Whispers of Warning

by Jessica Estevao

  “Many people have found the atmosphere at the Belden to be very supportive of spiritual pursuits. May I presume to ask the nature of your business?”

  “I flatter myself that I am an author.” My dinner companion’s face contorted and he dug quickly into his waistcoat pocket for a second handkerchief before releasing a chandelier-rattling sneeze.

  “You are an author, Mr. Fredericks?” I hoped I had hidden my astonishment. Reading was one of my greatest passions. On the road it had been impossible to attend school but Father felt he would be best served as someone purporting to be a man of medicine if his daughter appeared educated. He decided in our situation the only recourse was to teach me to read at an early age and then to keep me well supplied with a wide variety of books. I had taken to reading with a zeal I had never felt for anything else. Meeting an author was something I had always dreamt of doing.

  Although, I must confess, I had not imagined anyone at all like Mr. Fredericks. Still, if one is not to judge a book by its cover, perhaps the same rule should apply to authors of books as well. I attempted to bury my disappointment in Mr. Fredericks’s fussy manner and lackluster appearance and made another attempt at enthusiasm.

  “Indeed I am. Perhaps you’ve read my latest work A Comprehensive Travel Guide for Discriminating Sensitives?” He leaned back in his chair and drew his fleshly, moist lips into a broad smile. He tented his fingers over his spindly chest and fixed his watery blue eyes upon my face. I glanced at the door eager for the two remaining guests to make a last-minute appearance. Honoria surveyed the room and after raising an eyebrow at the empty spots at my table reached to depress a bone button mounted upon the dining room wall. A moment later the swinging door leading to the kitchen pushed open and the serving staff appeared with broad trays held aloft.

  “I am afraid I have not had that particular pleasure.” Any travel guides Father would have sanctioned would have more likely borne the title One Hundred Best Places to Fleece the Masses.

  “An easily remedied misfortune, I assure you.” Mr. Fredericks reached into an inside pocket of his dinner jacket and withdrew a mercifully slim volume, which he presented to me with a flourish. He then withdrew a fountain pen from his waistcoat pocket and opened the book to the title page. I watched as he inscribed the book with fanfare before handing it to me. “I look forward to discussing it with you at length as soon as you have familiarized yourself with the information therein.”

  Fortunately, I was spared any need to formulate a response, by Mr. Fredericks himself. He commenced to sputter and gasp before releasing another bone-rattling sneeze.

  “Excuse me, miss.” He snapped his fingers at a member of the serving staff, a very young girl who had begun employment at the Belden only a few days before. “Please remove the vase of flowers from this table immediately. As a matter of fact, I insist that you rid the room of all the others as well.” He gestured at the other tables in the room before he turned back to me. The serving girl, Frances, stood looking at me as if rooted to the spot with indecision. I, too, was taken aback. After all, what possible grievance could anyone have against flowers?

  “Have the floral arrangements offended you in some way?” I asked.

  “Not in the way I’m certain you mean.” Dewitt dabbed at his red nose with his handkerchief before tucking it back into his pocket. I shuddered to think of his poor laundress. “As a point of fact, I am a card-carrying member of the Hay Feverists Society.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Frances’s lower lip beginning to wobble. The poor girl was torn between continuing her serving duties and Mr. Fredericks’s unusual demand. No wonder she looked ready to cry. I reached for the offending bouquet and placed the vase on Frances’s nearly empty tray.

  “Frances, you go ahead and remove the vase from this table. Mrs. Doyle will have to be consulted about the other bouquets. Please hurry back to complete your serving duties.” Frances bobbed her head at me and scurried away with the offending vase. Mr. Fredericks rolled his eyes and sighed extravagantly. He was a man in need of a soothing distraction. “Hay Feverists Society, you say. Is that a sort of medical organization?” I asked.

  “We are a group dedicated to seeking out and preserving those environments which provide sensitive people such as myself relief from the onslaught of seasonal attacks of catarrh.” Mr. Fredericks pulled a fresh handkerchief from the depths of another pocket and applied it vigorously to his nose. “We have a large and enthusiastic membership.”

  “Really, how fascinating. How does one become a member of your society?”

  “While technically, membership is open to anyone with the means to pay the five-dollar-per-year dues, hay fever is felt by only a certain sort of person. Those who are true sensitives are the only ones who are stricken.” Dewitt nodded to himself.

  “One of the staff here at the hotel is afflicted by trouble with her breathing,” I said, thinking of Millie. “Is it possible that she suffers from the same affliction?” Perhaps Mr. Fredericks’s unpleasant company would be worth enduring not only on behalf of the hotel but for my friend’s health as well.

  “I would not be at all surprised for those as sensitive as the metaphysical practitioners here at the Belden to be often laid low by hay fever.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear. Millie is one of the maids,” I said. I nodded to the waiter who appeared at my elbow offering a platter of asparagus on toast. I looked up as Mr. Fredericks let out a sort of strangled cough.

  “I’m sorry to say there is no possibility of your maid experiencing hay fever. The lower classes simply don’t have characters of sufficient refinement to be afflicted.” Mr. Fredericks scowled at the food being offered then waved the waiter away without partaking. “Which is why I feel privileged, quite privileged indeed, to be a sufferer. It assures me of the company of those people in the highest strata of the arts and intelligentsia and ruthlessly sorts out those of the lower classes, like hotel maids.” Mr. Fredericks inspected his water glass with a gimlet eye before condescending to take a sip.

  “I am ashamed to admit to you I myself am not a sufferer of hay fever. I fear you will find me unworthy of sharing your table.” I felt a spark of pleasure at the blush creeping up his scrawny neck. People, even those who consider themselves to be a part of the intelligentsia, do so often speak without thinking. I had a particular dislike for those people who believed and decreed themselves to be superior.

  “For some sufferers the seaside is a great aid as well. Perhaps you were amongst those fortunate enough to have found a remedy before any difficulties could be perceived.”

  “Perhaps I should mention that to my aunt. Maybe we could include information about how good the fresh air here on the coast would be for other Hay Feverists.” Yet another waiter arrived with a tureen of soup and I gladly availed myself of the generous portion he offered. I was happy to see Mr. Fredericks finally accepting something to eat as well. It would never do for Mrs. Doyle to hear from the servants that a guest had refused to eat. She might feel honor-bound to terminate her employment.

  “You certainly could. Although I will say it is inferior to the purity of the air in Bethlehem, New Hampshire. Which is why the Hay Feverists hold their convention there every year.”

  “Is there something special about Bethlehem, New Hampshire, for sufferers such as yourself?”

  “I would have thought someone working in the hospitality business would know all about those summer resorts in direct competition with your own.”

  “I have only joined my aunt here at the Belden a few weeks ago. Before that I lived with my father in Canada. I’m afraid I am new to the business.”

  Every time I felt I was becoming comfortable in my new role as a member of Honoria’s household I ran straight up against a reminder of how little practical experience I truly had. I cringed on the inside every time I had to make an excuse for a lack of knowledge. And
not only because I hated to feel incompetent but also because I wished it were possible to forget my time before the Belden had ever happened. Even when the skills I had learned during my old life helped me to succeed in my new one it pained me to think of it.

  “That explains your ignorance. Bethlehem and some other locales in New Hampshire’s White Mountains are free of noxious pollens most likely to bring on attacks. There is something about the high altitudes which renders the air purer than that in the lowlands.” DeWitt’s attention turned to the plate of soup in front of him. “But, as I said, the seaside is also excellent for avoiding the onslaught of symptoms.”

  “Was it the sea air or an interest in metaphysical practices that prompted you to stay here at the Belden?” I asked. Everyday conversation was one of the quickest, most effective ways to gather such information as might help me to do my job as the hotel medium. Learning as much as I could about the people who would likely ask me for a reading during the course of their stay most certainly was in my best interest.

  “I am here working on another book and enjoying the opening of the pier like everyone else in Old Orchard this month.” Mr. Fredericks cast his gaze about the dining room. “Besides, I am a great supporter of suffrage and wished to attend the events planned by Miss Foster Eldridge.”

  “I noticed that you spoke with her when you entered the dining room. It appeared you were acquainted.” I raised my soupspoon to my lips and enjoyed a taste. Cream of lettuce was one of my favorites. My life on the road with Father had not included meals like the ones Mrs. Doyle provided at the hotel. Burnt biscuits and vats of flavorless beans were the staples of the cook tent and something as sublimely silky as a creamed soup was a delight I had known of only through the pages of books.

  “I am happy to say that is so.” Dewitt poked at his own soup with his spoon before setting it down. “Miss Foster Eldridge is herself a Hay Feverist. As is Miss Rice. In fact, they were the ones who assured me the Belden was just the place to spend the month of July. At least it would be if the establishment wasn’t so blighted by the unnecessary profusion of flowers.” He pushed his soup plate away barely touched. Mrs. Doyle would not be pleased. Food returning to the kitchen, plate untouched, sends her into apoplexy.

  “Since it appears the serving girl is not the one in charge of such details, with whom should I speak about making the hotel suitable for sensitive guests such as myself?” I thought about letting him off the hook by offering to take care of it personally. But who was I to deny Mrs. Doyle the pleasure of someone to complain about? I was delighted to think that the someone was not going to be me.

  “It is clear to me that you are a man who likes to speak to the person in charge. You should make your case directly to Mrs. Doyle, our cook and housekeeper, straight after dinner.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Yancey arrived home long after suppertime. The ruckus at the rally had been only a small part of a long and tiring day. Fistfights under the pier, more reports of pickpocketing, and a lost child had kept him on the dead run since he left the amphitheater many hours earlier. He let himself in through the kitchen door and looked around. His mother often waited for him to return before she served dinner but it was clear from the plate and cutlery stacked in the sink that she had already eaten. Yancey had no cause to complain. His job meant he often missed suppertime by hours and hours. At such times his mother or Lucy always thoughtfully left a covered dish for him in the warming oven. He could not recall a time since returning from the army when he had arrived home and no supper was prepared.

  His mother appeared in the doorway clad in her nightclothes and a wrapper despite the warmth of the evening.

  “Hello, darling.” She crossed the room and opened the icebox for a bottle of milk. “There’s a plate of ham and new potatoes for you in the oven if you’re hungry.” He nodded and she busied herself pulling the dish from the oven and jars of relish from the icebox.

  He settled at the end of the old wooden table, out of the way, and drew his pipe from his vest pocket. He’d barely had time to tamp fresh tobacco into the pipe’s bowl before Orazelia placed a heaping plate before him. She piled a few leftover breakfast biscuits onto a plate and plunked them down on the table next to the relish tray before lowering her comfortable bulk into a wooden chair opposite him. He was still tucking a napkin into his collar when he heard the stairs creak and footsteps upon the hallway’s wooden floorboards.

  “Is that you, Warren?” Lucy called out. Not waiting for a reply she burst into the kitchen, her face all aglow. From the way she was dressed Yancey suspected she had not been home long herself but rather recently returned from the Belden or some other respectable dining establishment. She wore a dressing gown but her hair was still pinned up in a complicated configuration held aloft by delicately wrought metal combs. Usually by this time in the evening Lucy’s hair would be confined in a single long braid snaking down her back. It wasn’t unheard of for Miss Proulx to invite Lucy to the hotel in an evening but he couldn’t help but worry after the morning’s events that the two of them were up to something.

  “You haven’t told him my news, have you, Mother?” Lucy asked as she took the third seat at the table and helped herself to a plate of ham and biscuits slathered with butter and drizzled with molasses.

  “Of course not. I knew you’d want to tell him yourself.” Yancey’s sense of trouble increased as he shifted his gaze between the two of them.

  “I’ve been invited to work as a sort of a secretary for Sophronia Foster Eldridge,” she said.

  Yancey lowered his forkful of ham and returned it to his plate untouched. His feeling of hunger had entirely deserted him.

  “You haven’t agreed to do so, have you?” He looked from his sister’s face to his mother’s, hoping one of them would smile as if Lucy were jesting.

  “Of course I have.” Lucy shot Yancey an exasperated look. “It is a tremendous honor to be asked to help someone who is on the front lines of the cause.”

  “What exactly are you expected to do for Miss Foster Eldridge?”

  “I’m to help with correspondence, with names of local women whose acquaintance she should make, and also to act in a sort of understudy capacity,” Lucy said. “Most of all she is relying on my help in organizing a march to bring attention to the cause.”

  “A march?” Yancey asked, his throat suddenly dry.

  “That’s right, a march. She told me all about it this evening during dinner at the Belden. Sophronia has the whole thing planned out brilliantly. She’s even alerted the newspapers.” Lucy’s eyes shone in the low light of the candles.

  Much of the house had been wired for electricity but his mother had insisted that the kitchen could wait for such modernizations. Yancey found some comfort in the kitchen remaining just as he had known it as a boy. Especially on evenings like this one where the world and the roles assigned to its inhabitants seemed to change more quickly than he could get used to. For just a fleeting moment he wished his father were there to act as the voice of reason in his stead. Yancey dismissed the thought as quickly as it flitted in and took up the part of protector he had assigned himself since returning to the bosom of his family.

  “I cannot support this decision.” Yancey cleared his throat and prepared for the onslaught of arguments from his nearest and dearest. “I don’t think either of you realizes what sort of risk you are assuming by participating in this sort of event.” Yancey leaned across the table and reached for his mother’s hand.

  “See, Mother, I told you he would try to dissuade us from helping with this.” Lucy abandoned interest in her biscuit and glared at Warren instead.

  “The crowds at those marches are agitated, violent, even. Their behavior makes what happened at the rally this morning look like a church service.” Yancey could hear the pleading tone in his voice but he couldn’t control it. “People are always hurt. You’d be far safer staying home.”


  “I should think in your capacity as a police officer you would realize how often women are hurt in their homes. The vote is the only way women will be able to help themselves get out from under the yoke of men.” Orazelia’s usually gentle voice took on a strident note.

  “That changes nothing about the danger to you during a suffrage march. Especially one when there will be so many people visiting the town.” Yancey could feel his argument falling on deaf ears. Orazelia had managed to survive the last twenty years in a small town where her husband had been at the center of a horrific scandal by shutting out words she would rather not hear. She was an expert at ignoring things. She looked over at Lucy and some sort of signal passed between them.

  He often felt like an outsider when he was with the pair of them. Ever since returning to Maine after his years in the army he realized how little he had to say in how his family comported itself. He had no reason to believe either his mother or sister would humor him about discontinuing their association with Miss Foster Eldridge or the suffrage movement simply because he asked. But, if he held his tongue and then something happened to either of them, he would never be able to forgive himself.

  “Women are already in constant danger. The rally certainly won’t make that worse and maybe it will make it better in the end,” Lucy said.

  “Please, don’t allow this.” Yancey addressed his mother. “You know how reckless Lucy can be.”

  “You are the one who went off and joined the army and now are part of the police force. How can you possibly say that I am the reckless one in the family?” Lucy jabbed at a slice of cold ham with a fork, and Yancey thought it likely she was imagining him on the plate instead.