A Most Unsuitable Match

by Stephanie Whitson

  “Right away, miss,” James said and closed the door.

  Fannie had barely gotten halfway back down the flight of stairs before he swept past her at a run, tucking in his shirt as he crossed the lawn. She was at the bottom stair when a combination of terror and relief swept over her and finally conquered her will to remain standing. Leaning against the brick wall of the carriage house, she slid down it, mindful of the sound of her sleeve ripping as she collapsed.

  Shall not God search this out? for he knoweth the secrets of the heart.

  PSALM 44:21

  “There, now, little miss. It’s all right now. You’re safe. All’s well that ends well.”

  At the sound of Hannah’s soothing voice, Fannie opened her eyes. Blinked. When she raised a hand to her forehead, someone took it. Fannie turned her head. Minette. She looked about. Someone had apparently carried her into the Beauvais parlor. When she glanced down and saw deep green upholstery, she realized she was reclining on Mrs. Beauvais’s fainting couch. How appropriate. Embarrassed, she moved to sit up. Glancing across at Hannah, she asked, “Are you all right?”

  Hannah’s face crinkled up in a smile. “Fit as a fiddle and enjoying a moment of short-lived fame.” She chuckled. “Along with Jake, that is.” She nodded at the dog curled up at her feet. “It seems that an old dog and an old woman can learn new tricks, after all. Who would have thought the two of us could foil a jewel thief the authorities over in St. Louis have been after for weeks.”

  Fannie frowned. Jewel thief? Her hand went to her throat.

  Minette squeezed her hand. “Calm down. Hannah, Jake, and James held him at bay while Papa went for help. And your mother’s amethysts are none the worse for having been stuffed into his pocket,” Minette added. “Papa has them.”

  “Here, my dear.” Mrs. Beauvais approached and set a tea tray on the table beside the divan. When Hannah moved to get up and serve, Mrs. Beauvais waved her away. “It seems to me you’ve earned a moment to sit and have a cup of tea yourself, Mrs. Pike.” She chuckled even as she shook her head. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Donovan titled his news article ‘Notorious Jewel Thief Captured by Curtain Rod.’ ” She poured a cup of tea and offered it to Hannah.

  For the first time, Fannie realized that both she and Hannah were still dressed in their nightclothes. Hastily offered shawls notwithstanding, Fannie felt her cheeks blaze anew. Minette lifted her own teacup in a toast. “You’re going to be famous.”

  “For what? Fainting? If anyone deserves fame it’s Hannah.” She nodded at the dog. “And Jake.” When the old dog lifted his head and thudded the floor with his tail, Fannie spoke to him. “What would it take to get you to stand guard next door every night?” The dog tilted his head as if pondering the question. “I’d pay you in beefsteaks.”

  Mr. Beauvais strode into the room. “You don’t need a guard,” he said. “St. Charles is far from being a haven for the criminal elements. The thief seemed truly terrified. In fact, he expressed concern for your well-being when we all realized you’d fainted. Had he known the house was inhabited, he probably wouldn’t have stepped inside.”

  He thought the house was uninhabited? It looks that bad? Fannie looked over at Hannah. “How did you get down those stairs so quietly?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Hannah said as she settled her cup and saucer back on Mrs. Beauvais’s silver serving tray. “I suppose the Lord undertook the problem of my knees.”

  “Yes. Well.” Fannie took a deep breath. “I’m thankful the Lord undertook the problem, and I’m going to undertake the problem, as well. We are going to get you a new room. On the main floor. No more stairs.”

  Mr. Beauvais took a small pouch out of his waistcoat pocket, nodding as he handed it over. “Monetary value aside, I imagine these are far too precious for you to contemplate losing them. I’d suggest you gather up your mother’s jewels and ask Mr. Vandekamp to keep them in his safe.” He cleared his throat. “You’d do well to do the same with any cash that might still be in the house.”

  Fannie nodded. With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon and opened the pouch. With more confidence than she felt, she said, “Thank you. I guess it’s time I grew into the life I’ve been handed.” Whatever that means. She paused. “I’ll gather Mother’s jewelry first thing in the morning. And Papa’s cashbox.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to make the transfer and I’ll drive you to the bank,” Mr. Beauvais said. “And now, if you ladies will excuse me, James and I are to meet the sheriff to assist with a thorough search of your house, including the attic. I’ll come back ’round after we’ve finished.” He hesitated. “Unless you ladies would rather stay here for the night, in which case I’ll just lock the house and bring you the key.”

  Fannie longed to once again be a girl sleeping beneath the roof of a home with a father and mother in charge. But she shook her head. “Thank you, but no. We’ll go back as soon as you’ve checked things.” She did her best to sound brave.

  Fannie woke with a start. Sunlight poured through her bedroom windows. What time was it? She’d only managed to fall asleep after bracing her dressing table chair beneath the doorknob. Even then, she’d slept fitfully, newly aware of every sound, imagined or real. Had the house always been so noisy at night?

  Tossing aside her yellow silk duvet, she slid out of bed. She had a full day ahead of her. First, she and Hannah would clear out that storeroom off the butler’s pantry and get Hannah moved down from the third floor. Mrs. Beauvais was sending Tommy Cooper over around noon to talk about his helping Walker with the grounds. And then … then she’d get Papa’s cashbox down from its hiding place … and, finally, tomorrow morning … she’d go to Mr. Vandekamp. But only after Mother’s room. She wasn’t certain what she dreaded facing most, Mr. Vandekamp or the memories in Mother’s room.

  Her black silk skirt was still where she’d left it draped over her dressing mirror in the night. Taking it down, she laid it across the bed, pausing to study herself in the mirror again. You’re all grown up now. Stepping out of her nightgown, she pulled on a chemise, hesitating when it came time for the corset. It was going to be a workday. She needed to breathe. She would forego a corset today.

  Going to the wardrobe on the opposite wall, she pulled out a lavender calico day dress. She supposed it was shocking to depart from full mourning when Mother had only been gone a few weeks, but it was only while she and Hannah cleaned out a storeroom. No one important would even see her. That wasn’t disrespectful. It was sensible.

  She began to hum as she buttoned the row of jet buttons marching up the front of the dress and tucked her blond hair into a snood. She pulled the chair away from the door. Returning it to the dressing table, she saw the jewelry pouch and opened it. Mother’s amethyst earrings sparkled in the morning light. Fannie put them on, turning her head from side to side and admiring herself in the mirror.

  Unbuttoning her dress, she tucked the facings back to create a décolletage and donned the necklace. Reaching up to feel the texture of the large faceted stone in the center, she envisioned the periwinkle blue ball gown Mother always wore with her amethysts. How she’d longed for gowns like that. Mother had unbending and hopelessly outdated ideas about what a “young lady of high moral character” should and should not wear. At times, Fannie had despaired of ever getting to wear beautiful gowns like Minette’s.

  She studied herself in the mirror. As soon as she put off mourning, she’d be able to wear what she wanted. She touched the cool stone at her throat. Was it disloyal to look forward to yards of ruffles and imported lace … to blush at the idea of using a parasol or fan to flirt? Was it wrong to lament all the black and gray, mauve and purple in the months ahead?

  She turned away from the mirror, removed the jewels, and buttoned back up. The dark cloud threatened again. Maybe if she hurried downstairs she could outrun it.

  Hannah had been up just long enough to cook oatmeal, and as the two women ate breakfast, Fannie teased her about def
ending them with a curtain rod even as she made fun of herself for fainting. Together, she and Hannah planned the new room off the kitchen.

  “I’ll ask James to bring some things down from the attic this morning,” Fannie said. “I remember a rag rug that might look cheerful on the floor. Minette and I used to stage our attic tea parties on it. And there’s a comforter Mother had sent over from France. I think I remember matching draperies that just might fit your new window.

  Hannah got up to wash the dishes. “There’s no need to bring anything down from the attic. Nothing’s wrong with my things. Your mother wouldn’t approve of me putting on airs with fancy draperies and carpets and such.”

  “I know for a fact that Dr. Eames believes cold air makes joints hurt worse. He told Mother that more than once. It only stands to reason that whatever we can do to keep you warm will only make you a better housekeeper, and Mother would most certainly approve of that.”

  Fannie cleared her throat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Hannah. I need you here. And I want to make your room comfortable so that—” she forced a grin—“so that I can torment you for many years to come.” She nudged Hannah’s arm. “How old are you, anyway? A hundred and twenty?”

  Hannah nudged back. “I’ll have you know I’m not a day over seventy-five.” She lifted her chin. “I swaddled you when you came into this world, and I plan to swaddle your firstborn, little miss.”

  “Good.” Fannie nodded. “Until you’re needed to swaddle my firstborn, I think you should have a thick comforter swaddling your stiff old knees.”

  Waving her hand in the air, Hannah relented. “Fine. Have it your way. But make sure James does the transporting. I’ll not have you breaking your neck tripping over something on those narrow stairs.”

  “I’ll head up there right now and get the comforter I was thinking of before Walker arrives to talk gardening. I can manage that, but I’ll let James do the rest.” Hurrying up to her own room, Fannie pulled a leaf of paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink from her writing desk. She would make a list of things for James to bring down and take the comforter out back to air. Until Walker and Tommy Cooper arrived, she and Hannah could work together, emptying the room off the kitchen of drying racks and brooms, mops and cast-off dinnerware.

  As she lifted her skirts and made her way up the attic stairs, Fannie realized she had successfully outrun that dark cloud, at least for a little while. She felt hopeful. Almost happy. It felt good to take charge. Especially when taking charge was going to make things better for Hannah.

  Later that afternoon, an exhausted Fannie paused at the bottom of the front stairs before ascending to face Mother’s room. Tilting her head, she listened carefully. Was Hannah humming in her new room … or snoring? They were both tired, but it had been a good day. Hannah’s new room had turned out even nicer than Fannie had envisioned. She’d hired Tommy Cooper to help Walker rescue the grounds, and just as both Hannah and Mrs. Beauvais had said, Walker appeared to be relieved at the idea of having help. As Fannie slowly climbed the stairs, sunlight shining through the leaded window on the landing studded the wall with rainbows of light. Her stomach growled. She hoped Hannah didn’t nap for long.

  She hesitated in the doorway to Mother’s room, peering into the shadowed space like an intruder sneaking into forbidden territory. This room had always been off limits, unless Mother expressly invited Fannie in. Even the carriage accident hadn’t changed that rule. Mother kept a little bell at her bedside. She would call if she needed anything. Later, when she grew weaker, she hired a nurse. Again, the message was clear. Stay away unless invited.

  Stepping inside the doorway, Fannie took a deep breath. Mother always wore a sachet tucked into her pocket or sleeve. Was it her imagination, or did the faintest aroma of roses still linger in the air?

  Clearing her throat, she padded across the room and opened the drapes, then stood watching as the afternoon sun bathed the room in light. The decor was hopelessly outdated, but Mother didn’t care. She loved her periwinkle blue floral wallpaper and the pale blue chairs beside the tea table. Fannie could still hear Mother’s sniff and her studied reply to Fannie’s enthusiastic endorsement when Minette’s mother redecorated their home in the most fashionable of reds and greens.

  A woman has very few rights in this world, Fannie. The right to surround herself with the things she loves—especially in her own private quarters—is one of them. If I have anything to say about it, this room will be this very same color the day I die.

  Remembering those words gave Fannie goose bumps. Rubbing her arms briskly, she headed for the dressing table. As a child, she’d thought it the most enchanting piece of furniture in the world, with its beveled mirrors framed with gilt carved wood, its painted china drawer pulls, its array of cut-glass bottles and silver-rimmed jars.

  Perching on the striped cushioned seat, she looked into the mirror, then down at the daguerreotype of Papa that lay to one side. He looked young and brave in his blue uniform. Fannie looked around, taking stock of the exquisite oil paintings hanging from velvet ribbons. Papa’s image was the only one in the room.

  Lifting the faceted glass stopper out of one of the bottles, she inhaled, the aroma bathing her in a surprising amount of sorrow and longing. She replaced the stopper and gazed about the room again. Why did Mother like these colors so much? Why did Fannie never feel … relaxed in this place?

  With a sigh, she opened the center drawer. Calling cards … a button hook … a ladies’ mending kit … a small basket of buttons … a bit of silk ribbon … and, tucked in the far back corner, a ring box. Opening it, Fannie gasped with surprise at the size of the amethyst stone surrounded by tiny diamonds. She slipped it on her ring finger and, extending her hand, watched as light danced across the surface of the jewels. She couldn’t remember Mother ever wearing it, and yet it was a perfect match to the earrings and necklace the thief had tried to steal.

  The rest of Mother’s best jewelry was kept in the compartments of a box in the lower right-hand drawer. Fannie lifted it out and opened it, taking note of the empty top compartment. Odd, that the thief had put the jewelry box back in the drawer. Odd, but smart. If she hadn’t come home and startled him into hurrying, if Hannah hadn’t heard him, this room might have remained undisturbed until Fannie married or decided to sell the house. The missing amethysts could have gone unnoticed for years.

  Relief coursed through her when she lifted out the empty tray and saw the garnet necklace and earbobs right where they belonged. The intruder must have heard Hannah coming down the back stairs and decided to be happy with what he already had in his pocket. Mother’s cameo brooch lay nestled in its compartment, as did the pearl bracelet with the porcelain disk boasting a hand-painted scene that Mother said was somewhere in France. Fannie couldn’t remember where. Mother had promised to tell her a story about that bracelet someday. I wonder if Hannah knows it.

  Finally, she took up her mother’s locket. Opening it and expecting to see Papa’s image again, she blinked back unexpected tears as she stared down at the image of herself, dressed in the elaborate christening gown she knew to be stored away in the attic along with her dolls and the china tea set Papa had brought from Paris. Knowing Mother kept a photo of her as a baby somehow eased the hurt over Papa’s being the only one visible in the room.

  She closed the locket, but the latch didn’t quite catch. As she fiddled with it, a second compartment opened and a small key fell out. She wondered at the wisdom of keeping the jewelry box key inside the jewelry box. As she reached over to try the key in the lock, the amethyst ring slid from her finger. It hit the carpet with barely a sound but must have bounced, for Fannie heard the clatter of metal on wood as the ring encountered the floorboards along the wall. With a sigh, she got down on her knees to duck beneath the dressing table. Retrieving the ring, she slipped it back on her finger, grimacing when she bumped her head against a bottom corner of the dressing table.

  Frustrated, she stood up and reached for
both ring and jewelry boxes, intending to take them to her own room, where she could return the stolen amethysts to their compartment. She paused. If Mother kept a valuable ring stowed away in an odd place, she’d better be thorough.

  Sitting back down, Fannie opened another drawer. This one held an assortment of elegant handkerchiefs … and a dark brown, almost black envelope made of some kind of leather. A small lock held the flap firmly closed. Glancing toward the hall, Fannie hesitated. Silly as she knew it was, she felt guilty. As if Mother would appear in the doorway at any moment. With a little frown, she retrieved the key from the locket. Her hands trembled as she inserted it into the lock. It didn’t work. She tried again. Finally, with a faint scritch-scratch, the lock gave way.

  Had the intruder’s heart beat like this as he opened these very drawers? Had his forehead grown damp when he heard footsteps in the hall? Surely he’d heard Hannah coming down from the attic. Why else would he have left without the rest of Mother’s jewelry? The idea that a stranger had lingered in this very spot while she went past on her way downstairs made Fannie tremble with new terror.

  With a last glance toward the hall, she opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers wrapped in a yellow ribbon. Atop the papers lay a cabinet portrait of Mother, dressed in a stunning evening gown. Fannie recognized the amethyst necklace, but nothing else about the portrait made any sense at all. The form-fitting sweep of the gown, the dangerously low décolletage, the bare arms, the tiara-studded coiffure. And the pose. She was flirting with that painted fan. Flirting. This was not the woman Fannie knew. She turned the portrait over. Someone had written a name on the back. Edie. When had Mother ever been called Edie?