Praise for Laine Ferndale
The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson
“Ferndale’s debut introduces a character that has faced challenges and learned to overcome. Readers will want to continue reading more by this author and about Fraser Springs. A quick, light read that historical romance fans will enjoy.”—Library Journal
“The author gives us a strong woman in Jo . . . [and] a fast-paced story with characters that show their true colors. Jo was a character that didn’t throw up her hands and say, woe is me . . . She stood her ground and fought for what she felt was right. You had to love her, strong, brave, stubborn, beautiful, and if there was a scandalous nature to her, then all the better.”—Night Owl Reviews
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Contents
Cover
Chapter 0
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
Guide
Cover
Contents
Start of content
The Infamous Miss Ilsa
Fraser Springs Series
Book 2
By Laine Ferndale
Avon, Massachusetts
Chapter 0
Vancouver, British Columbia
November 1906
As she stepped into her employer’s parlour, Ilsa Pedersen wished that a wildfire would destroy the entire West End, this awful house, and every last person in it. Or maybe an earthquake: that would be even better. Something to shake the petit point and paintings and gilded clocks off the walls, and rattle that expression off Mrs. Whitacre’s smug face.
All three members of the Whitacre family were waiting for her arrival. Theodore Whitacre sat to one side of the room, looking as if he wished he could disappear into the depths of the wingback chair. His thin, pale face was frozen in a vacant mask; his green eyes were fixed on a point somewhere to the far left of Ilsa’s shoulder. He’d clearly moved beyond mortification and into a sort of stunned mental absence.
The two adult Whitacres in the room were more engaged. Mr. Whitacre, grey and bent, had propped himself up against the heavy oak mantelpiece, where he fumed a steady billow of pipe smoke in the direction of the chimney. He seemed to be more bored than angry. He was probably simply annoyed to have been pried out of his study over a domestic squabble. Mrs. Whitacre, however, positively vibrated: the sea of ruffles and furbelows and lace on her elaborate day gown rustled like a tree in a high wind.
Mrs. Whitacre had been a famous beauty in her day and devoted a great deal of time and money to rejecting the inevitability of becoming “a woman of a certain age.” Ilsa, as the household’s only housemaid, had spent hours tending the ranked army of powders, potions, paints, and perfumes crowding Mrs. Whitacre’s marble-topped vanity. Her chestnut hair was kept meticulously dyed, styled, and piled high atop her head, and her stoutening figure was corseted so dramatically that her posture resembled that of a belligerent pigeon.
In the previous households where Ilsa had been employed, it had been the men of the house she’d had to watch out for. Here, though, Mr. Whitacre had treated her like a ghost who conveniently appeared with supper dishes or tea at the appointed hours, and Theo had been . . . She risked a quick glance at Theo, who continued to ignore her. There was no point thinking about what Theo had been to her. No, in this house, it had been Mrs. Whitacre who had done her best to make Ilsa’s life miserable. And now there she sat, perched on the edge of a settee, her eyes bright with malice.
Mr. Whitacre continued puffing away for another excruciating minute, until his wife cleared her throat in his direction. The entire room waited as he exhaled a final stream of white smoke before knocking his pipe out into the hearth and placing it carefully atop the mantel. Mr. Whitacre never rushed. Ilsa wished to God he would, just this once, and get this over with.
“So. This is the girl?” The question was addressed to Theo, who had found something of deep interest in his lap blanket’s pattern. He managed a quick nod.
“Speak up, boy. You’re a cripple, not a mute.”
Ilsa’s fists clenched at the barked command, but Theo didn’t even flinch.
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. How old are you, girl?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“Hmph. Well. You can’t go chasing after the help, boy. Vulgar, you know. Lowering.”
“Teddy wasn’t ‘chasing after’ anything,” Mrs. Whitacre purred. “He’s a good boy, Papa, you know that.” Mrs. Whitacre’s affectedly girlish habit of calling her husband “Papa” had always made Ilsa’s skin crawl. “That little piece of street trash practically forced herself on him. Tell him, Teddy.”
Ilsa’s fingernails were digging red crescents into her palms now. She risked another glance at Theo—surely now he’d speak up for her, explain how things were between them. His parents were making everything sound so ugly.
He met her eyes this time. Their gaze held for a heartbeat, and then . . . his slid away. She could almost feel the little threads that had grown between them snapping, one by one, like a spider web in a storm. He remained silent.
Mr. Whitacre made a disgusted snort. “For God’s sake, Olivia. You can’t expect the boy to admit he hasn’t got the gumption to get up a skirt without being pushed under it.” Theo did flinch at that, just a little. “Enough melodrama. This is what comes of your soft heart, dear. When you employ a charity case, you get what you pay for. The whole situation was practically courting disaster. Pack your things, girl, and see yourself out.”
Mrs. Whitacre preened. Theo remained silent. Over the past few months, Ilsa had heard Theo talk about so many things: the history of complex words, the purpose of the tiny bones in the human ear, how when he turned eighteen and left this place, they were going to . . . He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it once more and looked downwards. Ilsa’s heart clenched. That’s how it was going to be, then. She’d have to look out for herself.
“And my wages? I’m still owed from last month, and . . . ”
Mrs. Whitacre laughed, a short little chirping noise with no humour in it at all. “Your wages? You should have thought about that before you wormed your way into my son’s bedroom.”
And that was all it took for years of training—keep quiet, be a good girl, be grateful, remember your place—to disappear in a single, enraged instant.
“Mrs. Whitacre, you are a nasty, heartless bitch.” She tore the stupid little frilly cap from her pale curls and hurled it on the floor.
The resulting chaos resembled something out of the pantomime comedies she loved to watch at the vaudeville on Sundays. Mrs. Whitacre declared she had never in her life been spoken to in such a way, and sailed towards Ilsa with bloody murder in her eyes. Mr. Whitacre attempted to bellow at her but almost immediately began
coughing, which distracted Mrs. Whitacre long enough for Ilsa to scurry out of the parlour and down the service stairs to her little closet of a room.
She stripped off the rest of the ridiculously old-fashioned work costume, changed into her one good dress, and crammed the uniform into her carpetbag. The wretched things had come out of her pay, after all, and maybe she could pawn them. Her only possession that held any real value was a small tin horse that had once belonged to the cavalry of a toy soldiers set. Even though her instinct was to snap its head off and leave the broken pieces on Theo’s bed, she could probably pawn it, too.
When she emerged into the kitchen, Cook was nowhere to be found. At least one thing was going her way today; there wasn’t exactly any love lost between herself and the flint-souled old lady who kept the Whitacres fed. Ilsa pushed two loaves of bread and a half-dozen apples into her bag and popped open the enamelled tin canister where she knew Cook kept the petty cash for deliveries. She counted out six dollars and fifty cents, exactly what she was owed and not a penny more.
And so she found herself in the barren alley behind the Whitacre house, with snow beginning to fall, no hat on her head, and nowhere to go. She couldn’t go back to the girls’ home; the matron there had been very clear that this placement was Ilsa’s final chance. The home considered its obligations to her ended. Her only friends—acquaintances, really—were other orphans and domestic servants. She’d have to find more work, and soon.
Squaring her shoulders, she settled her grip on her bag and set off down the alleyway in a direction that hopefully would cross a trolley line sooner or later. She could do this. Even if she had to burn that itchy wool uniform for warmth and sleep under the Granville Bridge, she would be okay. At least she would be clear of that wretched house and its wretched inhabitants.
Even Theo.
Especially Theo.
Chapter 1
October 1912
It was dusk when Theodore Whitacre arrived in Fraser Springs, and even the brilliant sunset couldn’t hide that the town was exactly as dull as he expected. From the deck of the SS Minto, he could see a few brick structures and cramped wooden houses crammed tight against the placid lake. Past the huddle of buildings, there was nothing but wilderness as far as the eye could see: dark shadows of trees and rocky bluffs for miles and miles.
A dozen or so electrified streetlamps flickered to life at the edge of the dock and down along the boardwalk. Within an hour of his setting foot in the town, someone would brag to him about the modern streetlamps. He guaranteed it.
Somewhere, his colleague, Marcus Simpson, was experimenting with the latest silver nitrate cures for gangrene. James Doolan, his study partner, had taken a post with the provincial government and would be working to improve sanitation efforts in shantytowns. Theo would be treating babies with runny noses and prescribing sugar pills to old ladies with hypochondria. Maybe, if he were very lucky, he’d get to bandage up a hunter who’d shot off a finger.
Theo suppressed the urge to run through the whole miserable story again—his mother’s tantrum when he’d mentioned Paris, the posting he should have had, the endless fights, his final worn-out submission—to see if there had been any way out of this farce of an “apprenticeship.” Dwelling on it didn’t do him any good. He was here for the foreseeable future, and he might as well resign himself to it. The boat’s horn sounded three times to signal its arrival. The ship’s porter came by to make arrangements to transport Theo’s baggage to the St. Alice Hotel, where he would be living and working.
“You okay to carry that bag, sir?” the porter asked.
“Of course,” Theo said, gripping the black leather satchel like a lifeline. Any self-respecting doctor should at least carry his own kit.
The dock was fairly empty, only a few men shifting crates about according to some unknowable logic of their own. He was the only passenger disembarking at Fraser Springs.
He recognized Dr. Edward Greyson immediately, even though he had aged since Theo had last seen him. Same round and cheerful face, same vest straining to contain his large belly, but now he wore little round spectacles, and his hair seemed have migrated down entirely to his muttonchops. Only a few wispy strands remained on his head.
“Teddy, my lad!” Dr. Greyson called, waving his hat.
“Hello!” Theo awkwardly gripped his cane and bag together in one hand and the guardrail in the other as he made his way down the gangplank. Dr. Greyson watched intently. The journey had stiffened Theo’s weakened leg, exaggerating his limp. Damn.
The two men shook hands on the dock. Dr. Greyson continued evaluating him, lips pursed.
“Well, well, Little Teddy, that limp of yours is almost dignified. You look like you’ve been through the wars.” He chortled to himself.
Theo nodded. “You look well.” Lord, he hoped Greyson would remember to call him Dr. Whitacre in front of patients. This Little Teddy business certainly wasn’t professional.
“It’s the hot springs that do me good, son.” He swung his arm in a wide circle, gesturing vaguely to their surroundings. “Might take care of that limp. You never know.”
Actually, modern medicine did know. A little hot water might soothe some aches, but there was no such thing as a healing spring. The old man probably believed in balancing humours and bloodletting, too.
Dr. Greyson should have retired before the turn of the century, but instead he’d set up in Fraser Springs, practicing medicine as more of a hobby than a profession. He’d been the Whitacre family physician during the terrible year of Theo’s battle with infantile paralysis, and his mother remained convinced that the good doctor’s brilliance was the sole reason her son remained in the world.
“You will be doing Dr. Greyson such a service,” his mother had assured him. “He’s getting on in years, you know. And he’s so pleased to take you under his wing now that all that boring schoolwork is done. Really, it’s the least you could do after everything he’s done for us.”
Theo had bitten his tongue to keep from pointing out that if it were up to Dr. Greyson, he would still be stuck in bed, unable to walk. Or that Dr. Greyson would hardly be much of a mentor. Based on the letters and editorials Greyson had submitted to the professional journals, his views and practices were at least forty years out of date. Theo wanted a career as a clinician, not as a minder for a doddering old man.
He sighed. Perhaps he was being unfair. There was something to be said for doing a bit of journeyman work as part of one’s medical training, and more than one of his professors had remarked on his lack of bedside manner. It might well be better to practice here than under the watchful eyes of British Columbia’s finest medical men.
He was grasping for silver linings, and he knew it.
“I look forward to getting to work,” Theo said. “Perhaps we could meet tomorrow to speak about the caseload?”
Dr. Greyson waved his hand dismissively. “Tomorrow’s Friday, and I don’t fancy working so close to the weekend. Anyhow, we’ve got to get you settled. Lovely hotel, the St. Alice. I think you’ll find that Fraser Springs is not the backwater you might think it is. Why, we’ve got these electrical lamps! A lovely modern touch, don’t you think?”
Theo stifled a sigh. “I’m sure I’ll be very happy here.”
“Of course you will. You won’t have to expose yourself to tuberculosis and cholera and all those foul urban diseases, for one thing. Say what you will about some of the locals’ manners, but they’re a hardy bunch. And quite friendly, quite welcoming. Speaking of which, there’s a reception tonight. In your honour.”
“A reception. That’s . . . ”
“It’ll give you a chance to meet the best and brightest of the town, shake a few hands and whatnot.”
“I thought I would be treating only the hotel guests, not the entire town.”
Dr. Greyson smirked. “Fraser Springs doesn’t get graced with the presence of a Whitacre every day. And curiosity is a force of nature in a small town, you know. Some peop
le will grab at any excuse to meet a new face.” He sighed as if he was giving Theo only a small part of a very long story.
So that was it: his last name and social position had followed him even here. “I see.”
“Anyhow, it’s all in good fun. Clean yourself up a bit, make small talk. Make a good impression right away, and they’ll forget all about that limp of yours. Speaking of which, can I carry your bag for you?”
The idea of this stooped old man acting as his porter was too much. “No, thank you. I’m quite capable.”
Dr. Greyson looked sceptical of that but simply nodded. “Of course, dear boy. Of course. Well, I’ll show you to your room. You’ll want to tidy up before your big debut.”
No one else seemed to notice him as he and Dr. Greyson walked along the boardwalk, the tip of his cane clacking along the planks. Thank goodness for that. His kit was knocking against his weak leg, throwing him off his balance. It took all his willpower to maintain his stride until he reached the hotel.
The St. Alice Hotel was a tall brick building with plaster columns flanking its front porch. Although it was small by Vancouver standards, the hotel looked stately and imposing compared to the more modest structures around it. He entered into a high-ceilinged lobby whose pink marble floor was inlaid with a compass-rose mosaic, as if Fraser Springs were the centre of the universe, not a far-flung outpost.
A short time later, he stood in front of the mirror in his small suite, adding the finishing touches to his evening dress. It wasn’t a bad effort, he had to say. Theo knew he could cut an impressive figure at first glance. He was careful to keep his hair perfectly trimmed, his collar and cuffs well starched, and his suits beautifully tailored. A man had to work with what he had.
Already, he could hear music coming from the ballroom below, where the reception was to be held. He hated these to-dos, but it was nice that the town was making an effort to welcome him. And you never knew. Maybe the woman from the photograph would be here. Fraser Springs had been in the papers a few years back after an act of arson, and Theo had been strangely drawn to the newspaper article’s grainy image of a young woman posing near the ruins of some building or other. She looked so very much like . . . Well, dredging up the past didn’t do anyone any good, but it hadn’t stopped Theo from cutting out the photo and keeping it.
The Infamous Miss Ilsa Page 1