Cheryl St. John

by The Mistaken Widow

  “Good evening. Have the guests all arrived?” he asked Sarah.

  “The McCauls aren’t here yet, but the others are settled. The gentlemen have been in your study most of the afternoon.”

  “And your mother?”

  She tasted the soup and complimented Mrs. Pratt before replying. “I’m afraid she’s under the weather.”

  “She’s ill? Is it something contagious?”

  “No. It’s not contagious. She should be fine by tomorrow. Or at the very least the next day.”

  “Is she prone to these spells?”

  “Lord, I hope not.”

  “What?”

  “No. She’ll be just fine. It’s just that—she doesn’t travel well. See to your guests. I have everything under control.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Dinner will be served precisely at eight.”

  He glanced around the kitchen. “Nothing had better go wrong.”

  “Your confidence is rewarding.”

  He shot her one last glance and left.

  Sarah turned to Penelope. “I’d like to leave a tray in my mother’s room in case she wakes. Perhaps just biscuits and jam or something that will keep. And coffee. Lots of black coffee. I’ll take it up.”

  Penelope fixed the tray.

  “Did Gruver tell you about my mother?” she asked from close beside her.

  “Yes, ma’am. I won’t tell Mr. Halliday.”

  “Thank you. Will you check on her from time to time, then?”

  “I will. I’ll have a headache powder for her, too.”

  Sarah gave her a grateful smile and took the tray.

  Mrs. Patrick hadn’t moved a muscle that she could tell. Sarah set the tray nearby, added a log to the fire and hurried to her room to get ready.

  The extra maids had brought hot water and towels to all the occupied rooms, so she spared the time for a quick bath, hoping to feel refreshed. She’d only seen poor William long enough to feed him all day, and took a few minutes to cuddle and talk to him.

  “Did Leda visit William today?” she asked Mrs. Trent.

  “Mrs. Halliday never misses a morning or an afternoon,” she replied. “He will be the most spoiled child in all of Ohio.”

  “Good.” She dressed in one of her loveliest bustled fashions, sick to tears of black, and wishing she had something to relieve the tediousness. She clasped on her emerald bracelet and pinned a lacy white handkerchief to her breast in a fan shape.

  Hurrying to Leda’s door, she rapped and at the soft reply, entered. “I’ve missed you,” she said honestly.

  Leda was just slipping on her shoes. “Did you have a grand reunion with your mother?” she asked, accepting Sarah’s brief hug.

  “I’m afraid not. She’s quite ill.”

  “Oh, dear. Here I left you both alone to visit I should have seen if there was anything I could do.”

  “No, there wasn’t. There isn’t. She’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “Whatever do you think is wrong?”

  “Probably the train ride. I know I get sick just hearing the steam or a whistle now.”

  “That fear will pass with time,” Leda assured her. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with her care. I won’t have you working yourself sick. I’ve already warned you. Do you like this dress? I am sick of wearing drab colors,” she admitted. “I wore black for ever so long after Templeton died, and now again.”

  “It’s a lovely dress.”

  “I don’t carry off black quite like you do, though I can’t wait to see you in something else. Isn’t it strange the things we do for the sake of appearance? I have a rebellious streak,” she whispered, leaning into Sarah. “See?”

  Leda raised her black skirt to expose a bright red petticoat. “Shocked?”

  Sarah laughed. “Not at all. I am wondering, though, why we didn’t order one of those for me. Shall we greet our guests?”

  Sarah locked her arm through Leda’s and they strolled downstairs to the formal parlor where drinks and appetizers had been laid out

  The Kleymanns were already seated on a divan. Quinn stood. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Leda and Kathryn had met before and exchanged pleasantries.

  “We haven’t had a chance to tell you before how sorry we are about your son,” Quinn said, and then turning to Sarah, “and your husband.”

  “Yes, none of us is quite the same,” Leda replied. “It’s as if a part of me is missing. Just like when my Templeton passed on. But then that pain lessened with time…I’m sure this one will, too.”

  No one spoke for a few minutes.

  “I do hope we’ll get to meet your son soon,” Kathryn said, and Sarah looked over to see she was speaking to her. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “We’ll have his nurse bring him down after dinner,” Leda said. “He is a handsome fellow. He will make you eager for your little one.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Kathryn replied with a smile. “I’m already eager.”

  Quinn cast her a loving smile and placed his hand over hers, and a niggle of envy dipped in Sarah’s chest. It was replaced by sadness when she remembered the last time she’d felt just this way: when Stephen and Claire had looked at each other and he’d spoken to her so lovingly. She’d thought then what a lucky baby they were having. What a lucky woman Claire was.

  But that hadn’t been so at all. Fate had stepped in.

  Or was she wrong in thinking that way? Yes, their lives had been cut short. Their child had never even taken his first breath. But they’d all been loved so much and they’d all left this earth together. As a family.

  Leda must have sensed her heavy-heartedness, or perhaps she’d let it show on her face, because the older woman took her hand and pulled her down to sit on a divan beside her. Sarah thought of the red petticoat, and her mood lightened.

  Gruver appeared in the doorway just then. “The Mc-Cauls have arrived, Mrs. Halliday.”

  Sarah started to stand, but Leda pulled her back down. “I’ll see that they’re settled. You stay.”

  Sarah gave her a warm smile of gratitude.

  “She thinks the world of you,” Kathryn said after Leda excused herself. “I think you’re just what she needed.”

  “Well, the feeling is mutual,” Sarah replied.

  “I hope you and my wife will have some private time together,” Quinn said. “Katy is too loyal to complain, but she doesn’t have many young friends, and I think she’s dying to ask you a hundred questions.”

  “We’ll make some time together,” Sarah assured them both. Not that she knew the least helpful thing to tell the poor woman. She’d been alone and frightened when she’d been pregnant, and unconscious when William had come into the world. Perhaps the older women were Kathryn’s best choices for confidantes.

  Nicholas and Milos appeared then, and the conversation changed to the upcoming storm and the lack of rain for the season. The McCauls joined them as they entered the dining room, and Nicholas made introductions.

  The staff had outdone themselves, and Sarah observed that even Nicholas was impressed with the fare and the service.

  “Why don’t we gentlemen retire for a smoke, and then we’ll join you lovely ladies in the parlor,” Nicholas suggested.

  Pleasantly full from an exquisite dinner, the party moved to the foyer where the men started toward Nicholas’s study.

  A sound at the top of the stairs apparently alerted the men, for one by one they turned back. A loud voice singing an off-key version of “Buffalo Gals” echoed down the curved marble stairway. The hair on the back of Sarah’s neck stood up, and she looked up in horror.

  Oh, no! Good Lord, no! Not now! Not like this!

  “—won’tcha come out tonight, come out ton-night!”

  The silence among the guests at the bottom of the stairs seemed as loud as the squalling from the woman at the top. She appeared on the stairs, her step unsteady, wearing a bright green satin dress with a matchi
ng bow on her mop of flaming frowsy orange curls. She flipped her skirts and attempted a cancan, revealing a revolting length of veined and freckled calves and knees, as well as the fact that her shoes didn’t match.

  Panic roared in Sarah’s ears. Not only was the woman awake, but she was still drunk—or drunk again! What on earth would she do when she discovered Claire wasn’t here? Sarah had considered locking her in the room, but the thought had seemed too cruel and too unsafe. But now…

  Mrs. Patrick descended a step unsteadily, her song ending, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus on her rapt audience below. “Where’s Claire?” she called, her voice cracking.

  Here it came.

  One by one, Sarah sensed each head turn in her direction, and she allowed her gaze to scan the faces, their expressions ranging from shock on their guests’ and amusement on Milos’s to sympathy on Leda’s and—outrage on Nicholas’s.

  The skin against his starched white collar turned a livid red. His eyes bored into Sarah’s with scathing intensity.

  Sarah wanted to vomit She didn’t know if that frightened little sound of alarm had escaped her lips or if it had been inside her roaring head.

  She glanced up at Claire’s mother once again, foolish regret gripping her. She should have stayed with her. Should have assigned one of the servants to her. What had seemed like unprofitable use of their time only a few hours ago, now would have made all the difference in the world.

  She should have bolted the door.

  What would Mrs. Patrick say to Nicholas—in front of all these people?

  Sarah met his eyes again and his fury permeated to the very depths of her pathetic and doomed soul.

  He had warned her.

  And it was worse than even he could have imagined.

  Sarah’s days in Mahoning Valley were numbered.

  Chapter Ten

  As though in a slower-than-life motion, with all other sounds faded into the background, Sarah watched in horror as Claire’s mother reached one of the landings and stumbled toward the banister where an enormous fern sat in a ceramic pot on the oak ledge that was part of the banister’s decoration.

  From the servants’ hall below, Penelope appeared, laden with a silver tray and tea service. She caught sight of the throng of guests and paused hesitantly.

  Just as Penelope glanced upward to view the subject of everyone’s riveted attention, Claire’s mother tripped and slammed against the base of the blue and white container. The leaves shimmied. The pot turned over. And the weight of the plant propelled it over the side of the banister.

  The women gasped.

  Nicholas lunged forward, snagging the servant across the front of her chest and knocking her over. She fell to the floor beside him, the silver service banging across the tiles.

  The huge planter careened to the foyer floor and smashed with a deafening crash of ceramic pot and imported floor tiles. Shards shot in all directions, and black dirt and pebbles spread in a starburst spatter, showering Nicholas and the stunned Penelope, and reaching the toes of the horrified guests.

  One of the women next to Sarah emitted a squeal.

  Sarah couldn’t move for what seemed an eternity. The deafening sound still echoed in her ears. From above came slurred laughter and a loud “Whoops-ie!”

  The woman had fallen in an undignified and embarrassing spraddle-legged sprawl on her fanny and elbows, her skirt hiked around her fleshy thighs, her bright hair and the ridiculous bow askew. As if in a daze, she blinked and blew a hank of disheveled hair from her face. One shoe dangled from her toes.

  If Sarah could have had one prayer answered immediately in her entire lifetime, it would have been the one right then and there to have the floor open up and swallow her whole.

  Nicholas assisted Penelope to her feet and they brushed dirt from their clothing. Nicholas leaned forward and ruffled his hair. Particles fell out and bounced on the floor.

  Sarah couldn’t face him or his guests or his mother.

  Forcing her numb legs and feet into action, she gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs as quickly as her tender leg would carry her.

  The murmur of Leda’s soothing voice rose, taking control of the situation with the guests, urging them on to the activities they’d planned.

  One of the men chuckled.

  The horrible woman looked up as Sarah approached. Sarah converged on her before she could say or do anything more. She’d already caused enough damage. Wanting nothing more than to grab her around the throat and squeeze the air from her, Sarah took her firmly by one arm and urged her to her feet and up the stairs.

  “What the hell—” the woman objected.

  “Hush, Mrs. Patrick,” she shushed her. “You’ve made enough of a spectacle of yourself already. You’re going back to your room.”

  They’d reached the upper hall, away from the eyes and ears of those below. The woman jerked away from her. “Where is my daughter?” she asked. “I came to see my daughter.”

  Sarah pushed her along the hallway. “How would you even know if you’ve reached the right place? You’ve been drunk or passed out since you arrived.”

  “Ain’t I at the right place? Ain’t this the Hallidays’?”

  “Yes, it’s the Hallidays’.” They reached the lavender room, and Sarah guided her in and closed the door.

  The woman made her way over to the bottle on the stand beside the bed and poured a tumbler half-full, sloshing liquor on the wooden furniture.

  Sarah grabbed a towel and wiped it up.

  “So, where’s Claire?”

  “I have something to tell you about Claire, but I can’t tell you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—” Sarah gestured at her “—this. Like you are.”

  “And how am I, sweetie?”

  “You’re drunk!”

  She took a long swallow. “Hell, this ain’t drunk. I still know what I’m doin’.”

  Sarah shook her head in frustration, thinking of Penelope’s close call, Nicholas’s anger and Leda’s embarrassment.

  “So where’s Claire?”

  Sarah gave her a long assessing stare. What would happen if she took all the liquor and came back when the woman was sober? It could be worse. She’d heard of men who went berserk when they couldn’t get drink. And the woman did have to learn about her daughter.

  “Mrs. Patrick, I think—”

  “Celia.”

  “What?”

  “My name’s Celia. Or Cele. But don’t call me Mrs. Patrick.”

  “All right, Celia. I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you about Claire.”

  Celia dropped onto the edge of the bed. “I knew it. The no-good bastard dropped her like a hot potato, didn’t he?”

  Sarah blinked. “Who?”

  “Stephen Halliday, the great playwright, of course. Who else did she marry?”

  “Well—no one that I know of. No, he didn’t drop her, Celia…Stephen is dead. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Yeah, I knew. I thought maybe he ditched her once they got back to the States or somethin’.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “We ain’t exactly cut from the same cloth,” she said with a smirk, and Sarah remembered Claire saying the same thing when she spoke of her concern about the Hallidays not liking her. Perhaps her mother had instilled that fear in her.

  “My Claire’s a pretty thing,” she went on. “Great legs. Knocked her up, he did.”

  Sarah looked aside in disgust.

  “I figured he’d take his jollies until she was fat, and then he’d look for somethin’ new.”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Sarah said with increasing irritation. “He loved her very much.”

  Celia snorted into her booze. “So what’s the bad news, then? Squander all his money, did he?” She set the glass down with a thunk. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about”

  “Well, I guess I ain’t goin’ anywheres
. Talk.” She sat on the bed and flopped against the headboard.

  Slowly, carefully, Sarah began by explaining her situation. She told Celia how she’d been riding the train westward in hopes of a job and somewhere to stay where she could have her baby and find work. She explained about meeting Stephen and Claire. And she told how she’d awakened in the hospital with the doctor and nurses calling her Mrs. Halliday and how it had all snowballed from there.

  Celia stared at her with blurry eyes, drunk, but cognitive. She squinted hard at Sarah. “What are you sayin’, girl?” She sat up straight. “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

  She lunged to the edge of the bed and refilled the glass, taking several fortifying gulps.

  “I’m afraid I am,” Sarah said plaintively. “Claire died in that train wreck.”

  “What about her—her body?” the woman asked, with a jerky motion of her head.

  “I have no way of knowing,” she confessed, all the guilt and anguish brought vividly to life. “Stephen was found and Nicholas had to identify his body and send him home for burial. If no one was looking for Claire’s body since they all thought I was her, I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “What about your old man? Would they have known you were on the train?”

  Sarah nodded. “My luggage was in the baggage car. I had papers and books that would identify the belongings, and they would have shipped them to my father. I think.”

  “Maybe they sent her body to him, thinking she was you.”

  Sarah hadn’t thought of that before. Maybe her father thought she was dead! Maybe he thought that was what she’d deserved.

  “How can you even be sure Claire’s dead?”

  Sarah studied her now, reading the numbed awareness. “If she were alive she would have contacted you or the Hallidays. Wouldn’t she?”

  Celia nodded, tears glittering in her already glassy eyes. The hand holding the tumbler trembled. “She was good to me. She loved me. I was a rotten mother, but she loved me.”

  Sarah didn’t know how she could feel pity for the woman after what she’d done earlier, but sympathetic tears prickled behind her eyes.