by Cathy Pegau
Michael stared at Charlotte across the table, his jaw muscles tight. What was he thinking? She didn’t want to know, not just yet. She had to finish this first.
“They were nice, really. Very understanding. It was well after regular hours, of course, and the shades and curtains were drawn.”
The doctor’s office had been above a drugstore on a dingy street. The nurse had her and Kit sit in a little room, separated from the two or three other women with appointments that night. Charlotte never saw anyone, but heard muffled voices and sobs. She’d always remember the antiseptic smell and the sobs.
“The nurse told us some of the women who came there were like me, unmarried girls ‘in trouble’ who didn’t want a baby. Some had beaus who wouldn’t marry them. Others already had families and were too poor or too sick to take care of another baby. We all had our reasons, and no one reason was better or worse than the other.”
Richard’s voice sounded in her head. Abortions are for poor, desperate women. Not for women of our class.
A cramp pinched Charlotte’s hand, and she realized she was squeezing Michael’s fingers hard enough to hurt herself. “Sorry,” she said, loosening her grip.
He shook his head as he stood. For a moment, she thought he was going to walk away from her, and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.
But he didn’t. He came to her side of the table and knelt down. Michael wrapped his arms around her shoulders and drew her into a hug. Charlotte embraced him and started to tremble. He wasn’t angry or disappointed. He understood. She’d lost over a year by keeping secrets, fearing he’d be disgusted with her.
Charlotte buried her face against her brother’s neck, taking in the scent of starch and carbolic acid, as a sob ripped through her chest. Guilt and shame and anger, suppressed for so long except in the late-night darkness of her bedroom, finally found their way out. She tried to say more, to explain herself, but every time she opened her mouth, there was just more sobbing, more tears, more body-wracking shivers.
Wrung out, her limbs like water, Charlotte eased out of his arms and slumped in the chair. Michael handed her a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. He dried his own tears with his napkin.
“I wish I had been there for you,” he said, his voice rough.
“I couldn’t tell anyone.” Her throat was raw, her voice scratchy and low. “I was so stupid. Richard was horrible, and I didn’t want to admit I’d been fool enough to be with him like that. And I certainly didn’t want to marry him.”
“I’d like to punch him in the face,” Michael said.
Charlotte managed a wry grin and cupped his cheek. “I know. Me too.” They both laughed quietly. Then she took a deep breath, ready to tell him more. “But it wasn’t all his fault. I made the ultimate decision. I didn’t want a baby, not even to give it up later, because I had other plans for my life. I wasn’t ready to be pregnant, let alone a mother. I don’t regret my decision, but at the same time I feel terrible that I don’t. Does that make any sense?”
“No one can blame you for your feelings, Charlotte.” He tucked a damp tendril of her hair back behind her ear.
“I can blame me,” she said. “Mother and Father would have had a fit if they’d known, but maybe telling them wouldn’t have been so bad. I don’t know. I’ll never know.”
Michael returned to his seat. “I think we’ve both learned valuable lessons here.”
“For the guilty, there is no peace.” She couldn’t recall where she’d heard that before, but it was appropriate.
He fiddled with his spoon. “I was thinking more along the lines of don’t underestimate the power of your sibling’s love and concern for your well-being.” Their eyes met over the table. “We can help each other find peace now, Charlie. Can’t we?”
Another knot tightened her throat. She reached across the table and held his hand again. “We will.”
Chapter 13
After helping Michael tidy up, Charlotte headed back to Sullivan’s, and he hurried to keep an appointment with a homebound patient. The rain chilled her, seemed to seep into her bones even through her coat and heavy boots, but also soothed her both physically and emotionally. She stopped, eyes closed, and just breathed. She had no idea how long it would take for her to completely get over what she’d done. Maybe she never would. She had to accept that the decision she’d made was best for her at the time.
There was no way to change the past, and no way to say whether she’d do the same or different if the situation were to repeat itself. The best thing to do was avoid another chance of its happening entirely.
In the meantime, she’d work through and around what she’d done. Focus on Darcy’s case. If she could help bring the murderer to justice, perhaps Charlotte would feel her decision had been meaningful. Ending her unwanted pregnancy, in order to continue to help women achieve the freedom to make the same choice, would do more good than harm. Maybe it was a selfish straw to grasp, but it was the only one within reach. She’d hold on to it and do her damnedest.
Charlotte opened her eyes, ready to start off again. The sign for the First Federal Bank caught her attention, and the chance meeting between Tess Kavanagh and Brigit replayed in Charlotte’s head. Not a word had passed between them, but the tension had been palpable. There had been an immediate sense that neither woman particularly cared for the other. Why? Their social status? Some previous encounter? While it would have been unusual for the two to be bosom buddies, Charlotte had expected some acknowledgment of each other’s existence at the very least. Yet there had been nothing of the sort.
Something niggled in Charlotte’s brain. There was a connection there; she was sure of it. But what? The two women shared a few physical features—hair and eye color, most notably—but also a confidence and bearing that made them stand out. Seeing them on separate occasions, Charlotte might have unconsciously noted their similarities, but now that she thought about it, she realized there was more. Not only did they share the same coloring, but the same high cheekbones and small clefts in their chins. And each woman’s surprise at seeing the other on the street had revealed unguarded expressions that were too much alike for coincidence.
With the suspicion that Brigit was one of the women in the newspaper clipping Darcy had secreted away, Charlotte now wondered if the other woman was Tess Kavanagh. Were Brigit and Tess actually the Jensen sisters? Had they and John Kincaid changed their names and made their way to Cordova after avoiding criminal charges in Fairbanks?
“But how to prove it?”
“Beg pardon, miss?”
Charlotte jumped, startled by the voice. A thin man with graying brown hair stood beside her. His brown suit was dappled with rain, and he held a wrapped bundle beneath his arm.
“Were you needing something, miss? Are you lost?”
“No, not lost, thank you,” she said, offering him a reassuring smile. He nodded and started to move past her. “Oh, but could you tell me, perhaps, where the Kavanaghs live?” If she wanted to get answers from Tess Kavanagh, she’d have to start asking questions.
The man gave her a quizzical look. “You mean the mayor and his wife? Why, they’re in the big gray house up Council Avenue, way at the top. Can’t miss it.”
Charlotte thanked him and hurried back to her room to pick up her notebook, pen, and a few cards she’d had printed before leaving New York. Locking her door behind her, she headed out again. The trek up Council took her past Second Street and The Wild Rose, the restaurant James had taken her to the other night.
She shook her head and pushed the memory of dinner and the kiss aside. She definitely needed to avoid making another mistake with a man. Even if that man were James Eddington. Discretion was the better part of valor when it came to relationships.
Charlotte found the Kavanaghs’ home exactly where the man had said, up the road, beyond the businesses and homes that crowded the slope down to the sea. James’s cabin was among those buildings, nestled between tw
o modest houses. The Kavanaghs’ home was on par with the Bartletts’, well kept but not so grand as to indicate the mayor lived here. Neatly trimmed shrubs and flower beds surrounded the house. Even the poorer neighborhoods seemed to take pride in their tended yards and gardens. The wilds of Alaska? Not quite, but pretty flowers and well-kept yards didn’t hide the fact that bad things happened in small towns.
She stepped up onto the wooden planks of the walk from the road to the front door, the first flutter of nerves tickling her stomach. Dropping in on Mrs. Kavanagh was a breach in social protocol, but she’d rather keep the woman slightly off balance by a surprise visit than give her a chance to plan and control the conversation. It was an interview technique that often resulted in more honest responses.
Charlotte lifted the simple iron knocker and rapped on the door. While she waited for a response, she smoothed her hair as best she could. At the first sound of the latch being turned, she affected what she hoped was a charming smile.
An older woman of forty or so in a simple black dress, her dark hair in a neat bun, answered. “Yes, may I help you?”
Charlotte withdrew a card from her coat pocket. “Good afternoon. My name is Charlotte Brody. I met Mrs. Kavanagh at the mayor’s party and again at Reverend Bartlett’s home. I was hoping Mrs. Kavanagh was available for a short interview.”
The housekeeper took the card and gave it, and Charlotte, a dubious look. Would Charlotte’s association with Modern Woman and previous meetings with the mayor’s wife be enough to sway? “I haven’t seen one of these in a few years.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure if the woman was impressed or amused.
“My mother still swears by visitor cards,” Charlotte said, “and insisted I get something printed up.” She’d tried to explain to Mother that fancy personal cards were a bit out of fashion, and settled on a business card with elegant script rather than argue over the matter. Business card. Visitor’s card. If the housekeeper was impressed enough to let her in, Charlotte didn’t care what anyone called the piece of card stock.
The older woman smiled. “Wait here in the foyer, and I’ll see if Mrs. Kavanagh is taking visitors.”
Charlotte unbuttoned her coat, and the housekeeper headed up the carpeted stairs. The house was eerily quiet, with only the occasional clatter from the back. Kitchen, more than likely.
She gave herself another quick check, brushed a bit of mud from her skirt, and smoothed her wrinkled blouse. Perhaps she wasn’t dressed for a formal visit, but she was neat and clean for the most part.
After several minutes, the woman returned. “Mrs. Kavanagh will be down in a minute. She asked that you wait in the parlor. May I take your hat and coat?”
Charlotte retrieved her notebook and pen from her coat pocket, gave the garments to the housekeeper, and entered the parlor. The scent of linseed oil barely covered the lingering aroma of the mayor’s favorite cigars. A vase of wildflowers on the table in front of an armless couch added bright color to the understated room.
“May I offer you some tea, Miss Brody?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
The woman nodded, then crossed the room to a door that likely led to the kitchen. Charlotte took the opportunity to wander the room, getting a sense of the Kavanaghs. Or rather, the people who called themselves Frank and Tess Kavanagh.
Don’t jump to conclusions, she admonished herself. Speculation isn’t proof.
No, but gut instinct and recent actions and reactions of people made her feel she was onto something worth pursuing. If it could shed light on Darcy’s murderer, so much the better.
There was nothing among the knickknacks and glassware on display that suggested the Kavanaghs were anything but what they appeared to be. But Charlotte knew how well someone could hide a cruel streak behind a façade of fine manners and clothes. Richard had fooled her for months, his easy smile and openness making her think he’d be supportive when the time came. Far from it, she’d discovered.
When they’d first met, they’d talked for hours about politics and books, ethics, and basic human rights. Their rapport had grown into friendship, friendship into desire. His views were so modern and refreshing, it was no wonder she’d fallen for him. They’d had fun in and out of bed, but when fun turned into a serious personal situation, he’d shown his true colors. Funny how a bit of pressure could reveal so much.
“Miss Brody, how nice to see you again.”
Charlotte shook off the distraction of her past and concentrated on her current task. She smiled at Mrs. Kavanagh and crossed the room. “Please forgive the intrusion, but I got it in my head that I just had to interview you, so here I am.”
The mayor’s wife, dressed in a dark brown suit and matching shoes, took Charlotte’s offered hand and clasped it with both of hers. The more delicate bones of the smaller woman held Charlotte in cool, friendly firmness. “No trouble at all. And please, call me Tess.”
She gestured for Charlotte to have a seat. They each chose a spot near the ends of the couch and sat, half-turned to face each other across the short expanse of brocade. The housekeeper returned with a sleek wooden tray and a silver tea service. She set the tray on the table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Popovich,” Tess said. “I’ll serve Miss Brody. We’d like a bit of privacy, please.” Mrs. Popovich nodded, smiled at Charlotte, and left the parlor, sliding the pocket door behind her. The mayor’s wife poured out two cups of tea into delicate chinaware and offered Charlotte cream and sugar. “Now, tell me what this interview is about.”
“It’s quite exciting,” Charlotte said with true enthusiasm. “The readers of Modern Woman will get an in-depth look at life in the wilds of Alaska.”
Tess laughed. “I wouldn’t call Cordova the wilds. We try to be civilized when we can.”
“I have to admit, I’m a bit sorry to say that’s all too true,” Charlotte said with a playful sigh of disappointment. Tess laughed again. “I want to particularly focus on the women who make their way up here. It takes a certain sort, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.” Tess sipped her tea, watching Charlotte over the rim with bright brown eyes.
Why didn’t I notice how similar they are to Brigit’s?
“For instance,” Charlotte said, “Mrs. Sullivan told me of her growing up in Canada and following her second husband to Dawson City. Such adventure and heartbreak for her over the years, marrying a couple of times, losing a child, but she made her way in Cordova and is now a successful businesswoman. Her story will enthrall readers.” Charlotte opened her notebook, set it on her knee, and readied her pen. “What brought you to Alaska, Tess?”
“Clams. Not as exciting as gold, I’m afraid.” Tess smiled, teacup and saucer in hand. “The clam canneries were growing, and Frank partnered with a couple of business associates. They couldn’t stay to oversee the operation, so here we are. I followed my husband, like many women.”
“I understand you were in Virginia before this.” Charlotte had learned as much from her research at the newspaper office. “Is that where you’re from originally?”
“No, I’m from Ohio, a small town west of Cleveland. A tiny place without much going for it other than being outside of Cleveland.”
Charlotte chuckled along with Tess, but her mind whirled. Brigit had said the same thing, almost to the word. Coincidence? Not likely. Charlotte would bet her bottom dollar that Tess Kavanagh and Brigit O’Brien were sisters.
“I met Frank in Virginia,” Tess continued, setting her cup and saucer on the table. “I was going to nursing school, and he was working in his family’s business doing the accounting.”
Charlotte remembered she was supposed to be taking notes and jotted the information down. Most of what Tess had said was in the Toliver interview from several years before. “After you were married, you stayed in Virginia until his partnership brought you here?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you come through Canada? Dawson City, perhaps?” Charlotte kept he
r pen poised over the paper, but she held the other woman’s gaze. “Have you been to other towns in the territory, like Sitka or Fairbanks?”
Tess’s smile faltered, and a wariness darkened her eyes. She folded her hands in her lap, right over left, rubbing her gold wedding band. “No, nowhere else. We came right here on the steamer.”
Time to ease up a little, Charlotte decided. “This must have been quite a change for you after being in Ohio and Virginia. What sorts of challenges did you face when you first arrived?”
Tess’s shoulders dropped a little, and the tension lines in her face smoothed out. She told Charlotte of the things she found to be different in Cordova compared to the States. Charlotte dutifully took notes. Tess’s story, completely true or not, was interesting, and Charlotte hoped she could use it in her series. For several minutes, Charlotte prompted Tess to expand on certain aspects of life on the frontier. Then she asked her next question.
“And how do you know Brigit O’Brien?”
Tess blinked at her, her cheeks pale. After a few seconds, she drew in a deep breath and gave Charlotte a tight smile. “I don’t.”
“Funny, she said the same thing this morning after we all bumped into each other at the bank.” Charlotte set her pen and notebook aside. “But you do know her.”
It wasn’t a question this time, and Charlotte’s heart raced with her audacity. A journalist had to know when to ask and when to put forth statements. She wasn’t afraid of Tess Kavanagh’s getting mad at her, though that could happen. No, she was more afraid that the mayor’s wife would stop talking.
“Of course I know who she is, but I don’t know her socially.” Tess’s voice cracked in the middle of the last word, and she had to clear her throat. “We’ve been in Cordova long enough to recognize most everyone.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Charlotte said. “I think you and your husband know her quite well. I think someone else knew this too, and it became a problem.”
Tess’s concern or anger—perhaps it was a mix of the two—became confusion. “A problem? What are you talking about?” Then something dawned in her dark eyes. She rose abruptly. “I’m not feeling well, Miss Brody. I think I need to lie down.”