*
All day, Jillian Eldridge felt as though something wonderful was about to happen. Even as she did her marketing, she couldn’t shake the feeling. She eyed an apple too far away to reach and thought of James. She half expected him to get it for her, as he had so very long ago, but then, that was impossible.
He often told her that her auburn hair and the dimples in her cheeks reminded him of his childhood friend, Leesil. As well, he remarked on her friendly smile and how she was kind to everyone, especially the blind man. Jillian remembered him saying that each time she dropped coins into the blind man’s cup. How could she not? Sometimes she could swear she saw James out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, it was always just her imagination.
It was getting late, so Jillian chose a different apple, paid the grocer, dropped coins in the blind man’s cup, and headed home. She was an only child and after her mother passed away, Jillian took on the responsibility of the household chores. It included cooking, cleaning, caring for her father, and going to the market each day to buy fresh food. At least she did not have to work outside the home like so many other young women her age did. As was her custom, she entered the kitchen through the back door and set her basket on the table.
“Father, I’m home.” She could hear him coughing in the parlor and she was worried. He sounded worse, so she went to see for herself. She intended to redecorate the parlor as soon as funds would allow, but until then, it remained simple, yet pleasant room with crocheted doilies on each of the small tables, electric reading lamps, a footstool, a sofa and two chairs. Two umbrellas stood in an umbrella stand near the door, and white curtains offset the blue patterned wallpaper.
Seated in an easy chair, Mr. Eldridge covered his mouth and coughed again. “You are late. I feared you had run off.”
Jillian felt his feverish forehead and then smiled. “And to where would I run? I know no place but this.” She pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and reached for another to spread across his legs. “Seems everyone is ill lately. The market was nearly out of mustard seeds, but fear not, I managed and I shall make you a mustard plaster for your chest shortly.”
He coughed, and tried to ask, “Expen…”
“Expensive? A bit, but I had enough left over to give the blind man his due. I swear he is the only healthy one in town these days.” She handed her father the cup of lemon tea she left on the table beside his chair earlier. “Did you not promise to drink this while I was gone?”
He nodded and dutifully took a swallow. It was bitter, but it helped his throat and enabled him to talk better. Mr. Eldridge took another drink and then set the cup back in the saucer. “Thatcher Gray came to see you.”
“Again? What did he want this time?”
“You know full well what he wants. He wants to marry you.”
Frustrated, Jillian plopped down in the chair opposite him and frowned. “Father, I so wish you would not encourage him. He does not please me, not in the least.”
“Why not? He is a good man with a steady income. You could do much worse.”
She paused until he finished another round of coughing. “I could do much better too.”
“You are twenty-two and yet unmarried. I do not want to see you miss out on having a home and a family. If you wait too long…”
“You speak as though twenty-two is elderly. I am hardly a spinster, not yet anyway.”
“I know, it is just that…”
Jillian rose up and interrupted him. “I want to love the man I marry the way I loved James, and I shall not settle for anything less.”
“And if there is no other like James? What then?”
“Then, I shall grow old with you and be content.” She kissed him on the cheek, felt his forehead again and headed back to the kitchen. “I shall make your mustard plaster in a little while, and soup for your dinner. Drink your tea, and take your aspirin powder, Father.”
Mr. Eldridge heard her close the back door and then heard her footsteps on the outside stairs. “Prison,” he muttered. “I’d sooner see you a spinster than married to a convict.”
*
In her upstairs bedroom, Jillian took a clean white apron out of her dresser drawer and tied it around the waist of her red print dress. She was about to go back down stairs when she spotted the framed picture she still had of James. She sat down on the edge of her bed, drew the picture to her and held it against her heart. “How can I ever find another you? I long to love again, James MacGreagor, but my heart will not let me. Can you not free me somehow?”
Jillian sighed and put the picture back on the nightstand next to her bed. “See what you have done? I have said more to your ghost than I said when you were alive and safe in my arms. You lie at the bottom of the sea, yet you are with me every moment of every day. I must go on, but I cannot seem to force myself. Surely, I have gone mad.”
Her father was right. Like it or not, she had to consider her future. She wanted children, she wanted a husband, and she wanted to be happy. Still, was it enough if the husband loved her even if she didn’t love him? She had to admit Mr. Gray was a decent sort with a steady income and a kind heart. Maybe she should consider him.
“Mrs. Jillian Gray,” she said aloud. “I truly could do worse, I suppose.” She shrugged, stood up and walked out the door.
*
The next morning, Jillian’s father was a little better. She spread the ground up mustard seed paste on a cloth and applied it once more to his chest. The warmth was guaranteed to help with his pleurisy, or so everyone said.
Mr. Eldridge coughed and then said, “Tomorrow, I must go to work.”
“Not if you are unwell still.”
“Jillian, we are in need of the things only money can buy.”
“I know. Perhaps I might find work.”
“I’ll not…” He paused to cough before he went on, “hear of it.”
“Very well, we shall discuss it when you are better.” She felt his forehead. “I believe you are a little better this morning. More tea?” Jillian wasn’t surprised when he vigorously shook his head. She had been practically forcing it on him for three days. “Very well, then try to sleep.”
She went back to the kitchen, put the bowl of mustard paste aside and decided to make oatmeal for his breakfast. She got a bowl out of the cupboard and thought of James. She poured oats out of a glass jar into the bowl and imagined him coming to the door. She added honey, milk and a spoon…and dreamed of being in his arms again. When she peeked in the parlor, her father was sound asleep, so she sat at the kitchen table and ate the oatmeal herself.
It was the way she started every day, and couldn’t imagine doing anything different. He was dead, she knew it, she even believed it…but thinking of him still brought unspeakable joy to her heart. Who in their right mind would want to give that up? Of course, she couldn’t possibly be in her right mind. She knew that too.
CHAPTER 6
It began as little more than a whisper in the Denver wind.
Mrs. Georgia Kelly, wife to Lieutenant Governor, Brent Kelly, sat on one of two expensive white upholstered chairs supported by solid walnut carved legs. She simply could not take her eyes off the book she was reading. Absentmindedly, she felt for a teacup that sat on the French provincial table between the two chairs, and only when she nearly knocked it over, did she tear her eyes away to look. The cup belonged to her Victorian tea set, was adored with beautiful hand painted roses and gold trim, and it would be a great shame to break it. Assured she had not done so, the older woman with graying hair quickly returned to her reading.
She simply could not believe that it was actually possible for one woman to have so many disgraceful marriages. Yet, she recognized the names of two of the husbands. Therefore, it had to be true. Once more, she read the warning on the last page:
Beware, for Alexandra Sinclair is in the world still, and is quite possibly in America. She is of average height, slender build, and is called exceedingly beautiful by most
men. Her hair is black, her eyes are blue and she has a notable scar in the shape of a small pear, from a burn possibly, on her left arm.
Slowly, Georgia Kelly closed the deep red, hardbound book cover, set it in her lap and stared at the title printed in gold. With her mind firmly made up, she reached for the telephone.
As all good women did, the wife of a prominent Denver citizen was required to do some sort of public service, and years before, she joined the six-member Denver library book approval committee. Why not? Reading was her passion and she had little else to do. Naturally, there were some books she found repugnant, albeit deliciously so, and the public needed to be warned away.
“This book must be banned immediately,” she announced as she called each member of the committee, “lest it lead many an impressionable young lady astray. I tell you, the title alone is enough to…what is the title? It is – The Scandalous Affairs of Alexandra Sinclair.”
Before the members could vote, each had to read a copy, and in hushed tones, and the strictest of confidence, they alerted all their friends. That very day, not one of the women notified took more than an hour to dress and race to the bookshop. Other patrons took notice of which book seemed to have gained the notice of so many others, and snatched up all the remaining copies.
Sold out, the bookshop owner began to take orders from demanding disappointed customers. He doubled, tripled, and then quadrupled his restock order. Fortunately, the NY distributor had done the same when ordering from the London publisher and it took but four days to replenish the supply in Denver. Word spread quickly that the library committee thought to ban it, which caused quite a stir. Still more books were sold to those who were in a hurry to buy a copy – before the committee demanded it be yanked off the shelves.
Meanwhile, Georgia Kelly telephoned her cousin, Mrs. Erma Jenkins, who lived less than seventy miles to the south of her in Colorado Springs. Mrs. Jenkins and her husband had just recently purchased a home from the Whitfield and MacGreagor Construction Company, and Georgia was certain her cousin would want to know about the book. She quickly filled her in on all the shameful details and added, “Absolutely everyone is already reading it.”
Mrs. Jenkins let the phone fall out of her hand, ran out the front door of her house, and headed for the new bookshop on Main Street. It boasted of exceptional customer service, and their slogan was, if they didn’t have it, they would do everything in their power to get it.
“Mrs. Jenkins?” Georgia asked still on the telephone in Denver. “Erma?”
“I believe she has hung up,” said an unfamiliar voice on the party line.
Abigail Whitfield slowly put the telephone receiver in the cradle and buried her head in her hands.
It had begun.
*
Determined to live on her husband’s income, McKenna MacGreagor Mitchell saved and saved until she could afford a Chase Brother’s upright piano. Moving it into the house after it arrived by train from Muskegon, Michigan, took six stout men, but at last it sat against the wall in her parlor, complete with a matching bench to sit on. Made of maple wood, the advertisement boasted of some 11,000 parts, genuine ivory keys, hand-carved rose lattice and two peddles that could soften the tone or extend it for several extra seconds.
Miss Matilda Meriwether, the church pianist, regularly came to give lessons and McKenna caught on quickly. McKenna set her piano practice ticker for two hours every day, and looked forward each week to the teacher’s arrival.
Matilda was a shy, reserved woman in her mid-thirties who had yet to find a husband. She loved music, had a habit of tipping her head from side to side to the beat of the song, and when McKenna finished playing, she said, “Very nice, Mrs. Mitchell. You shall be a concert pianist in no time at all.”
McKenna grinned. “I’ll not be trying out for the symphony anytime soon. I have two children yet to bring up.”
“So you do.” The piano teacher grabbed her purse and stood up. “I must know, will Mrs. Whitfield ask Provost MacGreagor’s permission for her daughter to marry a member of your clan?”
“I hope so,” McKenna answered as she too stood up, “but I dinna recommend wagerin’ the house on it. I have yet to correctly guess what Abigail will or will not do.”
“None of us can. Years ago, before you came to live in the Springs, I endeavored to teach Gloria how to play. Mrs. Whitfield stopped the lessons. She said she simply could not abide the practicing another moment.”
“Was Gloria upset?”
“Not at all, Gloria hated it.” Matilda slyly grinned. “I think Gloria’s missed notes were on purpose.” She picked up her short white gloves and began to put them on. “Mrs. Mitchell, I was wondering…how is Lady Bayington? It must be most distressing to lose a husband after so many years of marriage.”
“Particularly one as fine as Edward. She loved him dearly and he loved her. Leesil and Cathleen try to keep Laura busy, but she sometimes sits on the ballroom balcony and grieves. ‘Tis what she came here to do.”
“She could not grieve in London?”
“Not peacefully.”
Matilda wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean?”
“I fear I have said too much already.” McKenna stood up and started for the door. “Forgive me. I am keeping you from your next lesson.”
Miss Meriwether was more than a little curious, but she let it pass. “Next week, then?”
“I look forward to it.” McKenna had just watched the music teacher walk down the street when the phone rang. She hurried to the table next to the sofa, sat down and picked up the earpiece. “Hello.”
“McKenna, it is Abigail. You are intending to have dinner at our house tonight, are you not?”
“Your house, I dinna…”
There was dread in her voice when Abigail interrupted, “Dear one, we must all gather so we may decide…we must…I am afraid I must insist that you and the judge come at your earliest convenience.”
“Is someone ill?”
“No, no. It is that…other thing.”
“Oh, I see. Very well, I shall alert the Judge and we shall set out as soon as court is adjourned this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” a relieved Abigail said. “See you then.”
*
It was after seven that evening before all the guests arrived to have dinner at the Whitfield’s. They numbered eleven adults and included McKenna and Judge Mitchell, Hannish, Leesil, Cameron and Cathleen MacGreagor; Lady Laura Bayington, Mother O’Connell, her son Samuel and his wife Francis, and of course, Ben O’Connell and Gloria Whitfield, who were hopefully about to be married. Once they were seated at the table, they chatted about unimportant things while they were served dinner.
They were about to finish their cabinet pudding and black coffee when Claymore excused the footmen. He laid his fork in his plate and folded his arms. “Now, my dear Abigail, I assume you have something important to tell us.”
“Indeed I do. I overheard…”
“On the telephone?” Claymore interrupted.
“How else am I to know what is going on in town? Not a friend or acquaintance has called to tell me, and I doubt they ever shall.”
“Yes, yes, well then, go on,” said Claymore.
Abigail repeated what she heard on the telephone and finished with… “And there has been quite a run on the bookshop already.”
“The book is here?” Leesil asked.
“No, as far as I can tell, there are none in stock. But people insisted the manager order copies right away,” Abigail answered. “I tell you, it has begun and soon it shall be raining hellfire and brimstone.”
Gloria rolled her eyes, “Mother, do you not exaggerate…”
“No, I do not! It will likely arrive just before your wedding, and…”
“The wedding that has been called off?” Claymore asked.
Abigail’s agitation was starting to make her feel feverish. She put her hand on her forehead and slowly turned to glare at her husband. “It has not been call
ed off!” She decided she was not yet getting ill, put her hand down and continued, “As I was saying, the book is the ruin of us all and I should like to know precisely what we intend to do about it.”
“At least we are not in Texas,” said Mother O’Connell, setting her dessert dish aside. “The hailstones weighted six pounds and killed men and cattle alike.”
“Where did you hear that?” Samuel asked.
Mother O’Connell answered, “It was in the Denver paper. Some said the stones broke right through the roofs of the houses.”
“I wonder how Mrs. Taft is doin’,” Leesil said.
“Mrs. who?” Cameron wanted to know.
“The President’s wife,” McKenna answered. “Do you not recall? She suffered a stroke last month.”
“I do now that you mention it,” Cameron admitted.
“I read that she has trouble speakin’, but nothin’ more than that,” Cathleen said.
“Did you read about the New York fortune tellers?” Mother O’Connell asked.
“What about them?” Ben asked.
“Well, twenty-one were rounded up and forced to sign a $1,000 peace bond before they were let go. The judge said they could easily make their money back, simply by using their psychic powers to conjure it up.”
Ben laughed. “I have often wondered why they claim to be so gifted, yet must work for a livin’ just like the rest of us.”
Becoming more and more agitated, Abigail had heard just about enough of their gibberish. “I say we move away.”
“Preposterous,” Claymore said. “I shall not let that woman rob me of house and home.”
“Nor will I,” Hannish agreed.
“Besides,” said Claymore, “the book shall follow us wherever we go.”
“He is right,” said Cameron. He set his dessert dish aside too.
“We could change our names,” Abigail insisted.
“To what?” Cameron asked. “Puttyroot?”
“Mrs. Cameron Puttyroot?” Cathleen teased. “I rather like it.”
Marblestone Mansion, Book 9 Page 7