My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “Excuse me? Don’t I know you?” Someone tapped Ben’s shoulder. He slowly turned to face one of the journalists from the Lansing Tribune.

  Danny Williams’s exuberant smile yanked a grin out of him in return. “Thought that might be you, Steffan. You sure clean up well!”

  Morris, the clerk, raised his head and glanced in their direction.

  Ben grasped Williams’s elbow and angled him toward the exit to the porch. “Friedrich König is my pseudonym here.”

  Pulling his arm loose, Williams shrugged free. “Fine.”

  “Let’s head to the porch.”

  “Should be fine as long as we don’t get too close to the rails.”

  “What brings you here?” Ben asked.

  “Holiday with my parents.”

  The two journalists passed through the wide, heavily glassed doors and onto the Grand’s famous porch. Breezes carried up hints of the pine trees below. Beyond the lawn and trees, heavier rain fell into the straits. Rainfall pounded the porch roof, performing an ominous percussion prelude.

  Ben nodded as several couples strolled by opposite them, arm in arm, one of them Marcus Edmunds, who quirked an eyebrow at him.

  Ben leaned toward the other journalist. “So you’ve been here before, Dan?”

  “I take it you’re not a newspaperman on this gig, Ben. Am I right?”

  “True. I’m a German aristocrat and American industrialist.”

  Williams threw back his dark head and laughed. “That’s you, then—I’ve been hearing about the mystery gent up here. Keep an eye on me this week and I’ll show you how these rich girls want to be treated.”

  “I thought you were finally getting married, Dan.”

  “I’m not dead yet, am I?”

  “No, but after that stunt in the balloon, we all wondered.”

  “Yeah, well …” Williams gave a curt laugh. “I covered a story at the 1889 State Fair in Michigan, where they had the thing tethered, but some crooks made off with it.”

  “For the Free Press?”

  “Yeah, so I’d wondered what it might be like.”

  “Probably not the best thing to do with the boss’s daughter.” Anna Forham had been willfully disobedient of her mother’s request that she not go up in the balloon. Williams had paid the price, too.

  “Nope. But I’m enjoying Lansing.” He grinned. “And I met my fiancée.”

  They moved toward a bench, on which two young women perched against the porch’s back wall, away from the possibility of rain.

  Dan stretched out a hand to the first girl. “Nadine? I believe you grow lovelier each year.”

  “You’re mistaken, sir.” The brunette’s Gibson girl hairstyle bobbed as she craned her neck back. “My name is Evelyn Stanton, of the New York Stantons.”

  The journalist grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “I apologize, dear lady. You’re far lovelier than the fair Nadine. Many pardons.”

  Ben held himself aloof, observing the little scene.

  Marcus Edmunds strolled back by, the daughter of a wealthy investor on his arm. He winked at the young ladies, eliciting giggles. He and his lady strolled on.

  Miss Stanton extended a slim hand toward her lithe blond friend. “And this is Gladys Matelski.”

  “Daniel Williams at your service, and this is …”

  Ben clicked his heels together and gave a short bow. “Friedrich König.”

  Gladys waved toward two empty seats, one on either side of them. “Do join us, gentlemen.”

  Dan pulled out a chair for himself. Ben reluctantly sat down beside him. If only he could have followed Edmunds and listened in on his conversation. He needed that backup story for the paper.

  “What brings you fellows to the island?” Another downpour hammering the roof almost drowned out Miss Stanton’s words.

  “Here to meet someone.” Williams grinned broadly. “And I heard about the wealthiest young woman on Mackinac Island cavorting with a Detroit journalist. Wondered if he was after her money. Figured if it would make a good article.”

  Ben swallowed. He feared the lengthy porch might sink in and suck him down with it. He wiped at the sweat that had broken out on his brow, the fine linen handkerchief yet another reminder of the fraud that he was, the tiny embroidered crown mocking him by digging into a cut from his too-close shave. Moisture continued to billow in, seeping through his jacket, which he yearned to remove.

  “You don’t say?” He had to stop this young man from pursuing the story further.

  “And I heard a better rumor.” Dan leaned in, his elbows pressed against the table, his jacket straining across his back.

  “What’s that?” Gladys cocked her head sideways.

  “That the skinflint Adelaide Bishop is here and intends to buy an inn.” Dan laughed. “My money’s on the Winds of Mackinac. It’s an island landmark.”

  “Adelaide Bishop!” The blond leaned forward. “The wealthiest woman in America and she’s here on the island?”

  “That’s what I heard, and I intend to find out.” Danny’s handsome face split in a grin. “Just look for the lady reusing her tea bags all day and dressed in the shabbiest clothes. I heard she was denied admittance to the last railroad shareholders meeting because the guards believed her to be the washerwoman.”

  Over the next hour, the rain ebbing and flowing in fits, Dan flirted and cajoled the young women until they were fawning over him. Ben recollected a time when his uncle would do the same. Right in front of his wife and usually at one of his parents’ orchestral events. Had Uncle Friedrich been trying to embarrass them?

  The blond leaned closer to the table, her elaborate chain necklace swinging against her lace-covered bodice as she met Ben’s gaze. “What do you think about Mrs. Bishop being here?”

  “I would wonder why she was here. A woman like her doesn’t do anything without a purpose, ja?”

  Her friend elbowed her. “Wouldn’t you like to know what her secrets are?”

  Friedrich shook his head. “It is no secret when one lives like a pauper, has no children to tend to, and is a miser, then …”

  The two shrank back. He’d been too severe in his assessment of the woman. He raised his hands. “I apologize—but I feel sorry for a woman whose only joy in life seems to be profiting from the misery of others.” Who might be attempting to profit from the Wellings’ situation.

  “Well said, Stef … er, Mr. König.” Dan scooted his chair away from the table. “Excuse us, ladies, but we’re going to resume our walk.”

  Ben likewise rose and bowed to the two demoiselles. Then he and Dan resumed their stroll. The cool mist seemed to bank and roll onto the porch, chilling Ben.

  Ben had to help the Wellings keep their inn. Bishop was known for swooping in like a bird of prey and devouring assets that were in trouble.

  Maude’s family must be in trouble.

  Face washed and powdered, Maude descended the stairs to the inn’s lobby just as Uncle Robert opened the front door. He tucked his umbrella into the stand and removed his coat, hanging it on the oak hall rack.

  Where was Bea? She was supposed to be monitoring the front parlor and entryway. She could have assisted him.

  Maude moved toward him, expecting a hug. “Uncle Robert, I’m so glad you’re looking so well today—what a fright yesterday must have been.”

  When she reached him, however, he didn’t even kiss her cheek. His wavy hair curled around his white collar, moisture making it appear even darker than usual.

  “Maude.” His clipped tone and unsmiling face chilled her.

  She took a step back.

  “I’ve come to discuss some things with your father.”

  “Like why you aren’t staying with us?” She crossed her arms.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “But Winds of Mackinac has been your home for the past ten years.” Since Grandmother died.

  “Let’s take this conversation into the office.”

  Maude stepped around hi
m and opened the door to the office, Father’s stale cigar smoke greeting them. She took a seat, and Robert sat in the chair adjacent. “Father is resting.”

  He shoved a hand back through his thick hair. “I need to speak with him.”

  “Then you’ll be waiting quite awhile because I’m not waking him up.”

  Raising his hands in surrender, he shook his head. “You’re almost as stubborn as he is.”

  “Probably more so.”

  He laughed.

  “Since you’re here, I wondered about the Canary.”

  His bright hazel eyes widened, and he stood and paced to the window. “What about it?”

  “We’ve always rented it out in summer, before …” Before Mother died.

  He whirled around, his eyes hard. “Yes, I’ve allowed your mother to rent my house out, but make no mistake—it is my home to decide what I wish for it.”

  Maude swallowed hard. She’d just been put in her place. It had been Grandmother’s home and one the Wellings had lived in during the winter months when there were no guests.

  The office door opened and Bea, attired in a frilly blue gingham dress, entered. “Is it okay for me to come in now?”

  Robert’s eyes widened. “Not now, Beatrice. Wait for me on the porch.”

  “Why aren’t you in your uniform?” Maude frowned at the girl. “And who is watching the front parlor and desk?”

  “I don’t work here anymore.” Bea rocked back. “You’ve got that new girl now.”

  Maude stared at the girl slack-jawed.

  “She thinks she was going to be let go—sent me a message at the Grand.” Robert clasped his hands together.

  “She isn’t dismissed—I’ve simply hired another girl.” Why was Bea turning to Robert for help? “For now, Bea, please attend to your duties.”

  Bea bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Miss Maude.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “Before I forget, I need to tell you that Sadie asked if you could work second shift at the Grand tomorrow.”

  “What?” Was her best friend seeing Robert? Maude’s face heated at the thought.

  “Sadie has permission to take tomorrow off. But she swapped with the second-shift parlor maid.”

  Maude swallowed hard. “And Mrs. Fox has said what?”

  “As long as you are agreeable, you’d need to stay on in the parlor area until after dinner.”

  That long? How would she cope?

  “I wish you girls would stop this nonsense.”

  “Sadie has sisters to support.”

  Robert opened his mouth but then clamped it shut.

  “And if I could get Father to see reason …”

  “That’s one reason I’m here.” He scratched his chin, now bare but normally covered with a thick black beard streaked with premature silver. “Your father has had his head in the sand ever since my sister died.”

  She sighed. “Tell me about it! He’s refused to allow me to run the inn.”

  “So that’s why you’re at the Grand?”

  “I’m trying to prove to him that I don’t need Greyson beside me to run the inn. Cadotte women have run businesses on this island for decades.” Granted, Father had done most of the inn’s management for Mother.

  Robert huffed out a breath. “Maude, what has your father said to you about the will?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And that’s the problem. He refuses to sit down with me and the attorney in St. Ignace to address specifics.”

  Maude frowned. “I thought he had at least read it.”

  “Oh, he read it all right—but he doesn’t believe what it says.” Robert shifted side to side in his oxford tie-ups.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, if you had worked as hard as your father has, running these island businesses, would you accept that upon your wife’s death you owned none of them?”

  The wind seemed to have been sucked out of her lungs and off to the Mackinac straits.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cumulous clouds dotted the robin’s-egg-blue-colored skies Wednesday morning, and the previous day’s rain had vanished. The changeable June weather perfectly suited Ben as he set off to the docks with Jack.

  They boarded the boat bound to the Upper Peninsula with only a handful of islanders.

  “I’m doing my shopping in St. Ignace, Mr. Christy,” a red-haired woman told the bearded workman seated beside her. “What brings you to the mainland?”

  “I’m going to see my sister. She runs a bakery over here.” The man tugged his slouch cap lower. “And I could use a little break from all that work at the Grand and at my wife’s tea shop.”

  Jack needed a break from the island, too, and Ben was happy to provide it, especially since he also needed to make the trip.

  Soon the schooner crossed into the north side of the straits, skimming with the breeze, through the waves. The boat carried Ben to the Wellings’ attorney and Jack away from the island. Jack leaned out as far as he could from the side of the boat.

  “Come over here by me, Jack.” Ben patted the bench. This boy could end up being his brother-in-law one day, if God blessed him with Maude as his wife. How, though, unless he got his promotion and raise? Today would be only a slight detour on his route to getting a stellar story for the paper.

  Scrunching his face, the boy returned to his spot. “What’s it like living in Detroit?”

  Ben shrugged. “Busy place—lots of traffic, lots of exciting things going on.” Social events he covered as a journalist. He dragged his hand across his jaw.

  “Me and Dad are gonna move downstate, soon as we can sell the inn.”

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “So your family owns the inn?”

  “Of course we do.” The boy sighed. “Well, Grandma owned the inn and Great-grandma Cadotte before her.”

  “Cadotte?”

  “Yeah.”

  Maude was a Cadotte. Williams’s words sluiced through his mind—a journalist chasing the Cadotte heiress.

  Jack grinned. “But the inn is Dad’s now.”

  Or was it?

  “And we need money for my training for the Olympics.”

  “But I think your sister wishes to stay, ja?” Could she care enough for him to leave the island behind?

  The boy picked up a flyer for a musical show in St. Ignace and wadded it into a ball. “Dad says she’s free to do what she wants.”

  “But what if she wants to run the inn?”

  “Greyson married up, so that ain’t happenin’.” Jack crossed his arms over his thin chest. “Dad has someone interested in buying.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  Jack’s eyes dimmed. “Nah.”

  This smelled like Adelaide Bishop’s tactics.

  “Hey, I want to run after we get there.”

  “I thought you might want to.” Good thing, because Ben planned to visit with Mr. Hollingshead. He had to find out what he could do to protect Maude and her family.

  Gilded letters on the black door announced “STEVEN HOLLINGSHEAD, ESQUIRE.” Ben glanced through the glass. A young woman sat with a child on the floor. He went inside and stepped onto the wide-planked, unfinished floor, which creaked as it bore his weight. The heavily pregnant mother stood and wiped her hands on her wrinkled gray skirt.

  “Can I help you?” She moved toward a small oak desk angled in the front corner of the rectangular office.

  “I’m here from the island to speak with Mr. Hollingshead about the Wellings.”

  A tousle-haired man emerged from an office to the left, hastily tying his floppy bow tie. “I was wondering when someone would finally come.”

  Finally?

  The toddler jumped up from the floor and threw his arms around the man’s pant legs. “Go to Mommy now, Johnny.”

  The young woman pried the child’s fingers loose and picked him up. “Almost time for your nap.”

  “Take him upstairs, dear.”

  She shuffled down the dark narrow hall, and in a moment footstep
s ascended a back stairway.

  “This is normally a paperwork day.” The attorney shrugged. “But my secretary quit, and my wife has taken over her duties.”

  One would never see this arrangement in Detroit. “Friedrich König.”

  Hollingshead shook Ben’s hand firmly. “So you represent the Wellings?”

  Do I, Lord? Maybe not like this man meant, but when Ben opened his mouth, “Ja” came out.

  “I’d given up on Mr. Welling coming to see me.”

  When Ben said nothing, the man waved him forward.

  “Well, come on in, then, and let’s go over the specifics.” He went to a tall oak cabinet nearby and pulled out a large folder. Jacqueline Cadotte Swaine and Heirs, was written on the front. “I got the letter, by the way.”

  “We mailed it from the island.” Jack had. Didn’t that count?

  “Mr. Welling must realize that, despite his personal feelings, we’re dealing with a binding legal document, does he not?”

  Ben shrugged.

  “Well, I guess he intends to object or he’d not have sent you.” The man sighed and sat down in his cane-backed chair and pushed forward to his desk. “I’d hoped he was simply venting and didn’t plan to contest the will.”

  Hollingshead pointed to a seat across from the desk. Ben sat, the five journalistic Ws always in his mind. “What would you do in his situation?”

  Hollingshead’s light eyes widened. “If my wife knew of these contingencies, I’d be furious that she didn’t inform me when her mother died and she’d inherited.”

  “Ja.” Ben swallowed. “Why do you suppose Mrs. Welling didn’t share the information?”

  The lawyer laughed. “My wife tells me things all the time, and I don’t listen to her if I’m distracted by business—daily.”

  “So maybe Mrs. Welling did talk with him, and he’s not remembering.”

  Hadn’t Mother told Groβmutter and Groβvater that their son, her brother and the heir to the title, would run her off the land as soon as they were laid to rest? And both scoffed.

  The attorney shrugged.

  “Who else knows about the provisions?”

  “Your client’s brother-in-law, Robert Swaine, of course. He’s tried to set up several sessions for me to meet with Peter, but he was unwilling to come over from the island.”