by Lisa Bingham
“Good. In the meantime, keep your ear to the ground. I have no doubt that the women will be traipsing in and out of your house on a regular basis. I’m not asking you to break a confessional session or anything—”
“I never took confessions. I’ve only served as a lay pastor.”
“Well, whatever you do, you don’t need to break any confidences. But if you hear even a peep of something that might point us in the right direction, let me know.”
Chapter Seven
It was nearly two in the afternoon before Charles returned home. His tardiness wasn’t due to his errands; he’d finished them hours before. No, what delayed his arrival was the fact that, since there were Pinkertons posted at his door, that meant the women hadn’t left yet. Therefore, he’d decided to wait until the visiting females departed before going inside.
With nothing else to do, Charles had spent the afternoon at the company store, sitting by the stove and playing checkers with the off-duty miners. He’d positioned himself facing the window so that he had a clear view of the front stoop, and he’d kept an ear trained for any stray bits of gossip circulating about Jenny. Finally, he’d seen the Pinkertons snap their rifles into position and the door open. Within seconds, the women emerged in a whirl of bright colors, flounced skirts and pretty bonnets.
As they hurried through the snow, laughing and giggling among themselves, Charles realized yet again how much the women had managed to change the mining community’s atmosphere in the few weeks since they’d been here. His memories of winter in Bachelor Bottoms always seemed to be colored in shades of gray—the overcast skies, the icy river, the blackness of the mines. But somehow, the women had brought watercolors to the area. The sky between storms was a crisp, cool blue, some of the windows were hung with brightly painted feed sacks, and the cook shack was adorned with deep green bunches of holly and pine.
Juggling the box of supplies, Charles hurried home. But when he pushed inside, he discovered that two of the women still remained. The older widow, Iona Skye, and Lydia Tomlinson, the self-proclaimed suffragist who had organized the cook shack crews into a formidable team.
“Mr. Wanlass, how nice to see you,” Iona murmured, as she wrapped a scarf around her neck. She bent to press a kiss against Willow’s cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow, dear. I’ll do my best to keep the thundering hordes from the Dovecote away. I know they’re all anxious to see the twins, but I’ll convince them to wait a little while.” She seemed to rethink her statement and added, “If that’s at all possible.”
Lydia was the next to hug Willow. For a moment, she gazed down at the baby Willow held—little Adam—and smiled. Then she looked up at Charles.
“Will you be speaking at the Devotional tonight, Mr. Wanlass?”
Charles opened his mouth, closed it, then chose his words carefully. “I’ve resigned from the mine, Miss Tomlinson.”
She blinked at him for a moment, then said, “Perhaps. But I don’t remember your resigning from God. I’ve enjoyed your words, Mr. Wanlass, and I think that most of the camp would agree with me.”
Charles couldn’t be sure, but he thought she winked at him.
“Still, I suppose that, as a new father, we can’t expect you to be back quite so soon. Nevertheless, we’ll be looking forward to the moment you resume your duties.”
After a few more waves and goodbyes, the women hurried out the door and shut it firmly behind them.
This time, when quiet settled over the house, there was no awkwardness, no need to fill the silence. As he set the crate on the table, Charles’s eyes slipped to Willow.
Her head was bent toward the baby she held, and the light from the nearby window gilded the braids she’d wound into a knot at her nape. For a moment, Charles was struck by the sweet, rapt expression on her face, the cornflower-blue of her eyes, her pale skin and those beautiful freckles. In the foundling home where he’d been raised, one of the matrons had a painting over her desk of a sleeping child being protected by a ghostly woman who hung in the air above him. When Charles had asked about it, Matron Bedelmeyer had launched into a long explanation about Realism and art and the familiar motifs of death and the afterlife. She’d expounded on the use of color and shadow and perspective, but Charles hadn’t listened much. He’d been too entranced by the specter hovering over the child with her arms outstretched. In the end, he’d decided that ghost was the child’s mother, protecting him from beyond the grave.
Since Charles had believed that his own mother must have died—else why would he be left at the foundling home?—he’d felt a special connection to the picture.
Gazing at Willow, he was struck by how much she looked like the woman in that painting. The light shining from her eyes made Charles realize how important it was that he save the twins from a fate like his own. No child should ever have to grow up without seeing their worth shining from their mother’s eyes.
“The women took me by storm soon after you left,” Willow murmured. Her voice adopted a slightly singsong quality, as if she intended to woo the heavy-lidded baby into succumbing to sleep.
“I gathered as much,” Charles said. Then, unable to help himself, he shrugged out of his hat and coat and crossed to sit in the chair nearest Willow and the basket at her feet. “How are they?”
“Their tummies are full—” again, she seemed to sing the words “—and they’ve been bathed, changed and wrapped in fresh blankets.”
When she looked up, her eyes were sparkling with something akin to joy.
“The women brought all sorts of things for us to use—fabric and toweling and flannel for more nappies. They’ve set a hip bath upstairs in the spare room, brought me my trunk and my belongings. So you can have your own bed tonight, and I’ll take the cot.”
“No, I’ll take the cot.”
She made a soft tut with her tongue. “Nonsense. All my things are already in that room and yours are in the main bedroom. The cot will be just fine.” Her voice dropped. “Won’t it, Adam?”
The baby was fighting so hard to stay awake. Willow reached out a finger and stroked his forehead—and just like that, his eyes shut.
“They also brought my dishes.” She tipped her head toward the open cupboards in the kitchen and Charles noted that the shelves had been filled with plates, bowls, cups and platters. “And my pots and pans.”
She bent, placing the baby in the basket by his sister. Then, after stroking each baby’s cheek, she straightened, grinning. “Louise Wilkes stopped by a few minutes ago and brought her tabletop sewing machine.” She pointed to a wooden case on the far end of the table. “So I’ll be able to make the layette pieces in a fraction of the time.”
And curtains. She needed to make curtains.
Charles opened his mouth to tell her about the footprint under the window, but stopped himself. Not just yet. He couldn’t bring himself to shatter the mood so quickly.
“I guess I’d better head outside and milk the goat. She’s probably bleating something fierce.”
When he would have stood, Willow quickly said, “No need. Greta took care of that hours ago. The women saw the milk and dishcloths from yesterday and assumed that I wasn’t able to feed the twins.”
He watched her cheeks flood with pink, and the sight delighted him no end.
“Anyhow, they’ve set everything to rights in a single morning.” Her face suddenly fell and she said, “Oh, my. You probably need something to eat!”
Charles reached out, catching her hand and pulling her down again.
“I ate in the cook shack with Gideon Gault. Jonah arranged for us to use my credit should we decide to take advantage of the women’s cooking.”
“Oh. I don’t mind cooking.”
“I know. But there might be a day when the children have kept you busy or you want to join the women for a meal. Either way, we won’t have to worry.”
She be
amed. “That’s wonderful. Thank you, Charles.”
Despite the fact that he’d hoped she would linger in her chair, she jumped to her feet and moved to the shelves. She fiddled with the dishes for a moment before returning with something in her hand.
“This was left on our doorstep today.”
He looked at the rattle lying in her outstretched palm and whistled softly under his breath. He picked it up, examining the intricate silverwork.
“Who would leave such a thing? This is worth more than a month’s wages.”
He looked up to find Willow’s eyes clouded with worry. “I’ve seen that toy before. It was in a bag that Jenny used to hold her stockings.”
“Maybe one of the other girls brought it.”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t think so. If any of them had brought it, they would have done so openly. This was done...on the sneak.”
Charles’s fingers tightened around the rattle.
“That means someone has either been going through her things...” Willow paused. “Or they knew one of Jenny’s hiding places. She had some jewelry, a few pairs of gold bob earrings and a garnet ring that she kept in the same bag, rolled up in one of her stockings.”
Willow returned to the counter and snatched up an envelope covered in her neat printing. “While the women were here, I had them make a list of anyone they remembered having any contact with Jenny.” Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t give them any details of her death, I just told them we were trying to piece together where she’d been for the last few days.”
She handed Charles the list and he fought the urge to groan when he saw that there were at least two dozen names.
“So many.”
Willow grimaced, scooting her chair close so that she could see the list, as well. Not for the first time, Charles became aware of the sweet scent of violets that lingered in her hair.
“I tried to make a notation next to each name if the women could remember why they were at the Dovecote,” Willow said. “Mind you, these names are only from a week or so before Christmas, when we moved into the dormitory. When we were at the hall... I know we all had contact with the Pinkertons, Mr. Creakle from the office and Mr. Smalls from the livery. But I’ll have to see if anyone remembers seeing someone else.”
Charles nodded. “This is a good start, Willow. We’ll go through these together and see if we can come up with any theories.” He hesitated, then said, “In the meantime, I’ll put all the supplies from the store away. I, uh... I brought you everything we thought we’d need, as well as some muslin. Maybe, before you start on clothes for the bairns, you could...make some curtains for the windows.”
When she eyed him with blatant puzzlement, he said slowly, “When I shoveled the walks this morning, I found a set of boot prints near that window there.” He pointed to the panes opposite the kitchen table. “I think someone might have been trying to watch us last night.”
Since the incident with the rattle had unsettled her, Charles had been expecting Willow’s cheeks to pale. What he hadn’t imagined was the way she jumped to her feet, her hands balling into fists. In an instant, her expression changed from sweet protector to angry mother bear as she stalked to the window in question. Her eyes narrowed, and studied the alleyway to the left, to the right, then right below to the spot where the faint outline of a heel impression could still be seen.
“Oh, no,” she murmured, her tone laced with anger. “No, that will not happen tonight.” Then she whirled, her hands on her hips. “Show me where you put the muslin, Charles. I’ve got some window coverings to make before dark.”
* * *
Willow blinked against the light pressing in upon her eyelids. Stretching, she focused on the far wall and the window—one completely covered by a set of muslin curtains.
There were eight windows at the Wanlass house.
And she had made eight sets of curtains.
It had taken most of the night, but...
Dimly, she became aware of pounding coming from below and she frowned. What on earth?
But when her eyes fell on the small clock she’d set on her nightstand, she immediately bolted upright. It was nearly ten thirty!
Too late, she realized that daylight had broken some time ago and the twins had decided to sleep more than three hours at a time. But now, afternoon was swift approaching, and Willow was still abed.
Reaching for her wrapper, she bounded for the door to the spare room. Where had Charles gone that he hadn’t bothered to wake her first?
She dodged into the hall, then backed into the spare room again when Charles appeared from the main bedroom. A giggle burst from her lips when she noted that he’d pulled on a pair of trousers and looped his suspenders over the top of his union suit. For the first time she could remember, the man wasn’t completely neat and groomed. His hair was mussed and a shadow of stubble glinted from his jaw. Even his feet were adorably bare.
“Back!” she whispered. “I’ll answer the door. You get dressed, make up the beds and bring the children down.” Charles had kept the children near him at night, since his room had a small fireplace.
He nodded, retreating into his room.
Willow quickly dragged her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper, hurrying barefoot down the stairs.
“Who is it?”
“Willow, it’s me. Sumner.”
Willow nearly stumbled on the last step. She’d been hoping the unknown visitor would be someone she could instruct to come back at a later time. But if she didn’t open the door for Dr. Ramsey, Sumner would think that something was horribly wrong.
“Just a minute!”
As she raced past the mantel, Willow glanced at her reflection in the peering glass and groaned. Her hair had come loose from her braid and curled riotously around her head like a lion’s mane.
She’d always hated her hair. It was too bright, too thick, too curly. And this morning, it made her look like a child.
Smoothing the waves as best she could, she tightened the tie to her wrapper and took a deep, calming breath. Then she cracked the door open a few inches.
Immediately, she noted that Sumner carried her bag and had donned her physician regalia—somber skirt, high-necked blouse and dark woolen coat. If it weren’t for the jauntiness of the fur on her collar and hat, she would have appeared quite staid. But Sumner somehow managed to wear the severely tailored garments with flair.
“Hello, Doctor. Are you making your rounds?”
“I came to see you.” When Willow didn’t move, she added, “And your babies.”
Knowing that any more attempts to stall would fail, Willow opened the door and waved her friend in.
Thankfully, Sumner didn’t comment on the fact that Willow had clearly just roused—at a shockingly late hour, no less. Instead, she flashed a bright smile.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when Jonah came home to tell me that you were married to Charles Wanlass.” Sumner laughed. “You are a dark horse.”
Not knowing how she should respond to that comment, Willow helped Sumner remove her coat, hat and scarf, then impulsively pulled her close for a quick hug.
From the moment their train had been hit by an avalanche, Dr. Sumner Havisham—now Ramsey—had helped Willow to make a place for herself in Bachelor Bottoms. After so many years in a strict charity school, Willow had found it difficult to adjust to the open camaraderie of the other mail-order brides. And since modesty had been demanded at the Good Shepherd Charity School for Young Girls, Willow had been taken aback when it had become clear that communal living would involve a lack of privacy for washing and changing.
Sumner had found a way to make a secluded changing area for all the women who felt uncomfortable. Then she’d included Willow in many of the daily tasks, allowing her to grow more confident as she made friends.
But there was a risk t
o their close relationship now. As Sumner drew back, she studied Willow with those keen brown eyes.
“So, what’s this I hear about you marrying Charles months ago?” she asked, her gaze dragging over Willow from tip to toe. “And you’ve given birth to a pair of twins, as well?”
Willow cringed, knowing she’d never be able to lie outright to her friend. So she took Sumner’s hand and drew her near the fireplace.
“Sit down for a minute while I poke up the coals. I spent the whole night making curtains, so... I’m afraid I overslept.”
Sumner didn’t seem inclined to follow her, so Willow hurried to lay kindling on the grate, then blew softly on the glowing embers until she could add twigs, then sticks, then finally a log. Through it all, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from chattering.
“Louise loaned me her tabletop sewing machine, which made all the difference. I finished in no time. I think if I had a machine of my own, I could take in orders for sewing myself. The headmistress at my school, Mrs. Owl—that was her real name—always said I was a tolerable seamstress. I used to make and repair the uniforms for the new girls and—”
She broke off when Sumner’s brow knitted in concern.
“Would you like some tea? Or cocoa?”
Sumner looked as if she would refuse, but she finally relented. Tugging the kid gloves from her fingers, she said, “I’d love some tea. Do you need help?”
“No! No.” Willow gestured to the chair. “Just...sit. I want to welcome you to my home properly. Even if...” Her hands smoothed the folds of her wrapper—a beautiful calico one that Lydia had included with the dresses she’d given her. Willow had dithered for hours about sending it back, knowing that the garment was finer than anything she had ever hoped to own—and completely feminine and frivolous. But then she’d realized that, if she meant to live in a house with Charles, she would need something to cover her nightclothes.
“I’ll just...tea...”
She headed to the kitchen, quickly stoking the range in much the same fashion as she’d done with the fireplace. In no time at all, she had the teakettle simmering, cups and saucers laid out on a tray, as well as some leftover scones from the batch the women had brought the previous day.