Love, B.
Just where would Bronwen think one could carouse in Seneca Falls? Other, that was, than the taverns along the canal, in which a woman who valued her reputation would never set foot. Neva Cardoza-Levy had done it once, in an effort to close down Serenity Hathaway's establishment, but Neva was by nature more dauntless than most.
Since carousing was a far cry from what Glynis had actually been doing until one in the morning, she sighed and took a swallow of cold coffee. Then went to her wardrobe cabinet and, her spirits raising slightly, eyed the dove gray, French muslin gown Emma had made for her during the past winter. At last a day had arrived that would be warm enough to wear it.
Emma had said that, although she didn't approve, a full crinoline would be acceptable, as Glynis shared with Bronwen a refusal to wear hoops. Before gathering up her hair with a set of tortoiseshell combs, she brushed out its nighttime braid, noticing that while it was many shades darker than Bronwen's hair, the vinegar rinse Emma had insisted she use had brightened the reddish-brown considerably. She glanced into her mirror and pulled down a few strands of hair to soften her cheekbones, deciding she was becoming a tad vain in her advancing years. Then told herself it was Emma's influence: Aunt Glyn, you must heed the fact that, whether you want to be or not, you're a walking advertisement for my shop.
Glynis made a face at herself, wondering if next she would be required to wear, chained round her neck, a sign blazoned emma's. Then she pulled several more strands of hair around her face and applied a whisper of rouge. It was, after all, at last spring.
When she reached the downstairs kitchen, her landlady Harriet Peartree was watering pots of herbs on the sunny windowsill, and turned to give her an appraising glance. "You look lovely, particularly after what I would call a late night."
"A very late night," Glynis agreed while she poured herself another cup of coffee. "And now it's a late morning, so I can't go into much detail, but—"
"Don't need to," Harriet broke in, her chin-length hair swinging about her face like silver fringe. "The whole town's in an uproar. And I don't mean about what's going on out there," she added, tossing her head in the direction of the noisy street. "Everybody knows by now that Roland Brant's been murdered."
"How did the news get out so quickly?"
"Glynis, you know how word travels in this town. Like lightning, especially something like this! It's in the Courier, too—an extra edition. The newspaper hadn't arrived yet, though, when your redhead shot out of here at the crack of dawn."
"Bronwen? Why, what time did she leave?"
"Which time? She's been back twice since then. First time I heard her banging around down here, it was before six.
"Where could she have gone that early? And she must not have stayed with Emma, so when did she come back here last night?"
Her landlady's brows lifted as she said, "I don't know exactly when, but it was certainly long before you did."
"Harriet, you're looking at me as if you think I was...out carousing!"
Finally, with that, came Harriet's good-natured laugh. Followed by a more sober, "As a matter of fact, after I heard what happened at the Brants', I guessed you were probably with Cullen Stuart."
Glynis nodded, while she spread apple butter on a muffin. "For reasons known only to Cullen, he insisted I go out to the Brant house."
"I should think so."
"Why do you say that?"
"Cullen Stuart's a smart man, but he's not... what's the name of that detective in those Poe stories you made me read?"
Glynis smiled around the muffin. "I didn't make you read them, Harriet, I just suggested them. And the name's Auguste Dupin. But if Cullen's no Dupin, I'm not either. So what did the newspaper say?"
"That Roland Brant had been stabbed. In his own house. Is that true?"
"You can always believe what you read in the paper." When Harriet chuckled, Glynis added, "As it happens, this time the Courier got it right. That part, at least. What else did it say?"
"Not much. Constable says there are no suspects yet. But he wants anyone with information about the Brants' kitchen maid to come forward. Seems as if the girl's gone missing, so she sounds like a good suspect to me. But you probably already know that."
"Did the paper give a description of her?"
"Only a general one. Could fit any number of girls in this town. Age sixteen or seventeen, the paper said—blonde hair, blue eyes, and comely. That right?"
"That's what we were told last night. Did the Courier mention anything else about her?" Glynis wondered if it had reported that the girl was mute.
"Just her name. Said it was Tamar. Tamar Jager."
Jager! Glynis said nothing, but reminded herself how little stock she put in coincidence.
***
When Glynis reached the corner of Fall Street, she noticed townsfolk standing in small, restless knots along the road, some of them gesturing toward the stark stone factories and warehouses on the south side of the canal. She assumed, from their anxious, inquisitive expressions, that they were discussing Roland Brant's murder. And were likely thinking that if it could happen to him, with his castle dwelling and his solid stone buildings and his substantial wealth, it could happen to anyone.
While she waited for several wagons and buggies to pass before she could cross the road, she saw Bronwen just emerging from the telegraph office.
Her niece stopped on the plank sidewalk, obviously reading a wire, and then looked up at the sky with a rapt gaze. When Glynis waved at her, Bronwen quickly stuffed the rectangle of yellow paper into her pocket; the pocket of a leaf green dress, buttoned from neckline to hem, and notably lacking hoop, ruffles or flounces. It was what Emma called the new, princess style, and clearly she had taken some pains to accommodate her cousin's dislike of frills. But while the young woman in the dress resembled nothing so much as an elegant wood sprite, Glynis found herself less interested in Bronwen's looks than in her continued, strangely furtive behavior.
A loud rattle of wheels made Bronwen scurry to stand at the edge of the road beside Glynis, and together they watched a dray wagon turn down Cayuga Street, this one loaded with what looked to Glynis like shrubs of pink blossomed mountain laurel. She couldn't be sure, but she didn't think laurels were indigenous to Seneca Falls.
"Just look at those bushes!" said Bronwen. "I'll wager they came from the greenhouses at Mount Hope Nurseries."
Since Bronwen had grown up next door to those Rochester nurseries, her father being a horticulturist there, Glynis took her word for it.
"They must have come by rail," Bronwen went on, "which has to be costing The Lady Vanessa a fortune!"
"I expect so. But when Vanessa decides to do something, she usually spares no expense."
Glynis thought that Bronwen was a little too enthusiastic about the shrubs, and wondered if the purpose was to distract. "Well, Bronwen, what have you been doing this morning?"
"Oh, nothing much." Her niece at first did not meet her eyes, but then went on more openly, "Though I did have breakfast with Professor Lowe at Carr's Hotel. I was coming to Peartree's to find you, because your assistant Jonathan Quant said you hadn't been to the library yet. Cullen Stuart wants you at his office. As soon as you can get there."
"I hope he put it as less of a command than that," Glynis said.
"A little less," Bronwen grinned. "But he did say to tell you he'd tried to see the woman you mentioned to him last night. The one who's staying at Carr's Hotel, too. A popular place!"
"Mrs. Jager?"
"Yes, she's supposed to be at Cullen's office in—" Bronwen paused, presumably looking for the time, and glanced in a window of Partridge's Bank"—in about half an hour."
"In that case, I'd better tell Jonathan."
"I already told him. There weren't too many patrons there and he was just dandy, Aunt Glyn, sitting cross-legged on the floor unpacking crates of books."
"What books were those?" Glynis asked, with red-caped villains and nubile innoce
nts leaping to mind.
"He said they'd just come from London."
"Ah, those finally arrived. Well, then, Jonathan might keep his mind on what he's doing, because there are no dime novels or melodramas in that shipment. At least I hope the British have not succumbed to them." She also hoped that Silas Marner, George Eliot's new novel, was among those in the shipment. Although the stacks of books to be read on her library desk and her bedside table were reaching perilous heights.
"I'll walk with you to Cullen's office," Bronwen said. "There's something I need to tell you."
At last some answers, Glynis thought as they started up Fall Street. "What is it?"
"Just that Vanessa Usher, and everybody else, might be going to a lot of trouble for nothing. Because I don't think there'll be a wedding."
"What? Why do you say that?" Turning to stare at her niece, Glynis nearly stumbled into the crates of asparagus stacked in front of Monroe Groceries.
"I thought you should know," said Bronwen. "Not that I care about Vanessa, but people are coming from out of town for this. I asked Emma weeks ago to send an invitation to Tristan Marshall in Pennsylvania. I don't know if he's coming, and neither does she. I doubt he's too concerned with things like RSVPs. You remember Marsh, don't you?"
"Yes, I remember him," Glynis answered. "But what is this about there being no wedding?"
"And besides my family in Rochester, aren't Uncle Robin and Emma's brothers traveling from Illinois?" She was referring to Glynis's brother and nephews.
"Yes, of course they are, but for heaven's sake, Bronwen, just what are you basing this prediction on? No, wait, don’t answer that yet. Let's go down there." She pointed to a bench in a small grassy patch on the shallow slope to the canal. "There's no need to air this for the whole town."
"I don't think the whole town would be interested," Bronwen remarked as they walked down the slope. "The only thing anybody's talking about is that murder. I can't remember—when I used to spend summers here, did I ever meet Mr. Brant?"
"You might have. His son Erich usually competed in the horse race at the fair, and he probably was there the summer a few years ago when you won it. I'm sure you recall that race."
"How could I forget? Being disqualified just because I was a girl!" Bronwen threw herself down on the wood-slatted bench, the memory plainly still galling.
Glynis sat down beside her and glanced around them before she said, "Now, why do you think Emma's wedding may be called off?"
"It's what I overheard in her shop. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I could hardly help myself, they were talking so loudly."
"Emma and Adam?"
"You already know about it?"
"Bronwen!"
"Oh, I guess not."
"Will you please not draw this out, and just tell me?"
"O.K. When I left the shop last night, I forgot to take the hair thingamabob that Emma's insisting we wear. For the wedding—that looks like it's not going to happen."
"My patience, Bronwen, is wearing thin."
"Sorry. This morning I went to the shop and I used that back delivery door. And I heard Emma talking in the front room. I thought she was with a customer, so I went upstairs to fetch the hair thing. But then I heard Adam MacAlistair's voice, too. And they both sounded aggravated. Well, at that stage I was more or less trapped upstairs, and I couldn't think what to do. Not without embarrassing all of us. Besides, I didn't know it would get worse."
"They were having a disagreement?"
"I'd say it was more like a fight."
"About Emma's shop?"
"So you do know!"
"Bronwen, just tell me what happened."
"Do you want a blow-by-blow version, or should I just summarize?"
"Dear Lord, give me strength!"
"I'll summarize. Emma told Adam that she wanted an agreement drawn up before the wedding. Something that says after they're married, the shop still belongs to her. So she can do with it as she chooses."
"Yes, and...?"
"Adam said he was disturbed that Emma would insist he sign something, because he'd given his word to her about it. Anyway, he said, the new law about married women's property makes her shop...I think he used the word 'secure.'"
"To which Emma said?" Glynis prodded.
"That she didn't trust the law. That the law in the past hadn't done women much good, so why should she rely on it now? And besides, she said, she didn't want to involve the law. She only wanted Adam to sign a piece of paper."
Bronwen paused and frowned at the canal. "When you think about that, Aunt Glyn, it doesn't make much sense. Emma wants his signature, but doesn't want the law? I mean, a signed document does tend to make you sit up and think: legal!"
"Just go on, Bronwen. Really, when you report to Treasury, does it have to be dragged out of you?"
"You're not Treasury. And I'm trying to give you the flavor of it. Where was I? Oh, and then Emma said that when she took out a loan to buy the shop, the bank made her sign a contract. And if bankers have signed contracts, she thought she was entitled to have one, too."
"And then?"
"And then things really went downhill!"
"Bronwen, please!"
"You said you wanted it short. Emma sounded like she'd started to cry. Adam didn't sound too pleased either. Said Emma must not trust him—and how could they have a marriage built on distrust? You know, Aunt Glyn, he has a point there."
"Could you not editorialize, at least not yet."
"But that's about all of it. No, there were a couple more things. Adam really hit the roof when Emma asked him what if, later on, he changed his mind? And made her give up the shop? And if he did that..." Bronwen broke off, frowning again. "I just want to make sure of Emma's exact words here. She said to Adam, 'If you make me give up my shop, then do I have the right to make you give up your law practice?'"
Bronwen hesitated, as though giving her cousin's question fresh consideration. Then she continued, "Adam said, of course not! There was no comparison. That he would be the laughingstock of western New York, if anyone learned that his betrothed had asked him to put his signature on something so...I think he said 'demeaning to my professional integrity.' And that his word was his bond, and so on and so on and so on."
"Which it is," Glynis murmured.
"So you're on Adam's side, too?" Bronwen asked in a surprised tone.
"I'm trying very hard not to take sides, Bronwen. Was there anymore?"
"Then poor Emma really started crying. It sounded as if she was gasping out every other word. She said what if something were to happen to Adam? Something like him dying? How would she survive after that? she asked him. Because—and it gets complicated here, Aunt Glyn—because if he let her keep the dress shop, but in name only, and then decided that someone other than herself should run it, she would lose control of the business and might inherit a worthless property."
"Which, unfortunately, is a very real prospect."
Bronwen's eyes widened. "And now I think about it, Adam didn't answer that. But it might have been because..."
Her voice stopped and Glynis asked, "Because what?" before she realized that her niece was grinning.
"Well, all of a sudden Emma's sobbing sounded muffled, and then things got very quiet—if you know what I mean."
"Probably, but could you be a little more explicit?"
Still grinning, Bronwen said, "Since I thought this might be my chance to get out of there, I sneaked down the stairs, and peeked around the doorway into the front room. And, just as I'd suspected, Adam had his arms around Emma and it was a pretty scorching scene!"
"I see," Glynis said, trusting that Bronwen knew her smile was for the choice of words and not for Emma's predicament.
"But as I was creeping out the back door, I heard Adam mumbling something about he and Mr. Merrycoyf being the best lawyers around. And that they would know what was best for Emma. Which was not too humble of him, I guess, but he's probably right, don't you think?"
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"I don't know what to think."
"Now can I editorialize? Since we're supposed to go to Cullen's office."
Glynis stared at the sparkling water of the canal, and wondered how much she might have contributed to this issue between Adam and Emma.
"For a while there," Bronwen said, "Adam sounded truly put out. And I'm not sure I blame him. After all, it's a fine time for Emma to bring this up—four days before the wedding!"
"She might not have thought it all through before."
"But why did she agree to marry Adam if she doesn't trust him to keep his word?"
"I don't think she mistrusts him. Bronwen, try to look at it from Emma's viewpoint."
"But Adam said she could keep her shop! And it sounded to me as if this wasn't the first time he'd said it."
"Emma is wary with some reason. She's seen women who have lost what they brought into a marriage," said Glynis slowly as she tried to think how to explain it. "For instance, some time ago, a young woman—whose parents had very little money—married one of the most charming men you could imagine. He told everyone, when he arrived here in town, that he came from a wealthy New England family, had graduated from Harvard, et cetera, et cetera. Before the wedding, and because the father of this young woman had nothing else to give her in the way of dowry, he turned over to his daughter the deed to his small house. I know this because Emma made a beautiful wedding gown and told the couple she would wait for payment until they were settled."
At least, Glynis thought, she now had Bronwen's full attention.
"To make a long story short," she went on, "two months after the marriage, this very charming man found another young woman to charm, and then threw his wife and her aging parents out on the street. And the law said that he could do it, because what had been given to his wife now belonged to him."
For a moment, Bronwen just stared at her. "That's the most awful... what a wretched scoundrel. The man and the law! Did Emma get paid for the gown?"
Glynis sighed. "That's hardly the point I'm trying to make. But no, she did not."
"Adam, though, is not a scoundrel," said Bronwen. "I know his parents died when he was young, and he had to work all the while he was in law school, but he's been a lawyer here for some time. We all know him. And know he's a decent man."
Must the Maiden Die Page 9