor, although what he was thinking using her pen name, she had no idea. Setting the note aside, since she was more curious about what Mr. Dana had put in the box than reading whatever he could have written to her, she dug through the cotton, her fingers closing around something remarkably solid. Pulling it out of the cotton, she immediately lost the sense of relief she’d been feeling, because what she held in her hand was the last thing she wanted to see.
Her shoe, the one-of-a-kind beaded-glass slipper she’d purchased from Miss Betsy Miller, the same woman who’d designed her snow-queen costume, had apparently found its way home to her.
“Ohh . . . now that is a far better present than finding something dead, and . . . it looks just like the slipper a princess would wear, the ones you hear about in old folk tales.”
Forcing a smile even though she definitely wasn’t feeling cheerful, Permilia looked up and found the woman gazing intently at the slipper. “It is somewhat like a princess slipper, quite like the one I well remember in the Brothers Grimm tale, although . . . I’m afraid there won’t be a Prince Charming rushing onboard this omnibus to slip this particular slipper on my foot.”
“Perhaps your Prince Charming is waiting for you to get off the omnibus, dear. But I suppose that would only happen if you have a Prince Charming in your life.”
Permilia’s first instinct was to vehemently deny that she even knew a Prince Charming type, but then, to her very great surprise, an image of Asher flashed to mind.
It wasn’t an image of him dressed as he’d been at the ball, in an outfit that could very easily be considered princely, but instead, it was an image of him dressed in a smart coat and carefully pressed trousers, a suitable hat on his head as he went about the business of looking rather, well, businesslike.
That her image of him also had him on bended knee, slipping her slipper over her stockinged foot, was somewhat . . . disturbing, as was the notion that he, of all people, would even flash to mind in the midst of what could only be considered a disaster.
The very idea that he was floating about her thoughts in such a romantic fashion was a different matter altogether, although it wasn’t a matter that disturbed her as much as she would have thought, because . . .
Somehow, during the few months she’d come to know Asher, starting from the time she’d haggled with him about the price he was charging for skates, to when she’d spent time with him at the ball, and then rescued him from the clutches of a killer in Central Park, she’d begun to think of him a little . . . differently.
No longer was he simply fodder for her Miss Quill column because he was a notable gentleman of the city. Instead, with his charming smile and habit of keeping to a most rigid schedule, he’d somehow managed to secure her interest. She recognized he was not an industrialist, seemed to have no interest in mining, and had grown up a snob, but . . . he had not seemed to mind a whit about her embarrassing them both on the ballroom floor at the Vanderbilt ball.
That right there had been a true measure of the man’s character, and that might have very well been what secured her interest in the man.
It was unfortunate that she was sailing off to Paris on the next—
“If you don’t want the shoe, I’d be more than happy to take it off your hands.”
Shaking herself out of thoughts that she couldn’t even believe she was thinking, especially since she’d just been delivered a disturbing message, Permilia stuffed the shoe back into the box. “That’s very kind of you, but I do believe I should probably keep this particular shoe.”
“It seems a shame you weren’t sent a matched pair, but I imagine, if you truly wanted a pair, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find where that one came from, if it’s from somewhere in the city, that is. I can’t imagine there are too many shops that sell sparkly shoes.”
“You’re right. There aren’t.”
Nodding more to herself than the woman still watching her so closely, Permilia knew exactly what she needed to do. Picking up the note that had come with the shoe, she noticed the name scrawled across the front of it again and felt her stomach roil as a truth she’d not understood until just that moment settled in.
Someone had discovered her true identity, but besides that, someone had discovered she was Miss Quill, which meant . . . the return of the shoe could either be seen as a warning or as an indication that a blackmail attempt would soon be made.
“You’re looking a little green, dearie, would you like me to hold the box for you?”
When Permilia realized that the woman in front of her was rising from her seat and reaching over that seat in what could only be described as a somewhat threatening manner, she tucked the letter, along with the box, into her satchel and pulled the cord that ran along the floor of the omnibus, signaling the driver that she wanted to get off.
As the omnibus slowed to a stop, she hurried out of her seat, hustled straight down the aisle, and stepped to the sidewalk before the woman she’d been speaking with had a chance to follow her. To her relief, the omnibus moved back into motion, leaving Permilia behind.
Taking a second to get her bearings, she started forward, not stopping until she reached a hansom cab parked on the side of the road, the driver immediately stepping down from his seat in order to get the door for her.
“Where would you like to go, miss?” he asked.
For a second, she debated having him take her down to Miss Betsy Miller’s shop, until she took note of the time on the watch pinned to the underside of her sleeve. Knowing that Betsy had probably already closed down for the day, she opened her mouth to tell the driver to take her home, closing it again a second later.
With her thoughts going every which way and her emotions in a certain jumble, what she needed at the moment was a place she could find peace. That peace would not be found at her home if Ida and Lucy were there.
Nodding to herself, she gave the driver
directions to Grace Church off of Broadway and got into the cab, settling back against the seat as the driver returned to his and took up the reins.
With a lurch, the cab started forward, traveling at a sound clip, and before Permilia knew it, they were in front of Grace Church, the Gothic-style architecture not failing to impress Permilia even given her preoccupied state of mind.
After paying the fare, she walked across the street and eased her way inside the church. Moving quietly down the aisle of the chapel, she reached a pew she knew quite well, one she sat in every Sunday—sometimes twice, depending on how many sermons Ida felt they needed to hear—and scooted to the very middle of it, taking her seat.
A small plaque with her family name on it met her gaze, making her smile, even as the odd thought struck that her father had never had any intentions of owning his own pew, the purchase of it only done to appease Ida, whose husband had owned the pew previously but had left it in a precarious state when he’d died.
Taking a moment to close her eyes, Permilia tried to find the sense of peace that she usually felt whenever she sat in the chapel, but today, no matter how she tried to settle her mind, that peace simply wouldn’t come.
The only consolation she could find was that her mind was not quite as jumbled as it had been. Because of that, she decided there was no sense wasting the quiet that surrounded her.
She was in the midst of a mystery, and there was no time like the present to try and solve it.
Reaching into the satchel, she drew out the shoe and then the letter.
Unfolding the piece of paper, she squinted at the words on the page, taken completely aback over what had been written. Drawing the paper closer, she read the words again, mouthing them as she read silently.
Dear Miss Quill, or should I say, Miss G.?
I’m returning your shoe to you as a warning. Your identity has been compromised—your eavesdropping on a conversation you should not have overheard is now known to me—and you’d be well served to get out of the city as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
A dangerous gentleman
For what felt like forever, she simply stared at the words written on the page. She’d been expecting blackmail or, at the very least, a threat, but . . . she hadn’t been expecting a warning.
Lifting her head, she stared vacantly toward the front of the chapel, for once not capable of truly appreciating the beauty that rested behind the pulpit, or even noticing that the late-afternoon sun was casting myriad colors through the stained-glass windows.
It wasn’t until she noticed someone stepping out of the sun-cast colors that she realized she was not alone.
Her pulse began to race through her veins until she realized that the someone was none other than Reverend Benjamin Perry.
He was an associate minister at Grace Church, a mild-mannered man with an easy smile and peaceful nature, and was exactly the man Permilia needed to see at the moment.
Walking toward her with his measured stride, he reached her pew and inclined his head.
“Miss Griswold. This is a pleasant surprise. May I join you?”
“Please,” Permilia said, gesturing to the space beside her.
Reverend Perry sat down and inquired about her family, and that was all it took for everything she’d been storing inside for what felt like forever to pour out.
Time ceased to exist as she released all the matters that had been lying heavy on her heart, moving from the disappointment of not being given the opportunity to run the family mining business, to her absolute failure within society, and ending with her dismissal from a position she’d been forced to keep secret from everyone, and the very real threat she was facing because of the murder plot she’d overheard.
When she was finished, Reverend Perry considered her for a long moment, and then he smiled.
“You really ought to think about coming to speak with me more often, Miss Griswold,” he began, his smile growing wider. “However, while I’m certain your life seems as if it’s at its very lowest point, I’d like you to consider a few things.”
He reached out and laid his hand over hers. “One of the first times we spoke, you brought up the dissatisfaction you were experiencing having to enter a society that clearly didn’t accept you.”
“Which has certainly been proven to be true over the years.”
He nodded. “Indeed, but do you recall what advice I gave you when we spoke of your dissatisfaction?”
Permilia tilted her head. “You told me to give my concerns over to God, but then to not simply sit idly by and wait for Him to fix my life for me, but to look for opportunities that He might send my way if only I was observant enough to recognize those opportunities.”
“And did you find an opportunity to stave off the dissatisfaction you were feeling with your life at that time?”
Permilia’s gaze glanced back to the pulpit again, lingering on the beautiful cross that was the focal point of the chapel. “I met Miss Snook not long after you and I had that conversation, and . . .” She smiled and caught Reverend Perry’s eye. “I met her here, after a Sunday service.”
“And you became involved with that school, which helped to give you a sense of purpose. You were able to make a difference in the lives of numerous young women, those women now being given more opportunities due to the education you were instrumental in helping them receive.”
“I never really thought about my involvement with Miss Snook’s school in quite that way before.” She blew out a breath. “I must admit that I might not have seen my involvement as an opportunity orchestrated by God just for me.”
“We rarely see those opportunities for what they are, Miss Griswold, but . . . if I may, allow me to point out yet another instance where I believe God stepped in to assist you.”
“When Lucy came of age, which made my stepmother lose some of the focus she’d been sending my way?”
Reverend Perry laughed. “No, that’s not what I was going to point out at all. I was going to mention the time, soon after your stepmother cut your allowance almost in half, when Miss Snook ran incredibly short on funds, but then . . . you were offered an extraordinary position with the New York Sun. That position not only allowed you to save Miss Snook and her school, it also helped alleviate the boredom of attending society event after society event, while honing your skills as a writer in the process.”
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to claim I’m a true writer, Reverend Perry. I mostly just wrote about the fashions everyone was wearing, along with descriptions of the houses I found myself in, or the foods being served at the dinners I attended.”
Reverend Perry patted Permilia’s arm. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit, Miss Griswold. I’ve read your articles and have heartily enjoyed them. Your writing has given me a lovely picture of what happens behind all those closed doors that society will never open to me. It’s also allowed me to sit right beside you at a formal dinner, almost tasting the terrapin or lemon ices society is so fond of, while not adding inches to my waistline. That, my dear, is a gift and proves that you have a certain skill with the written word—one not many people are granted.”
A hint of heat settled on Permilia’s cheeks. “That is very kind of you, Reverend Perry, and I do appreciate your words. But if you’ve forgotten, I’ve been dismissed from the paper so my writing skills are no longer going to be put to any use.”
Reverend Perry gazed at Permilia from eyes filled with wisdom—and a touch of amusement, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
“Have you ever considered the idea that some of our life experiences should be looked upon as stepping stones, needed in order to cross the stream at large, but not meant to be lingered on forever?”
“I suppose I’ve never considered my life experiences in quite that light.”
“Then I recommend you begin considering them that way, which will open you up even further to the unexpected.”
“But what should I do about the men who may wan
t to kill me, or Mr. Rutherford, and the affection I’m just now realizing I hold for him, or the disappointment that affection will surely cause my father since he does seem keen on my bringing a gentleman into the family who’ll want to take over the mining business, and . . .” She sucked in a much-needed breath of air and continued. “Should I go to Paris with my stepmother and stepsister, or would it be awful of me to finally put my foot down and say enough to all the nonsense I’ve been accepting in order to keep the peace?”
Reverend Perry’s eyes began to twinkle. “I’m just a simple man of the cloth, Miss Griswold. I don’t have the answers you seek, but what I would suggest you do is this—turn your troubles over to God, and then . . . keep an open mind and willingness to accept what He may have in store for you. As we’ve just discussed, you’ve been pleasantly surprised in the past, which means there’s hope you’ll be pleasantly surprised in the future. I’m also, being a rather pragmatic sort, going to suggest you pay a visit to the police. You’re clearly in some type of danger, and while I’m sure God is watching over you, we really should use the common sense He gave us, which means you should alert the authorities to the danger you’re in.”
Returning the smile the reverend was sending her way, Permilia finally felt a touch of the peace she’d been searching for when she’d walked into Grace Church. Knowing the man sitting next to her had made some very valid points, and realizing that her best option at the moment was to turn everything over to God and then pray for the best, and perhaps pay a visit to the local police, she drew in a deep breath, lowered her head, and settled into prayer.
Chapter
Nineteen
The moment Asher was ushered into the Griswold house and heard what sounded like objects of a breakable nature being shattered somewhere off in the distance, he fought a distinct urge to bolt straight back out the door.
When shrieks of obvious rage joined the shattering, he abandoned the fight, turned smartly around, and headed for the exit. His path, however, became suddenly blocked by another gentleman who’d chosen that exact moment to walk into the house through the very door Asher needed to use to make an escape. That gentleman, Asher immediately recognized as none other than George Griswold, Permilia’s father.