by Holly Bush
Jolene and Melinda went back to the carriage where Zeb waited to escort them to the Billingses’. Jennifer looked at her mother.
“You look very tired since I saw you last. How are you feeling?”
“You are home less than five minutes and are insulting me already?”
“It is not meant as an insult, Mother. I am concerned about you, as is Jolene.”
“Jolene did not speak one word to me, and she has not been in this house for nearly two years!”
“What did you expect her to say, Mother? You told her she was not a member of the family and that she was to leave.”
“Well,” Jane said. “What is expected of me in light of her behavior?”
“We are glad to have you home, Jennifer,” her father said as he came to stand beside her. “We have missed you.”
“We are not the only ones to have missed you either. Jeffrey—” Her mother suddenly folded at the waist. “William. William. Get me to my rooms!”
“Mother!” Jennifer cried, and turned quickly to Bellings. “Fetch Dr. Roderdeck immediately and see that Mildred goes directly to Mrs. Crawford’s rooms.”
“No doctor!” her mother gasped as she straightened and took deep breaths.
Jennifer locked eyes with her father, and then he looked at his wife.
“Yes there will be a doctor, Jane. I will not have you suffer like this,” he said.
Her mother suddenly looked old to her. Old and ill, even dressed as she was in a stylish outfit, her hair fixed and her rouge applied expertly. “Come along, Mother. I will help you to your rooms now that you have caught your breath.”
“I will take care of your mother from here, Miss Crawford,” Mildred, her mother’s maid, said as she took her mistress’s arm at the door to her rooms. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“Thank you, Mildred. But I will help you and wait with Mother until Dr. Roderdeck arrives.”
“That isn’t necessary, Miss Crawford. I am used to helping Mrs. Crawford.”
“I am certain you are; however, it is necessary for me to stay,” Jennifer said and swept past Mildred into her mother’s rooms. “Let us get you changed into a dressing gown, Mother. I will wait with you until the doctor arrives.”
After her mother was out of her day dress and in a gown and robe, Jennifer watched her go from the stool at her dressing table to a chair near the window, and finally pace from one end of the room to the other. “Mother. Please lie down and rest,” Jennifer begged.
“I feel fine. I do not need a doctor.”
Jane jumped at the knock at her door. Jennifer hurried to answer it and admitted Dr. Roderdeck to the room. “Her maid and I will wait in her dressing room while you examine her.”
Jennifer sat on an overstuffed footstool while Mildred stared at her. Dr. Roderdeck knocked on the dressing room door, and Jennifer hurried to her mother’s side as she lay stretched out on the bed. She was screaming.
“He is a charlatan! An imposter! He knows nothing about modern medicine! Get him out of my rooms!”
“Dr. Roderdeck, if you are done here, please come with me so that you may speak to my father. He is very worried for his wife,” Jennifer said.
“Mrs. Crawford? Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.
“I will not have him telling your father his lies, Jennifer. Escort him directly out of the house.”
“Rest now,” Jennifer said. “I will be back to check on you shortly.”
“Your wife has a tumor in her stomach area. It should be removed surgically,” the doctor said once seated in William Crawford’s study. “She was difficult to examine, and I don’t believe she answered all my questions truthfully.”
“What does that mean?” Jennifer asked.
“There is a mass, an abnormal growth, growing near or around her stomach or intestines. I cannot say if it is cancerous or not. It may be benign; however, we will not know until it is removed. It is pressing on her organs and causing her discomfort as you know.”
“I doubt if Jane will agree to surgery,” her father said.
“You must convince her, Father,” Jennifer said. “You must.”
“This mass will undoubtedly continue to grow,” Dr. Roderdeck stated as he stood to leave. “And the pain will worsen.”
“Mother must have this surgery. We can hardly allow her to wither away in front of us,” Jennifer told her father after the door to the study had closed.
“I cannot stand seeing her in so much pain. Is there any medicine that may help her? Has he prescribed any?”
“He offered her morphine. She refused.”
William Crawford stood and stared out the long window. “Your mother can be difficult,” he said finally. “I do not wish to talk about her behind her back, but this ailment will only increase her anxiety and stress and may prompt unpleasant words and situations. You should prepare yourself.”
“I am well aware of Mother’s moods and the miserable affect they have on every member of this household, Father. Certainly you don’t believe that no one noticed?”
“I will not tolerate harsh words about your mother, Jennifer.”
Jennifer walked to where he stood and looked at him very directly. “Father. How can you say you will not tolerate harsh words about Mother? We know nothing else. We have lived with nothing but harsh words and manipulations from her all of our lives. I will be kind to Mother, of course, and make allowances for her physical condition, but I will not allow her to belittle me. I won’t allow it anymore.”
Jennifer had spoken quietly, when she wanted to scream out her frustration and anger, realizing at that moment that her father knew no other way of life, knew only his place in her mother’s world and the excuses he needed to make to justify his own existence. She watched him now, as he stared at her, regret and sorrow on his face.
“I always hoped that I was able to make up for some of the excesses of your mother’s personality, but it appears I have not. Have I been a fool, Jennifer?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and taking her father’s hand in hers. “No, you have never been a fool. You have worked hard and made a comfortable life for all of us and been a wonderful father. You love all of your daughters, I am certain, and you love Mother very much. You’ve never been a fool.”
William’s eyes glistened. “You mother was not loved as a girl. It has continued to haunt her all these years later.”
Jennifer nodded. “She is an unhappy person. Jolene believes she may be mentally unstable and has done some research on the subject.”
“Mentally unstable? What has Jolene found out about this? I . . . it’s just that your mother is unhappy. You must never repeat this. It would be devastating to your mother to think we thought her out of her wits. And now she is ill and in pain.”
* * *
“So you have come home to beg our forgiveness and move back to Boston, Jolene?” Jane Crawford said to her daughter later that evening as the family gathered before dinner. “It is long past time.”
Jolene shook her head. “I have no intentions of moving anywhere, Mother. I am here for a visit and to make myself acquainted with Maximillian’s parents.”
“Did Melinda get settled at her aunt’s?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes. I will be dining with Calvin and Eugenia on several evenings with Maximillian’s parents, as his mother entertains little these days,” Jolene said, and looked at her mother. “Eugenia is Maximillian’s sister and she has asked me to invite you and father to dinner at their home.”
“We have no intentions of dining with those people. Would you have me muck stalls and clean the commodes?” Jane said and grimaced. “You will not be dining there, either. To think that you lower yourself to those people, Jolene. I’m ashamed.”
“Mother!” Jennifer cried. “Those are Jolene and her husband’s relatives.”
“Jolene’s husband is dead. She infected him and let him die.” Jane sniffed. “And our baby as well. She let Little William die.�
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Jolene’s face was ashen and her lips a tight thread. Jennifer touched her hand where it gripped the chair and took a deep breath. “That is enough, Mother. I will not let you upset Jolene in this way, and Father and me as well.”
“And who are you to censor me? I’ll not stand for such disrespect,” Jane hissed.
“No more, please, Jane,” William Crawford said as his wife sputtered and fidgeted in her seat.
“Good evening,” Zeb called from the doorway. “I hope I’m not interrupting a family conversation.”
“No. Do come in. May I serve you a whiskey or wine?” William said.
“Mother. This is Zebidiah Moran. He works for Jolene’s husband and was asked to accompany us in our travels,” Jennifer said.
Zeb bowed at the waist. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Crawford.” Jane said nothing, and Zeb turned to her husband. The men shook hands and Zeb accepted his tumbler of whiskey.
“I was surprised to read Jolene’s letter that you would be coming with my daughters,” William said. “Are you on leave from the senator’s offices?”
“No, sir,” Zeb said. “The senator is concerned about threats to members of Congress and their families, and insisted on an escort for his wife, daughter, and sister-in-law. He wanted to carry out the task himself but is sponsoring an important bill that is coming up for a vote very soon.”
“Jennifer,” Jane said. “Why is this person here with us? Have them set a place for him in the staff kitchens.”
“He is here because Jolene’s husband is concerned for her and he is a trusted employee and a guest of Willow Tree. Father invites bank employees to dine with us occasionally and they do not eat in the kitchens, do they?”
Jane leaned forward and winked. “Speaking of the bank, I have sent Mr. Rothchild an invitation to dine with us tomorrow evening. He is most anxious to see you, I imagine.”
“Why would you do that, Mother, without consulting me?”
Jane shrugged. “He is your fiancé, Jennifer. Of course, I will invite him to dine with us. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Jennifer could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the blood drain from her face. How could she have thought she would so easily extract herself from this situation? She saw Zeb and her father deep in conversation and glanced at Jolene.
“Jennifer sent Mr. Rothchild a letter telling him that she no longer wished to see him,” Jolene explained. “It will be an uncomfortable dinner, no doubt.”
“Your father and I have given him our blessing, and everyone knows he is courting you. You are young and foolish and would have no idea how to choose the right husband. You will marry Mr. Rothchild. I believe a Christmas wedding would suit.”
Jennifer stood and moved close to her mother’s chair. “Do not,” she whispered hoarsely, “begin planning any such event. You will be the one left looking very foolish in the eyes of Boston society.”
“My sister-in-law asked me if Jennifer had set a date for her wedding to Mr. Rothchild, and I informed her that there is nothing between my sister and Mr. Rothchild so there would be no date to set,” Jolene said.
“Who would your relatives tell?” Jane asked with a laugh. “The chimney sweep? They are not included in Boston society.”
“Really? They are attending the Autumn Gala at the museum. Eugenia is a committee woman for that event.”
Jane’s mouth opened and closed. “Money-grubbers. And good society is forced to mingle with them.”
Dinner was announced, and Jennifer and Jolene walked down the long hallway together. “I will continue to think of her as being mentally ill,” Jolene said. “I cannot bear to think that anyone would be so cruel to their own daughters and be sane.”
“What she said to you was horrible, Jolene.”
“I had forgotten how uncomfortable and tense she makes even the most benign gathering. We all wait in anticipation of who she will torment. She does back down somewhat when we present a united front. She had us at a disadvantage when we were young by pitting us against each other.”
“I agree,” Jennifer said and recounted her conversation with their father that afternoon.
“And father is most concerned with what mother would think?” Jolene asked.
Jennifer shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so. I think he has always thought we didn’t notice how dreadful she could be.”
“It is difficult when the foundations of all you believe to be true are shaken,” Jolene said. “You have given our father much to think about.”
* * *
“So, Jennifer,” Jane said when the soup course was served. “The Randolphs are having a dinner dance. We must visit the dressmaker and begin looking for a new gown for you.”
“I haven’t received an invitation from the Randolphs,” Jennifer said.
“But Mr. Rothchild has, of course, and he will escort you. No more of this silly chatter about breaking off your relationship with him. I don’t imagine Jeffrey is the type of man who would expect his intended to be coy.”
“I am not his intended,” Jennifer replied.
Zeb watched Jennifer as her mother continued to claim that Jeffrey Rothchild was still her fiancé. Jennifer was pale and her hands shook as she reached for her wine. Her sister watched her closely and interjected when Jennifer faltered. The father sat by idly, eating his lamb and smiling occasionally in Zeb’s direction. It was as if he saw or felt none of the tension between the three women. This was not the man who would be bullying Jennifer, leaving only one candidate. Jeffrey Rothchild.
“I’m going to the library to look for a book,” Jennifer said after dessert and dinner were served. Her mother had declared herself exhausted and that she would be retiring to her rooms. Jolene and her father were talking quietly at one end of the dining room.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and waited for him in the hallway. “Father keeps an impeccable library. He has several first editions and buys all the latest popular works and dime novels as well. He says they are his guilty secret.”
“I have been so busy reading Senate bills and the like that I haven’t had time to read for pleasure,” he said.
Zeb spent thirty minutes combing the books in the Crawford library. He finally settled on a collection of Thomas Jefferson’s writings and a dark-looking novel from a magazine writer named Wilde. Jennifer was thumbing through a stack of books beside her on a sofa.
“Nothing caught your fancy?” he asked.
“I find most popular books to be so unrealistic they are laughable,” she said, and straightened a folded page in the book she was holding. “Life is not always happy or without tragedy. And it does not always have a happy ending.”
“Very true. It appears though that your sisters have found theirs.”
She nodded and looked at him. “Yes they have. I am very glad for them both.”
“Will you find a happy ending, do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she whispered.
Zeb poured himself a bourbon from the cart stocked with crystal decanters as her response echoed in his head. She didn’t hold out hope for herself from the sound of it, and that thought hit him square in the chest. What could be done to make her happy? What would he do?
“Would you care for anything to drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I am going to the bank tomorrow and don’t want to have a fuzzy head in the morning. I’ve already had two glasses of wine with dinner,” she said, resting her chin on her hand and staring at the dying fire.
“You’ll want a clear head, I suppose, for dinner tomorrow evening with Mr. Rothchild.”
She nodded.
“Your mother thinks Mr. Rothchild is your happy ending. Do you?”
Tears filled her eyes. “There would be nothing happy about a permanent association with Jeffrey Rothchild.”
There was little to say after that declaration and little doubt now about who was causing this woman to cry and
be terrified. Zeb looked forward to meeting Jeffrey Rothchild.
Chapter Eight
“Good morning and welcome back,” O’Brien said, and helped Jennifer off with her cloak.
“It is good to be back. I have missed my desk and my numbers,” Jennifer said.
“And they have missed you. I still cannot untangle the Dorchester portfolio your father brought us shortly before you left. But I have become proficient with the new Burroughs machine!”
Jennifer smiled. “We shall take a look at it together. Have you managed to learn anything about the initials on the certificates?”
“The two signatures that were different from the four certificates signed by the one person I have figured out. Hawkins and Marlow, both junior bookkeepers. They both work mostly for your father unless one of the vice presidents is away, and then Mr. Marlow fills in where needed.”
Jennifer pulled the pins from her hat and shook the raindrops off of the hem of her skirts. She had hurried through the lobby in a rush, hoping that Jeffrey was already ensconced in his office. “I would like to begin immediately unless we have guests to entertain. And we need to find out whose initials are on the other certificates.”
“Yes, ma’am. I have some ideas and will begin straightaway as we have no guests today.”
Jennifer straightened her back after hours of examining documents. She requested multiple portfolios and began a rigorous comparison of the percentages charged on certificates. She found multiple other certificates charging six percent interest, but more interesting than all of that was that the final totals reflected the interest charged as five percent. She could not fathom how a figure began at one amount and ended up at another at the bottom of the tally sheet.
O’Brien had long gone for the day, and Jennifer knew she should be leaving soon as well, but there was something going on that surely had an explanation. On one of the Dorchester certificates she calculated the difference between five percent and six percent and combed the debit columns for that amount but did not find it. She had no expectations of finding it in the scribbled sheets of the credit columns, but find it she did. The exact amount to the penny. He mind raced over what she had done and all the possibilities for error on her part.