Twisted River

by Kelsey Gietl

  Maggie wouldn’t be so lucky when it came to Reuben. He was a man of action and emotions worn securely on his sleeve. Once he saw Abigail, he would recognize the truth in a heartbeat, and everything was certain to come tumbling down. One day soon she would need to devise a plan to tell them, but perhaps the blow of Reuben’s sudden fatherhood could best be broken after addressing more pressing matters?

  Removing herself from Tena’s embrace, Maggie silently walked upstairs, retrieved a certain worn envelope from the depths of her traveling case, and returned to the kitchen. She handed over Father’s letter without explanation. None was needed. Her sister deserved to read it long ago, if only Maggie hadn’t feared Tena would seek out explanation for their father’s words.

  There is a secret your mother holds, and once I am gone, she will not hesitate to tell you. I am sorry I cannot explain myself. It is her secret to reveal, although I fear she will attempt to destroy you with the truth.

  It wasn’t that Maggie shared the letter now because she was braver or wiser or anything more than she always had been. She wasn’t. It was her small world which had expanded. Now there was someone more important than herself. Now there was Abigail.

  Tena folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. Her expression lay far more stoic than Maggie expected. “Have you written to Mother?”

  “No. I swore to kill my curiosity after how far I went with Lloyd. I promised myself I would never ask … but that was before Abbie.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not certain of anything.” Maggie tapped the letter. “Father believed Mother would tell us the truth, but she didn’t. Why? It isn’t like her to see an opportunity to hurt us and not use it.” She seized Tena’s wrist. “Come with me. I need to show you something.”

  They ran across the backyard, yanking open the carriage house door to slip into the chilly room. After Hugo sold his motorcar two years back, the building had stood empty except for a few miscellaneous gardening tools stored in the disused horse stalls, and a narrow wooden table against the far wall. Five vases lined the surface, each containing an assortment of purple flowers. Their aromatic fragrance filled the open space.

  “I continue to dream about these,” Maggie said by way of an explanation. Of course, that told Tena nothing, but there was so much to say and no good place to start. Her sister would surely think her explanation mad.

  Tena approached the table. “You dream about flowers? Why only in shades of violet?”

  “Have you heard of the Magdalena flower?”

  “Was that variety in the Winchesters’ gardens? They had so many. Something about the name sounds terribly familiar, like I should know but have forgotten.”

  Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. Good, she thought. She wasn’t the only one then.

  “The Winchesters didn’t grow them; I knew those beds inside and out.”

  “Where then?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? Shortly after Abigail’s birth, I posted a letter to a horticulturist at Shaw’s Garden inquiring into the Magdalena’s existence. Bully for me, he never heard of it. I then surmised that the dreams might be a lingering product of pregnancy, except they still haven’t stopped.” She nodded to the vases. “So I purchased every type of purple flower I could find and brought them here in hopes one might trigger something.”

  “All those walks alone this week to clear your head, get some fresh air and time away from the baby? You were visiting floral shops? How did you find so many?”

  “It was no easy task, I assure you. I didn’t want to bother you if my search came to naught, and according to everything I’ve found, it has. No florist ever heard of the Magdalena.”

  “Because you invented it.”

  Tena’s condescending tone grated Maggie’s nerves. “What if I didn’t? What if everything is interrelated—Father’s letter, my dreams, the man in shadow?”

  “What man?” Tena’s patronizing smile vanished. “Maggie, what affliction are you suffering from?”

  “I’m in my right mind.” Maggie ventured to the window where Henry tossed his baseball near the garden. “The day we visited Shaw’s Garden, there was a man watching me. He followed us into the Herbarium, however, fled when I caught him staring. Before I could track him down, he vanished.” She turned from the window, bathed half in sunlight and half in shadow. “He’s in my dreams, Tena. He calls me Magdalena and says he created the flower especially for me. Only I can’t recall ever being familiar with him or the flower.”

  Tena now appeared truly concerned. “It was a dream, Maggie, and a stranger in a garden who mistook you for someone else. Discomfiture caused him to flee. There isn’t a conspiracy we need to solve.”

  Maggie pressed a hand to her forehead. It was all connected. She couldn’t shake the feeling; the more she tried to stave it off, the worse it became. Returning to the table, she focused on the flowers until her vision blurred into a sea of violet. She knew each of their names and had always loved them, even the ones with thorns, even those deemed unlovable. Exactly how she always believed her father felt about her until Damaris planted the seed of doubt with her own father’s indifference. Hugo’s absence on his quest for Emma only made that seed sprout, and Abigail’s birth made it flower.

  “Tena, can you recall what our life was like before Fontaine? Mother and Father never once spoke of it. They never mentioned what he did before Fontaine or why he return traveled to London after.”

  “He went on business.”

  “Except that could mean so much! Personal business, banker’s business, secret trysts with a lover, obscene dark alley deals with unseemly characters. Who was he meeting? Why did he always leave us behind? Why didn’t we ask? There are so many more questions within this letter than the one he mentioned.”

  As expected, Tena stared as though Maggie had misplaced the last of her shooting marbles. “Do you truly believe Father capable of such a deal? Or taking an extraneous mistress? He loved Mother.”

  “Mother never loved him back. He knew that—heavens, we all knew that.”

  “But do you believe him capable of such behavior?”

  “No. Father was a man among men. It’s impossible to fathom him locked in deceit.”

  Tena folded her arms and sat back against the table. “So, there. Do you see? You’ve built a dramatic exchange inside your mind that could never be.”

  Maggie wanted to shake her. This wasn’t nothing. Perhaps she overreacted about the stranger, but she hadn’t invented Father’s letter or his words of warning. She breathed out then in then out again. “I have Abigail to protect now. What if the truth involves someone who could place her in danger when I’m not around? Can I leave so much open to chance? I’m willing to risk my own future, my happiness, my everything to never know, but am I truly willing to risk hers?” She lighted a hand on Tena’s arm. “I have an accursed past already, Tena. Isn’t it better that we know the battle we have in store?”

  Tena glared at her. “I already know the battle in store. To find out the facts, Father’s sent us to a woman who would rather toss her daughters to the lions than overcome her prejudices. I won’t go back there.”

  Still clutching Father’s letter, Tena unlatched the carriage house door and began at a rapid pace across the yard. Maggie gave chase, quickly winded post-pregnancy, but managing to stay near enough. “Wait, Tena,” she called.

  Tena didn’t slow. “Leave me alone, Maggie. We’re on good terms, lest you say something stupid and ruin it.”

  “It’s been a year. Perhaps Mother will be reasonable after a year.”

  Tena stopped in her tracks but didn’t turn. “Because of Mother our father never knew about the most important pieces of me. Often I wonder how glad might he have been if I spoke up?” Tena shook her head. “Then I realize I’m fooling myself. Look how Mother reacted when we did tell her. She disowned us. If she knew all along, those months with Charles very well would have never been.” She passed the letter back to Ma
ggie. “A year or ten, I can’t speak to her. If I do, she’ll feel the palm of my hand and never hear an apology. So let the past die.”

  She rounded the house, Maggie on her heels, and nearly plowed into a man coming up the walk. He wore a freshly pressed suit with attaché in hand and a grim smile. “Do excuse me, ladies, but are you the misses Archer?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tena didn’t accept the hand he extended to her. “What is your business here?”

  “My name is Alfred Goodfellow.” He shuffled through his attaché and removed a long packet closed with an indigo seal. “I carry a matter of importance concerning Laurence Archer’s final will and testament.”

  “You must have the wrong misses Archer,” Tena said. “Our father’s will was resolved over a year hence.” She pointed down the street, one arm straight as an arrow and her face as firm. “If you insist otherwise, you’re a fraud and you can peddle your deceit elsewhere.”

  “Tena.” Maggie gently nudged her sister’s arm back in place. “Sir, can you provide evidence of this supposed will?” Mr. Goodfellow offered her the thin envelope which, upon opening, contained three second class steamship vouchers and a typewritten letter from the Weston Law Offices of London requesting the sisters’ presence on or before the twentieth of April. Sure enough, Mr. Goodfellow had told the truth.

  “How were you able to locate us?” Maggie asked. “Our decision to leave England occurred well after Father’s passing.”

  “Why, via your very own marriage announcement, Mrs. Frye.”

  Of course, she thought, nothing nefarious about that. She handed the packet to Tena. “Our father arranged this, you say?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Goodfellow nodded. “A summons to be delivered one year, one month, and one day following his death. Passage prepaid by my office from his assets with return fare to follow discussion with our London associates and acceptance of all terms.”

  “What terms?” Tena asked as her eyes scanned the letter.

  “It is all explained in the will. The London office is prohibited from forwarding a copy per your father’s request.”

  Ah, so they would have to go to London or else forfeit their right to whatever further assets Laurence Archer left behind. How maddeningly inconvenient. Maggie peered over her sister’s shoulder in order to see whom the third steamship ticket was assigned to and laughed out loud. Of course it would be Reuben. Somehow that confounded man managed to follow them everywhere. Like a bad penny … or an impending paternity conversation she would rather avoid awhile longer.

  “Listen, sir,” Maggie said. “Ensuring access to a proper travel companion seems the exact situation my father would arrange.” She smiled. “Protective of us to the last. However, I have a husband now who is entitled to a portion of my interests. He will be enough of an escort to satisfy my father’s worries.”

  Mr. Goodfellow frowned. “I’m afraid that will not be acceptable. The stipulations of your father’s will are quite clear. All three of you in attendance.” He narrowed his eyes over his glasses. “Or none at all.”

  With a look sure to sear flesh, Tena shoved the summons into Maggie’s hands. “Well, sister dear, it appears you may receive those answers after all. I hope you realize the trouble this could cause.”

  Me too, sister dear, Maggie thought. Me too.

  Part Two

  ~~~

  Undertow

  THIRTY-ONE

  April 14, 1913 – One month later

  London, England

  Like a dog caged inside on a sunny day, Reuben paced before the closed window. His fingers tapped against his right hip while he held a mug of coffee in his left. Anxiety clung to him like a second skin, as though his entire body were wired with an electrical current. It made him want to scream, slam a fist into the lawyer’s office wall, and leap out the third floor window.

  Only fifteen minutes ago, Maggie, Hugo, Tena, and Reuben were shown into Robert Weston’s spacious Bedford Park office. He greeted them like old friends while offering them substandard coffee and condolences on Laurence Archer’s passing.

  “He was a true man of vision,” Mr. Weston mourned. “He enlisted my services for fifteen years and will be sincerely missed.”

  Lips pressed tight, Maggie sat where directed with Hugo and Tena on either side. In her arms lay a sleeping Abigail whose tiny fist curled beside her cheek. Mr. Frye left Damaris with the other three children, but it was impossible to leave the still-nursing baby behind.

  In fact, Hugo planned every detail of the trip. He exchanged their vouchers for passage, secured lodging, and looked into the process of exchanging their American currency for British pounds. His efficiency removed all admissible excuses for Reuben not to travel, including one of the most important—the fear of returning to sudden harsh unemployment.

  The only way Smithson allowed him to leave at all was by demanding he return with a story better than every other put together. Without a single notion how to accomplish that, he figured the day he returned to St. Louis, Smithson would brush his hands and gleefully show his obit writer the door. Reuben’s only possible salvation lay in Hugo’s hands when the man suggested they submit a piece together highlighting the voyage. He would provide photographs if Reuben wrote the words.

  “Photographs complete the piece,” Hugo told him. “They bring all the details together.”

  Reuben’s fingers tightened against his hip. How long could he work beside Hugo and maintain such elaborate pretense? He had known he couldn’t avoid Abigail forever. But he hadn’t anticipated Hugo would bring her to the newspaper with him either.

  One look at Abigail and he gladly offered Hugo his second class passage to purchase himself a week alone in third.

  It would be simple enough to hide the truth. Anyone who was to look on her assumed she received her dark hair from her mother and that Hugo passed along something more abstract like his gentle demeanor or his photographic eye, skills to be revealed with time. Only Reuben knew better. That child was as certainly his as the air in his lungs and the shoes on his feet. One look and there could be no doubt.

  He needed to share this with Tena. She had always been his rock, his voice of reason, the gentle influence that literally stilled his hand when he once held a revolver to his skull. He doubted Maggie told her Abigail’s paternity—for pity’s sake, she hadn’t even officially informed him yet—but Tena would reason it out soon enough. Of any of them, she should have suspected it first, and she would feel it more if he remained quiet than if he came clean. He used to trust her implicitly ... when had that stopped?

  His fingernail absently tapped the window sill. Tap...tap...tap...tap, tap, tap, taptaptaptap. He sipped his coffee and grimaced. Too dark, too bitter.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Radford.”

  He lowered himself onto the hard wooden chair beside Tena. Why had he stood in the first place?

  “I assumed Father’s assets were long since reconciled,” Maggie argued.

  Oh yes, Reuben thought, they were here to settle Laurence Archer’s second mysterious will. Mr. Weston barely made it through the first two sentences before Reuben’s nerves had set him to pacing. The coffee only enhanced his jittering, and after listening to an entire page of legal gibberish, he still hadn’t sorted why the third summons belonged to him.

  Mr. Weston folded his hands over the short stack of perhaps only four or five papers. “Actually, Miss Archer—”

  “Mrs. Frye,” Hugo corrected.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Frye. As I was saying, your father maintained significant investments divided into a number of accounts. He was quite the affluent man and regulated his spending so both of you and your mother would be provided for. The will paid out upon his death was only one of two he created. The second, given his explicit instructions, your mother was to remain blind to.”

  Maggie visibly relaxed. “How clever. All this time, Tena, we believed he left us nothing. What a relief to know our fears were unfounded.”

  “Hmm. Quite int
eresting you should assume such.” Mr. Weston removed the second sheet from the stack. He looked to Reuben. “Mr. Radford?”

  “What?” Reuben folded his arms with a scowl. He couldn’t even say why he was irritated. Too much coffee, probably. He shifted his chair back a few inches, and Abigail disappeared behind Tena’s shoulder.

  “According to my notes, Laurence Archer believes you can learn more about a man in his response to but one inquiry. Are you familiar with this principle?”

  “Yes.” He repeated Mr. Archer’s words, “‘Given any day of your life, which one would you redo?’ What of it?”

  “Mr. Archer’s instructions are clear. You must answer that question correctly and answer without assistance.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “The proceedings will end.”

  Well, bugger. All eyes fell to Reuben. He swallowed hard.

  If he declined to answer—or failed to answer correctly—then the Archer sisters would never receive their inheritance. No pressure, he thought grimly.

  Of all the possible days, all Reuben’s mistakes, which ones did Laurence even know about? How could he possibly discern which he was supposed to choose? The response he provided at Laurence’s bedside had been honorable and truthful—any day that saved him for his daughters—but he always felt it wasn’t the one Mr. Archer had hoped for. Until Reuben was forced to stare at this cryptic will, Laurence never seemed like one to speak in riddles.

  On his deathbed, their father told Reuben, “Sometimes even old men make mistakes.” So then, what would have been Laurence Archer’s gravest mistake? Marrying his wife? Sending Maggie away? Not being enough to Tena? What did he regret? Which day would he redo? Was it actually Laurence’s response, not Reuben’s, that was required?