A Treasure Worth Keeping

by Marie Patrick

  “Then I will wish you happy and say farewell.” The young man bowed and departed.

  Mae sank into a chair. That had been the second proposal in as many days with the funeral only three days before. She was to appear at the offices of Collins & Collins, Attorneys at Law tomorrow for the reading of the will. Two weeks after, it would clear probate and become public record. Pray heaven she would not have to endure any other pleas to marry before then.

  Soon, everyone would know she had little or no inheritance. She could sink into the safe obscurity of poverty to await the doom Grandfather dictated in his last will and testament. Whatever he ordered would be a cruel, thoughtless attempt to punish her and her two older sisters for the crime of being born female.

  • • •

  Light seeped under the porte cochere of the manse the following soggy afternoon, as Mae moved from the door to the Alden town carriage. Grandfather was too stingy to pay to have a coachman on staff, so the hired driver handed her into the vehicle.

  “Please hurry,” she told him. “This rain has made the unpaved streets a morass, and I’ve no wish to be late.”

  “Yes, miss.” The man’s voice had the quality of pebbles crunching under boot heels. He tugged at the brim of his hat then laid her umbrella on the rear-facing bench before closing the door.

  Seconds later, the carriage set off with a jerk that sent her sinking into the unaccustomed comfort of the deeply cushioned seat—before the funeral, she had always walked if she needed to go anywhere. Grandfather had believed indulgence was a sin for everyone but himself. He and he alone had earned the Alden fortune through shrewd investments and ruthless business economies. Comfort was his earthly reward, and his alone, for his ability to buy and sell with an eye to making a profit. He’d given little thought to the workers on whose backs he’d built his empire and even less to the granddaughters he despised.

  Now Grandfather was dead, and Mae could experience some of the luxuries denied her. But for how long? She’d been surprised when a note from attorney James W. Collins V had informed her that she and her sisters were included in the will. Given the ferocity of Grandfather’s misogyny, she’d expected to be tossed to the street with nothing but the clothing on her back.

  She was due at the attorney’s office by one o’clock. Mr. Collins—James as she thought of him privately—was a busy man and shouldn’t be kept kicking his heels. So busy the few times he’d come to the manse on business in his father’s place, they’d exchanged only the smallest courtesies. Now that his client had passed on, Mr. Collins would have little inclination to humor a graceless dab of a woman. His insistence that the reading take place in his office merely indicated he thought her insignificant.

  She didn’t mind, she told herself. She’d be spending a long hour in the presence of a man she admired, perhaps too much. Unlike Mr. VanWynde, James was a striking example of a Boston Brahmin. Tall, square of jaw, broad of shoulder, with long legs and narrow—heavens she’d been raised better than to think of a man’s physique, let alone the span of his hips.

  If she must daydream inappropriately, better to dream of his fine, glossy, black hair and the humor she’d always imagined in his shining, hazel eyes. She dared not ponder the texture of his fingers. She had no idea if his fingers were rough or smooth. She’d never had the temerity to approach him or offer her hand in hope his palm would clasp hers for a few moments.

  There she went, letting her mind lead her astray. Thoughts of James’s hands should be forbidden because that led to fantasies of where he might place those fingers. Safer by far to think of his voice, deep and musical, or the enchanting aroma that lay beneath the sandalwood of his cologne. What might it be like to wake to such a scent every…

  Obviously she could not be trusted to think of James at all without imagining the most improper events. Impatient with herself, Mae glanced at the watch fob pinned at her waist.

  The timepiece showed five minutes before one o’clock. What in the world was taking so long? They’d been moving at a spanking speed despite the mud and mire in the streets.

  Did the coachman know the way to Collins & Collins’s offices? She pushed aside the curtain and looked out the window. The rain sheeted down so hard she could make out no landmarks.

  Fearing to be late and anger James, she leaned forward and slid back the small door that would allow her to talk directly to the driver. He was already speaking, which was odd, since she did not have an outrider. About to ask with whom he spoke, she finally realized what he was saying. Her words froze in her throat.

  “What do we do with the Alden woman when we get to the ship?” asked an unfamiliar nasal twang.

  “I told you,” answered the gravel-voiced driver. “We put a bag over her head and carry her aboard. The captain’ll pay us for her. Then we go back to the Burying Ground and wait for the ransom to be delivered.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll put the coppers on us for not giving her back once we got our piece of old man Alden’s fortune?” queried Twang. “Nice of him to pop off when he did. From what I hear, he never would have paid a penny for his granddaughter. Bet that lawyer will be more generous.”

  “He’d better be. Either way, they’ll have the coppers on us. But we’ll be away before they can figure out where we’re going. We’ll stay a step ahead of the law, and soon we’ll be in Cuba smoking cigars and living the high life.” Gravel laughed.

  Mae clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying an alarm then quietly shut the small door. She was being abducted.

  In all her twenty one years she’d never been so frightened. She had to escape before they reached their destination but how? For the past sixteen years of her life, she’d run and hid at the first sign of trouble. Where could she run, and how could she hide in the middle of a Boston downpour with no idea where in the city she was? She couldn’t just wait to be sold into some terrible fate.

  Kiera would go on the offensive—attack her abductors, counting on surprise to even the odds. With more guile and often more sense, Edith would jump from the carriage and run.

  Mae could smell the bay mixing with the rain, indecision carrying her closer to doom. If she was to escape, she had to act. She unlatched the door of the carriage closest to the boardwalk, poising herself to jump. When driver began to guide the horses around a corner, she leapt, landing in the mud with a breath-stealing thud. The carriage door banged shut.

  “What the—” shouted Gravel. “She’s getting away! Go after her while I get this coach turned around.”

  Mae sucked in air, then rose, gathered her muddy skirts, and ran as fast as she could. She had to find a hiding place. She dodged around the corner of the nearest building.

  Footsteps pounded on the boardwalk, passed the building where she sheltered, and then faded in the distance.

  Heart racing, she found herself in an alley with fences and high gates on either side. She ran to the first gate. It was unlocked; God bless luck. She wrenched the portal open, slid through, and latched it securely behind her. Looking around she saw large crates and huge barrels—tuns, some with lids askew—that from the look and smell of them once contained wine or whiskey.

  “Did you check down this alley?” shouted Gravel.

  “Didn’t see it,” stated Twang. “Why would she go down there anyway?”

  “Fool. She’d want to hide. Go look for her. I’ll check the alley across the street.”

  Will the gate keep my pursuer out? Maybe he’ll climb over? Indecision became panic.

  Moving quickly and quietly, she forced open the loose cover on one of the huge kegs. The fumes were awful, but it was empty, with enough room for her to squeeze inside, bustle and all.

  The process was awkward; nonetheless, she managed to pull the lid shut moments before scraping sounded outside near the gate. A thud followed, and Twang cursed. “If I get my hands on that bitch, she’ll wish she’d never been born. It’s her fault I tore me good pants climbing that gate.”

 
He continued to curse as he stomped around the yard banging on crates and barrels. He hit the tun where Mae hid, and she smothered a yelp.

  “Ain’t a hollow piece in the place. Too bad I can’t take a keg with me. I could use a drink.”

  The scraping sound came again, followed by a more distant thud.

  “Well?” Gravel questioned.

  “She ain’t in there or any of the other yards in this alley.”

  “Damn. We need that ransom. We don’t get out of Boston tonight, we’re dead meat. We owe too much money to the bookies.”

  “Then we better start walking, ’cause we ain’t getting no ransom this night.”

  “We got a carriage. We can ride out of town then sell the coach when we’re far enough away. The money won’t get us to Cuba, but at least that bitch was good for something.” Gravel added his curses to Twang’s as their voices faded away.

  Mae waited, shivering with shock and fear that the men would return. How long should I wait before emerging to see if they are truly gone?

  Kiera would check now. She’d take a barrel stave as a club and whack anyone opposing her on the head. Edith would wait. She’d plan while she waited. Like Kiera, she’d probably find a weapon. Then she would determine her location and decide the best means of getting home. Or would she go to James’s office first?

  Mae looked at her bedraggled dress and sniffed the whiskey-soaked air. She wanted to go home, but if James’s office was closer she should go there. She needed help more than she needed to repair her appearance.

  She listened a few moments more and heard nothing save the distant bark of a dog. Had she waited long enough? What would she do if the men lay in wait for her? Filled with trepidation, she pushed open the cover of the barrel.

  An unaccustomed and oddly pleasant tension shivered through her. Not more fear, that emotion was too well known. No, this sizzling tension was more like anticipation combined with apprehension.

  She couldn’t possibly be exhilarated by the risks she’d taken. Could she?

  • • •

  At 2:30 p.m. James W. Collins V examined his pocket watch for the fourth time before he opened the door to the outer office of his law firm. “Harry, has Miss Alden sent any word as to why she’s late or let us know if she’s canceled our appointment?”

  “Not that I know. . . Oh, I forgot. I found a letter on the floor about an hour ago. I must not have heard the messenger, and he slipped it under the door, thinking we were closed for lunch.”

  James bit his tongue to keep from shouting his irritation at the old clerk. Harry had been with the firm since the doors opened thirty years ago. While he had occasional lapses in memory and saw less well than he once did, he knew everything about every case and client in the firm’s history. His knowledge was invaluable; putting up with minor lapses was a small price.

  “Let me have it.”

  “What, sir?”

  “The letter you found on the floor.”

  “Oh, yes. Now where did I put that?” Harry spent long moments searching and finally found the document on the seat of his desk chair.

  “Here you are, sir.”

  The paper was warm and slightly creased, but James took it anyway and tore open the envelope.

  Mister Collins,

  We have Miss Alden. Place $100,000.00 inside a carpet bag. Leave the bag behind Mr. C. Alden IV’s headstone at the Central Burying Ground. Then walk to Boylston Street. A boy will find you with instructions on how to get Miss Alden back. If the money is not given on time or you call in the police, Miss Alden will disappear from Boston forever.

  “Harry, get the police here at once.”

  “Why?”

  “I will explain later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harry donned his coat and hat then searched for and found his umbrella.

  “Would you hurry, man? Miss Alden’s been abducted.”

  “What? When? How? I’d better go for the police.”

  James ground his teeth. “Excellent idea.”

  Harry made for the door, but it opened before he could touch the knob.

  Huffing as if she’d run a great distance, a woman stood framed in the doorway. Her rain-sodden hair dragged down her face and across her shoulders. Her dress was muddy, crumpled, and her neckline askew. She smelled like a violet-strewn whiskey factory.

  “This is no place for the likes of you. Get on your way,” ordered Harry. He shifted to block her path into the office. “I’m going for the police.”

  “No, please. You don’t understand.” She stopped for breath. “I’m Persephone Mae Alden.”

  Her elocution was at odds with her odor and appearance. Tremors shook the timid voice, and James noticed the shivers racking the woman’s small frame.

  Harry snorted. “I doubt that. Miss Alden is a well-bred miss and would never. . .”

  James finally recognized the delicate bone structure obscured by the mass of wet hair and moved Harry aside. “Forgive my clerk, Miss Alden. He’s somewhat overprotective.”

  “Sir!” objected Harry. “You cannot believe this drab.”

  “If you wore your spectacles, you would see that Miss Alden is no drab. I’m surprised you didn’t hear her identity in her voice. Come into my office, Miss Alden. I gather you escaped your captors. Harry fetch some tea.”

  “Mae, please. With all that’s happened, standing on ceremony is more effort than I can manage. I did escape, but how did you know, Mr. Collins?”

  “If I am to address you as Mae, you must call me James.” He ushered her into his office and settled her near the pot bellied stove, placing a woolen lap rug around her shoulders. “I just received the ransom note. Excuse me a moment. I’ll have my clerk send for your maid and a change of clothing then he will go for the police.”

  “Tell him to ask for the second housemaid. Most of the staff at the manse are ill with colds. I would not have any of them exposed to this wretched weather.”

  James stared at her a moment. He’d never met a woman more concerned for her servants than her appearance. Perhaps there was more to Miss Mae Alden than their few previous encounters led him to believe.