by Susan Wiggs
Not for the first time, Jackson felt a wave of contempt for Lemuel St. Croix. The man cared more about silken waistcoats than about law enforcement. Not that St. Croix was stupid; Jackson had always sensed a certain cold craftiness in him. He just didn’t seem to care. Particularly about Indians.
Remembering the scar the sheriff always tried to hide beneath his fancy hat, Jackson figured he knew why.
“So you’re not ready to let this go,” he said to Sophie.
She stared at the dock beneath her feet. “I can’t. The dead man is my half brother.”
He brushed her cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry. But why come to me?”
“Because I thought you’d help.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
She shrugged. “You act like a father to Bowie. You trained the new gelding for Leah. I saw you splitting wood for Perpetua. You just...help people.”
“Sugar, there’s a difference between chopping wood and getting involved in murder.” His neck prickled with discomfort. “But you said the murderer is gone and probably drinking himself to death. So why do you need help?”
“I want to know who is supplying these man-killing guns to my people.”
“The murderer probably stole the gun, and it’s at the bottom of Puget Sound by now. I’m sorry as hell for your brother, but it’s over for him. Best to move on, look to the future.” His own advice about Carrie. He ought to heed it. “I’ll keep an eye out. That’s all I can do.”
“I see.” She turned away and walked back down the dock.
Jackson watched her for a long time. He noted the tired dignity of her posture, the plodding tread of her feet on the planks. He wished he could help her. But he knew he could help her best by keeping her from asking too many questions.
The spent bullet felt like a run of bad luck in his pocket. He’d recognized it the minute he’d seen it.
It was U.S. Army issue.
* * *
For the third time in as many weeks, Leah was summoned to the preacher’s house to look after his wife. She drove Sophie and herself in the buggy with ease and assurance, the Morgan behaving beautifully, responsive to every tug on the reins. Although Jackson T. Underhill hadn’t spoken to her since their quarrel two weeks earlier, he had, for some inexplicable reason, taken the horse in hand and buggy trained the gelding.
She was thinking, as she passed the wooden shop fronts that stood shoulder to shoulder along the waterfront, that she should thank him.
How simple it seemed. “Thank you, Mr. Underhill,” she muttered under her breath, “for training the new horse.” One sentence. That’s all she had to say to him. But she knew she would choke on every word.
“Did you say something?” Sophie asked.
“Just thinking aloud.”
Sophie sat on the bench beside Leah, her calico skirts handsomely arrayed with beads and shells. A few of the children playing in the street spotted her and started patting their mouths, giving war whoops.
“Don’t mind them,” Leah said, irritated.
“I don’t.”
“Well, hell’s bells. I do.”
Sophie gave a serene nod. “I know. You mind every little thing. Ever since your quarrel with Jackson Underhill.”
“That’s not so,” Leah protested.
“Whatever you say.” Sophie smoothed her hands over her skirts. “He works like a madman on that boat. He’s determined to get it out to sea.”
A knot of men stood on the board walkway in front of the sheriff’s office. Leah gave them only a passing glance; then she noticed the tallest of them. Sun blond hair. Broad shoulders. A face she prayed each night to forget.
“Speak of the devil,” Sophie said.
“What is Jackson Underhill doing with the sheriff?” Leah’s heart tripped a little in her chest. Had his past caught up with him? Was he in trouble?
“I told him what happened on Camano Island. About the murder.”
“I don’t understand. What does it have to do with Jackson?”
“The sheriff did not answer my question about the gun that killed my kinsman. I thought Jackson Underhill might know.”
Leah relaxed against the seat, relieved more than she would admit. Before turning up Main Street, she allowed herself a final passing glance over her shoulder. He wore a leather vest with no shirt beneath it, and his easy way of leaning against the peeled pine stair rail accentuated his rugged good looks.
She stared a moment too long, and he caught her. He pushed his hat up a little and raised one hand. Even from a distance, she saw a slow grin slide across his face. Cheeks aflame, she snapped herself around.
They pulled up at the preacher’s house, a trim, white frame dwelling adjacent to the church. The Reverend Cranney was well-to-do, his wife a notorious snob and the self-appointed arbiter of good taste and society. A former favorite of Leah’s father, she was still a frequent patient, her ills never serious, her need for attention greater than her need for treatment.
None of which endeared her to Leah. But Leah had taken an oath, and that oath bound her to answer even the most frivolous of calls.
“I hope we have plenty of smelling salts,” she muttered, clambering out of the buggy and grabbing her bag. “It’s probably another fit of the vapors.”
“The missus is in the back sunroom,” said the maid who answered the door. “Took sick when we were out boiling laundry. She’s in a bad way.”
Leah followed the maid through the house, walking on carpet woven of rich wool, passing paintings of scenes in Europe she would never see, potted plants and ferns in china holders. A set of fine Irish linen draped the table and buffet in the dining room.
The beauty and opulence of the house reminded her, with unexpected poignancy, of some of the better years with her father. When things went well, they had lived in houses like this with servants and tutors. The trouble was, it never lasted.
Leah stepped into the bright sunroom and saw her patient. The brief reminiscence faded to nothing.
“Mrs. Cranney,” she said, crossing the plant-filled room to a white wicker chaise where the mistress of the house reclined. “What seems to be the trouble?”
Even before the lady spoke, Leah assessed her. She was a stout woman, normally florid and active. But today she lay back against the tufted cushions of the chaise, wan and listless. Her coloring was poor; a thin layer of perspiration covered her brow and upper lip. Her eyes were dull yet contemptuous as she regarded Leah.
“There you are. It took you long enough, young lady,” she said, ending on a wheeze.
Leah did not consider herself young; nor did she feel terribly ladylike in the face of Mrs. Cranney’s vitriol, but she maintained a calm facade. “How long have you been feeling poorly, ma’am?” she inquired. “And have you had anything unusual to eat or drink?”
“I’ve been feeling poorly since I sent for you hours ago.”
Leah didn’t tell her she’d been dealing with a family in which five children had come down with the measles. The family was poor and not likely to pay her, but their need was the greater.
As Mrs. Cranney recounted, in minute detail, everything she’d eaten for the past several days, Leah glanced out the window. In the yard, one maid tended a vat bubbling over a fire, while another pegged out the washing. The clothesline displayed row after impressive row of petticoats, bustles, and corsets like suits of armor made of buckram and whalebone.
“I can hardly breathe,” Mrs. Cranney complained. “When I get up, I fall right back down in a dead faint.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Leah took out her stethoscope. “Ma’am, I need to listen to your heart and lungs.”
“You didn’t do that last time.”
“You wouldn’t let me last time.”
“Well, I won’t let you
this time, either. It’s indecent.”
Frustrated, Leah pressed her lips together. “You sent for my help. I can’t help you unless you cooperate. Mrs. Cranney, I’m concerned about you. I didn’t press the issue last time, but your condition has worsened.”
“Your father never would have foisted such an indecency upon me.”
No, just a bottle of useless syrup along with his fee, Leah thought, biting her tongue.
With slow, deliberate movements, she took off the stethoscope. “Then I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Wait.” Mrs. Cranney’s pasty face puckered with lines of worry. “Very well, but I don’t like this one bit.”
“Lean forward, ma’am. Sophie will help you with your dress.”
Fifteen minutes later, Leah was sweating and biting her tongue to stop a stream of swearwords that would have done Jackson Underhill proud. Mrs. Cranney had trussed herself like a Thanksgiving turkey. She wore the heaviest corset Leah had ever seen, the laces pulled so tightly that the skin was bruised, almost cut in places. Beneath the corset, a thin lawn shift lay plastered against the lady’s tortured flesh. When Leah and Sophie finally managed to free the lady from her whalebone prison, Mrs. Cranney let out a huge breath, then inhaled deeply.
Sophie brought her a cup of water while Leah held the smelling salts.
“My, that’s bracing,” Mrs. Cranney said, some of her color returning. “You do me a world of good. Perhaps, in time, you’ll be the doctor your father was.”
“I certainly hope not,” Leah muttered under her breath. She listened to the lady’s heart and lungs, finding them quite normal now that she could actually hear something.
“Well?” Mrs. Cranney asked.
Leah regarded her soberly. “Ma’am, you are in very good health indeed. There is only one thing wrong, and that is easily remedied.”
“What is that?” Mrs. Cranney asked eagerly. “Have you more of your father’s calomel?”
“No.” Leah refused to dispense the calomel. The purgative killed more than it had cured. “Even simpler. You see, all the years of wearing a very stiff corset have caused your inner organs some amount of harm. You are impeding your breathing with the pressure, ma’am, and placing undue exertion on the heart.”
“Oh dear.” She pressed her pale, soft hands against her heart.
“But the remedy is simple. You simply eschew the corset.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t wear the corset?”
Leah glanced at the contraption on the floor. “Exactly. You’ll feel a world of good. I haven’t ever worn one.”
“That’s immoral. And unhealthy to boot,” Mrs. Cranney insisted. “Everyone knows a woman needs a corset to support her back.”
“Women—like men—are born with perfectly good skeletons,” Leah said. “Our bodies are wonderful machines. All the parts work as they should, for the purpose they should. They need no artificial support.”
“Preposterous!” Mrs. Cranney burst out. “I won’t hear of it. I won’t show my face or any other part of me without a corset. Why, I even wear one to bed.” She gazed reverently at the device. “Mine are imported from England. They’re specially made to my particular specifications. They take months to get here.”
“They’re destroying your health, Mrs. Cranney. I can be no more blunt than that.”
“You lie.”
“No, and I refuse to give you a little purgative to make you more comfortable in your truss. If you value your health and the quality of your life, you’ll simply cut your clothes to fit you without a corset.”
“Never!” She reached for the corset. “Now, help me back into this or call for my maid.”
Furious, Leah grabbed the undergarment. “Do you want my help, then?”
“I sent for you, didn’t I?”
“Fine, I’ll give you help.” She heard Sophie’s gasp of surprise as she marched outside with the corset. The maids squawked in startlement as Leah walked the length of the clothesline, plucking down the other damp corsets that hung there. Her arms full of the offensive garments, she went to the fire where the laundry was boiling. “Excuse me,” she said bossily to the maid standing there, agape.
Mrs. Cranney screamed a protest as she realized Leah’s intent. “Don’t you dare!”
Leah ignored her. She ignored the neighbors who had gathered along the picket fence to watch. She ignored the men who had sidled over from the sheriff’s office to see what all the hollering was about. With a look of utter contempt, she shoved the load of corsets into the laundry fire and stepped back.
The garments smoldered for a moment, then burst into flames. Black smoke, redolent of rubberized canvas, rose from the inferno. By that time, Mrs. Cranney had found a robe and snatched it on. She came barreling out of the house. “My corsets! My corsets!”
It was too late. No one could—or would—get near them.
* * *
In all his far-flung travels, Jackson had never seen anything quite so strange. There stood Leah Mundy with a defiant Joan-of-Arc look on her face, making a bonfire of women’s unmentionables while the reverend’s wife flew at her, screeching like a banshee. No one standing at the picket fence and watching seemed to know quite what to do.
The preacher, who had come out of the parish office adjacent to the church, fanned his face with his flat-brimmed hat. His spectacles had fogged up, but he didn’t seem to notice. The sheriff’s deputy elbowed the butcher Gillespie, trying hard not to laugh aloud.
Jackson turned to the sheriff himself. Because of Sophie, he’d broken his own rule to steer clear of the law. “St. Croix?” he said. “How about a little law and order around here?”
Shrieking in outrage, Mrs. Cranney reached for a blackened corset, trying to rescue it from the fire. Leah pushed her hand away. “Ma’am, you’ll burn yourself, and then I’ll really have some doctoring to do.”
“How dare you?” Mrs. Cranney demanded. “This is beyond forgivable.”
“Sheriff?” Jackson prompted. It was all he could do to hold in his laughter. It had been too long since he’d had a good belly laugh, but making Leah the butt of it was probably a mistake. He elbowed Deputy MacPhail. “Caspar?”
The deputy took a step backward. “I wouldn’t touch this situation with a barge pole.” MacPhail gave up the effort of a dignified silence. He turned away, made the mistake of making eye contact with the butcher, and they both burst into guffaws.
“You are finished, Leah Mundy,” Mrs. Cranney railed. “Do you hear me? Finished. You’ll never practice your black art again. I’ll see to that.” Her husband scuttled back into the parish office, probably to pray for a miracle.
The laughter that had been tempting Jackson suddenly evaporated. Seeing that he’d get no help from the sheriff or the husband, he braced one hand atop a fence post and vaulted over, landing in the yard. As he approached the laundry fire, the two maids began nudging each other and whispering behind their hands.
Mrs. Cranney paused in her diatribe to pull her robe tighter. Jackson made the most of his unhurried ambling and swept off his hat with a courtly bow. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “I just stopped by to see if there was a fire. All that black smoke looks plenty dangerous from the street. Is everything all right?”
She clutched at the front of her robe. “Why, sir...I...no, there’s no danger, Mr....”
“Underhill. Jackson T. Underhill. I’m a newcomer to these parts.”
“I thought I’d seen you around town.”
He could feel Leah’s stare drilling into him, but he ignored her. Leah Mundy’s sharp tongue had a habit of getting her into hot water. He had no idea why he felt so compelled to get her out of it, but he did.
“Well, everything is fine, but thank you for stopping to check.” Mrs. Cranney tilted her head coyly to one side. Hell’s bells, she
was flirting with him. “Will you be staying in the area very long, Mr. Underhill?”
If eyes rolling in disgust made a sound, Jackson thought, Leah’s eyes were making that sound now.
“I can’t be sure, ma’am. I put in for repairs to my boat.” He sent her his most roguish grin. “Course, you make me wish I could settle in and join the church.”
She blushed, as he knew she would. Leah made a huffy sound and turned to the fire, using a stick to poke the last of a reeking corset into the flames. Mrs. Cranney seemed to have forgotten. “Why, Mr. Underhill, really. And here I am barely dressed in my robe, not a proper thread on me—”
“On the contrary, ma’am, you’re perfect just as you are.” Feigning complete innocence, he said, “You know, I always wondered why a beautiful woman would truss herself up in a hard shell, hiding all the Lord’s handiwork. I know it’s mighty forward of me to mention, but I’m real pleased to see you’ve decided not to follow that convention like some ninny sheep.”
Her flush deepened. “Actually, I—”
“I’d best be going, ma’am.” He bowed again and put his hat back on. “You stay just as soft and pretty as you are, you hear?” He glanced at the corsets, now charred beyond recognition. “I expect you’ll start a trend.”
As he walked away to let himself out through the back gate, he heard Mrs. Cranney remark, “What a delightful man.”
“Isn’t he, though?” Leah replied, acid in her tone.
The damnfool woman, Jackson thought. Didn’t she realize he’d just saved her butt—again?
14 July 1894
Dear Penelope,
I worked hard at my medical studies, but now, even with a practice of my own, I realize I still have much to learn. Sometimes healing is not simply a matter of finding a physical ill and treating it.
Sometimes you must look into the heart and soul of your patient and see a need that might be masked.
Today I treated a woman for indigestion and asphyxia due to a tight corset. That was the primary, immediate problem. The true problem was that she is a lonely, neglected wife who has nothing but vanity to cling to. I thought she was wasting my valuable time. What she was really doing was calling out for help.