Out of the Ordinary

by Jen Turano

  “You’re supposed to ride with me, Miss Cadwalader,” Clementine called, and even though Gertrude was certain that was not the case, but not wanting to cause a scene with so many guests watching her, she assured Mrs. Davenport and Edwina she’d be fine, and walked over to join Clementine.

  Taking her arm, Clementine gave it a good pat. “I must say you’ve surprised me, Miss Cadwalader, but in a most delightful way.”

  “I’ve surprised you?” Gertrude repeated.

  Clementine leaned close. “You suggested to Mr. Sinclair that he dine with me this evening.” She patted Gertrude’s arm again. “I truly thought you were opposed to assisting me with capturing his affections, but do know that your unexpected suggestion to him about dinner will not be overlooked by me. Rest assured, I will, from this point forward, consider you a friendly acquaintance of mine, and . . .” She smiled. “I’ll see to it that I make certain to acknowledge you when we attend the same functions, which will go far in elevating your status within society.”

  A prickle of temper took Gertrude by surprise. “You seem to be under the misimpression that my asking Harrison to partner you for dinner was a sign I’ve decided to help you secure his affections.”

  Clementine’s smile slid directly off her face. “Why would you have suggested it then?”

  “I’m sure I have my reasons, none that need concern you, though. But in the interest of avoiding another one of your very condescending and completely unacceptable gestures of friendship, or ‘friendly acquaintance’ business as I believe you called it, do know that I have no intention of furthering your cause with Harrison, nor do I care whether you acknowledge me out in public or not.”

  Clementine dropped her hold on Gertrude’s arm and narrowed her eyes to mere slits. “I make a far better friendly acquaintance than enemy, Miss Cadwalader. But since you evidently don’t care to become one of my friendly acquaintances, consider yourself warned.”

  Spinning on her heel, Clementine stalked away and disappeared into a waiting carriage, leaving Gertrude behind.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  TWO DAYS LATER

  “Gertrude, be a dear and trot back to the attic and see if you can locate one or two more traveling trunks,” Mrs. Davenport said, pulling Gertrude from a lovely daydream she’d been having about Harrison and the dance they’d shared at the Manhattan Beach Hotel. “I want to put my best foot forward this season in Newport, and I can hardly accomplish that if I don’t take the proper accessories with me.” She bit her lip. “Now that I think about it, fetch three traveling trunks. I don’t believe I’ll be able to fit all these reticules in the trunk I’m packing now, and we’ve barely started assembling the wardrobe I’m going to need as I go about the daunting task of ushering Edwina into the folds of high society.”

  Setting aside the hat she’d been wrapping in paper, Gertrude quirked a brow at the large pile of reticules that were waiting to be packed, a pile that was significantly larger than it had been five minutes before. Reminding herself for what felt like the millionth time that it would not bode well for her to balk at what was yet another unreasonable request from a lady who was being more contrary than usual, Gertrude summoned up a smile.

  “While I’m more than happy to trot up to an attic that seems miles and miles away from this room, I would like to point out that the summer season in Newport has a limited number of days, which means . . .”

  “They’ll be filled to the brim with marvelous society events, so perhaps you should bring down four trunks instead of three,” Mrs. Davenport finished for her.

  Unable to help but feel as if she’d landed smack-dab into the midst of some odd type of test she had no idea how to pass, or why she was being tested in the first place, Gertrude turned around and began counting silently under her breath, stopping when Mrs. Davenport began tsking under her breath.

  “I know you’re counting again, dear, a clear sign of a troubled mind if there ever was one. However, I must point out that if anyone should be troubled, it’s me. Why, I’m taking on the daunting task of launching a young lady who is very nearly a spinster, and believe me, that will be no easy feat.” She released a dramatic sigh. “Every eye will be upon us, remarking on the fashions we’re wearing, and that right there is reason for concern. I’m kicking myself for not suggesting you and I travel to Paris months ago to secure a summer wardrobe for me, a mistake that now leaves me at a disadvantage, unless . . .”

  She sucked in a sharp breath of air. “On my word, why didn’t I think of this before? I’m simply going to pack a few of the designs I’ve been fiddling around with of late.” She fanned a face that was quickly turning pink with the reticule she’d plucked from the large pile. “You mark my words, Gertrude, once Newport sees how flattering a larger-than-life bustle can be for a lady’s figure, I’ll be granted the title of society matron extraordinaire—the one lady in society everyone will be clamoring to embrace. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if, after our time in Newport, I become known not only as the society matron to seek out if one wants to launch a young lady with less than perfect credentials into society, but also an innovative designer of truly unique fashions.”

  Gertrude frowned. “It almost seems as if you’re contemplating taking on a more visible role within society, abandoning the idea you’ve always embraced about maintaining a life best kept out of the spotlight.”

  Mrs. Davenport waved that aside with a flick of a wrist. “I’ve decided to branch out a little because keeping out of the spotlight gets lonely after a while—not to mention boring.”

  “You must know that branching out is not a good idea, particularly because of the questionable activities you enjoy pursuing.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you could possibly be implying,” Mrs. Davenport said with a sniff before she waved a hand toward the door of her bedchamber. “However, before you and I get completely at sixes and sevens with each other, I do believe I hear the attic calling you.”

  Swallowing the hundred or so reasons that were on the very tip of her tongue in response to Mrs. Davenport’s decision to “branch out a little,” or the thousand or so responses she could make about the denial Mrs. Davenport had voiced pertaining to her “questionable activities,” Gertrude folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Since you’ve decided we need four trunks fetched from the attic, it will be a more effective use of our time if we send a footman up to the attic instead of me. That way I can remain here with you, packing up the choices you’ve made, which will ensure our unpacking will go much smoother once we land in Newport, a landing that has now been pushed up considerably since you want to depart with the tide tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Davenport’s expression turned stubborn. “I don’t know why you seem so cross about changing the date of our departure. I told you, we have no choice but to leave tomorrow because Edwina simply can’t miss Mr. Ward McAllister’s picnic. Everyone who is anyone will be at that event, and I’ll enjoy better success of seeing her well launched if I do that initial launching with Mr. McAllister’s support. You know he’ll take one look at Edwina’s stunning face and give her his blessing, something that will immediately guarantee her inclusion with the most fashionable set.” Mrs. Davenport settled a stern gaze on Gertrude. “Surely you must understand why I’m insisting on keeping to such a tight schedule, even if it might require a touch of extra work for you. I’m sure Edwina would do the same for you if your roles were reversed.”

  Throwing her hands up in defeat, and feeling just a little resentful that Mrs. Davenport was so keen to assist Edwina even if it meant working her trusty companion to the bone, Gertrude spun around and headed for the door. “Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but sending a footman instead of me to fetch additional trunks would go far in allowing me plenty of time to see us packed.”

  “You recently vowed to embrace a more active attitude to diminish the number of stitches you’ve been experiencing of late,” Mrs. Davenport called after her. “I
imagine traveling to the attic a few times a day is extremely beneficial to a lady’s constitution.”

  Gertrude stopped in her tracks and turned. “I’ve already been up to the attic at least seven times today. I think my constitution has suffered enough, thank you very much. In all honesty, four more trips to the attic—and hauling four more trunks out of that attic—could very well do me in.”

  “Or provide you with improved physical stamina,” Mrs. Davenport said with a nod. “Besides, I don’t trust anyone but you to visit the attic, so sending a footman up there is completely out of the question.”

  “Since when have you not trusted anyone but me to visit the attic?”

  Mrs. Davenport turned back to her pile of reticules, pretending an absorbed interest in them while she neglected to answer Gertrude’s question. Knowing it would be easier all around to give in and trot back to the attic—four times at least, from the sound of it—Gertrude lifted her chin and marched from the room.

  Striding down the long hallway of the second floor of Mrs. Davenport’s brownstone, Gertrude drew in a deep breath, the corners of her mouth curling when the odd thought sprang to mind that at least she could draw in a breath today, a circumstance she was never taking for granted again. Drawing in an even deeper breath simply because she could, she reached the flight of stairs that led to the third floor and began climbing.

  As she climbed, she reminded herself how ridiculous it was for her to get her feelings injured simply because Mrs. Davenport was treating her exactly how one was expected to treat a paid companion.

  Paid companions, as everyone knew, occupied a curious position within most households. They were not as lofty as the butler, or as essential as the housekeeper, but they were considered above the footmen and maids, even ladies’ maids. They were also given the privilege of attending society events, but while they did enjoy a certain elevated status, they were still the paid help, something she’d apparently begun to forget.

  Reaching the landing to the third floor, Gertrude set aside thoughts that were leaving her somewhat depressed, an attitude best left abandoned when faced with the task of ambling around a gloomy attic filled to the brim with abandoned odds and ends. Walking to a door that led to the narrow steps of the attic, she picked up the candle she’d left on a table in front of the door because the attic was not attached to the gas that was used to light the rest of the house. Striking a match, she lit the candle, headed through the door, and began navigating her way up the stairs.

  Once in the attic, she took a single step forward, then froze in place when what sounded exactly like flapping wings greeted her arrival. When something flew directly over her head, she let out a shriek, ducked, then dropped the candle, shrieking again when the attic descended into blackness as the flame sputtered out.

  Crawling on her hands and knees, she headed for the far side of the attic, hoping she’d eventually run into the wall where a curtained window was located, praying all the while that while she crawled, the mad creature now whizzing over her head wouldn’t attack. Wincing every other minute as she ran into one pile of abandoned objects after another, she finally reached the wall, knowing without a shadow of a doubt she was now certainly the worse for wear.

  Her head was throbbing from running into something unmovable, her knee was bleeding from dragging it over something sharp, and her entire body was trembling, a direct result of the terror that was flowing through her because she had no idea what type of creature was running amok in the attic. Worse yet . . . was it in possession of fangs?

  Reaching out a hand to guide her in the blackness, Gertrude finally found the curtain she was searching for, and giving it a good yank to the side, she squinted against the sunlight that immediately flooded the room. Struggling to her feet, she fiddled with the window latch, pushed the window open, then dove for the floor again when fluttering wings sounded directly behind her. A second later, a small bird flew over her head and out the window, chirping merrily away in what Gertrude thought might be appreciation.

  Leaning against the sill as the bird flew away, Gertrude drew in a gulp of fresh air, wondering how it would feel to be like the bird that had just escaped—free from the confines of an unforeseen prison, or in her case, free from the responsibility of maintaining a position where her best work was never appreciated and unreasonable demands greeted every new day.

  When her vision began to blur and her mood began turning maudlin, an attitude that would not help her complete the many tasks demanding her attention, Gertrude brushed aside the lone tear that was trailing down her cheek and stiffened her spine.

  There was no point languishing in a state of self-pity, especially when she’d seen firsthand the harm such languishing could do to a person.

  Lifting her chin, Gertrude began moving through the objects scattered and stacked throughout the room. She finally spotted a trunk and headed straight for it, setting the old blanket that covered the top of it aside before she reached for the latch. Tracing her finger over an ornate J that was worked into the brass of the latch, she opened the lid. To her surprise, the trunk was practically empty except for an old Bible sitting on an aged child-size ivory gown, adorned with what looked to be expensive lace and row upon row of faded bows.

  Curious now, Gertrude plucked the Bible out of the trunk, picking her way once again across the room until she reached the window. Using the faded ribbon that was marking a place, she opened the Bible and found that one of the passages had been circled on the page.

  It was a passage from the Psalms.

  “‘When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up,’” she read out loud. Lifting her head, she looked out the window, not really seeing the clouds drift by as she wondered about the person who’d circled that passage, and if that person was also the owner of the ivory gown still nestled in the trunk.

  Flipping to the front of the Bible in the hope the owner’s name would be found there, Gertrude frowned when she found the pages that normally tracked the lineage of a family missing, ripped out, or so it appeared, because there were jagged bits of thin paper left behind.

  Sympathy for the owner of the Bible was immediate, especially since she knew from personal experience what type of anger could cause a person to rip out their family history from the front of a Bible. She’d done the very same thing years before, hoping that the ripping would ease some of the anger she’d held against everyone during that dark time. But, truth be told, she was still angry with God, that anger beginning not long after her father had died.

  It was directly after her father suffered his fatal apoplectic fit that Gertrude had begun making a journey to church every day. Once there, she’d spent hours praying, not asking God to return her father to her since she knew that wasn’t possible, but to step in and diminish the shame she and her mother were experiencing due to the tawdry circumstances surrounding her father’s death.

  When the level of gossip increased instead of decreasing, Gertrude had no choice but to conclude that God was evidently disappointed with her, hence the reasoning behind not granting her request. Wanting to appease God, Gertrude threw herself into being the best daughter possible to her mother in order to win back God’s favor. However, when her mother descended into a state of deepest melancholy, brought about by their lack of finances and continued shame, Gertrude decided that God clearly didn’t care for her family. And after her mother’s melancholy turned deadly, Gertrude abandoned the idea God was a loving and compassionate God, and embraced the idea that He was a distant deity.

  Throughout the years since her mother’s death, there’d been times when she’d all but abandoned her faith, even with her attending church regularly and knowing people who believed in God and the love He held for everyone. But for her, God was not a daily part of her life, nor . . .

  “Gertrude, are you still up there?”

  Closing the Bible that had brought about such disturbing thoughts, Gertrude picked her way across the attic again and peered d
own the narrow staircase. Peering back up at her was Mrs. Davenport.

  “What in the world is taking you so long?” Mrs. Davenport asked.

  “Have you seen your attic in the last decade or so? Because if not, do know it’s a maze up here and somewhat difficult to navigate through.”

  “You haven’t found any trunks?”

  “I found one.”

  “Then bring it down and you can worry about finding others later, after you get back from running a little errand for me.”

  The hair on the back of Gertrude’s neck stood to attention. “What errand?”

  “I’ll explain while we enjoy tea and those delicious shortbread cookies you love so much. Did I mention I asked the cook to bake us some so they’ll be fresh out of the oven?”

  “You only ask for shortbread cookies when you’re feeling guilty about something,” Gertrude said.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m just rewarding you for making so many trips to the attic.”

  Before Gertrude could respond to that nonsense, Mrs. Davenport disappeared from sight, the sound of her retreating footsteps fading rapidly.

  Abandoning the urge to stay in the attic for the rest of the day, which would allow her to avoid whatever errand Mrs. Davenport needed her to complete next, one that would certainly turn out to be more strenuous than trotting up to the attic every other minute since shortbread cookies were being used as a bribe, Gertrude moved back to the trunk, dropped the Bible into it so she could peruse it later at her leisure, then shut the lid. Grabbing the handle, she began dragging it behind her, yelping under her breath after she reached the stairs and the trunk kept banging into her legs as she pulled it down step by painful step.

  By the time she reached the second floor, she was perspiring more than slightly and looking forward to a good cup of tea and numerous shortbread cookies, her vow of watching her figure put aside on this all-too-trying day.