Always

by Delynn Royer

  Aunt Essie had sent for the doctor.

  Her memories became disjointed and muddled after that. The cramps were in fact the first premature contractions of her womb. Later that night, all the while she labored, the doctor had babbled words like trauma and placenta and abruption, but by then she was too delirious with pain and loss of blood to understand any of it. All she knew was that, in the end, it had added up to a tiny, unmoving bundle in a bloodstained sheet. She’d been able to lift her head to see that much before finally losing consciousness. When she awoke, the tiny bundle was gone, spirited away by order of her attending physician.

  Emily gathered what composure she could, then forced herself to face Ross, but his back was to her and his head was bent.

  “Ross?”

  “You should have told me.”

  “But I didn’t know... how.”

  “No, no, I can’t accept that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not sure whether she referred to a past neither of them had the power to change or a belated, confused regret for her own decisions.

  After a moment, he lifted his head. “I have to think.”

  Emily didn’t know what else to say. She felt drained and numb.

  “I have to think,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. He moved to the door, leaving her alone when it slammed closed behind him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Reality. It was a word that Ross was fond of and one that Emily cringed from. Usually, it was because people used it to discourage new ideas or to dwell upon the dark side of life, but after her latest confrontation with Ross, Emily was forced to do some hard thinking. She had shed more than a few long overdue tears, too.

  She’d had almost four years to deal with the loss of her baby, but she’d done a very poor job of it. Trying to pretend that she’d accepted it and had moved on was a lie. The guilt was still there, the hurt was still there, and the anger burned brighter than ever.

  Looking back, if she had set aside her pride and told Ross that she was pregnant, he would have married her. She never would have been forced to leave town. She never would have tried to board that horse-cab in Baltimore. And their son would be almost four years old now.

  Matthew. It was the name she’d chosen for a boy. He might have had her dark hair, Ross’s laughing brown eyes, and a dimple when he smiled. It didn’t matter that his conception had been the cause of her flight from home and that she would never have been able to return. From the very first flutter of life within her womb, she’d wanted that baby. He was a part of her and a part of Ross. She’d already purchased a cradle and begun to fashion tiny garments with her meager sewing talents when she had the accident. Aunt Essie had tactfully removed those items from their apartment soon afterward, and now Emily believed that might have been when she had first started trying to pretend that everything was all right.

  This morning, however, as she proceeded down King Street, she was intent upon dealing with another sort of reality, one not nearly so complicated, irreversible, or painful. Her fledgling printing business was doing as well as could be expected, but she wouldn’t be able to make a livable profit for some time yet. She needed to supplement her income. That was where Karl Becker might be able to help.

  She stopped and checked the angle of her prim, dark-veiled hat before climbing the front steps to enter the red brick building where Karl worked. She hoped that he hadn’t been merely toying with her the other day when he’d mentioned a job.

  She stepped into a dimly lit vestibule with a row of black mailboxes on the wall to her right. Lifting her veil, she noted the brass nameplate that hung above the one marked 2-B. David Stauffer, Attorney at Law. Someday, after Karl completed his two-year clerkship and passed an examination to be admitted to the bar, that nameplate might read, Stauffer & Becker. After his underprivileged childhood, Emily was glad that Karl had done well with his life.

  She had visited here once before to discreetly solicit some print orders from Karl, so she had no trouble locating him. The office he shared with his mentor was a three-room suite furnished with ponderous black walnut furniture, heavy draperies, and tall shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes.

  Emily was glad to find Karl alone, perusing one of the bookshelves when she stepped through the door. “Why, Emily Winters!” he exclaimed, turning to greet her with a welcoming grin. “What brings you by today?”

  “Business,” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not at all. I was just doing some research, but that can wait.” He inclined his golden blond head in the direction of his private office. “Would you like to have a seat?”

  “Thank you.”

  When Emily followed him into the small room, she noticed that the mountain of paperwork on his desk hadn’t diminished one bit since her last visit. It looked to be as thoroughly disorganized as ever.

  “Oh, Karl, really. This is abominable.” She tidied a pile of loose papers and files that threatened to spill over the side of his desk. “What do your clients have to say about this catastrophe?”

  Demonstrating remarkably quick reflexes for a man with a bad leg, Karl stooped to catch a stray sheet before it could flutter to the floor. “They don’t say much of anything. David handles the real estate and bounty claims. I’ve taken on most of the paperwork for the criminal defense cases. Many of my esteemed clients are quite satisfied if I can manage to keep them out of county jail.”

  “You know, you really should try paper fasteners,” Emily suggested.

  “Paper fasteners?”

  “Yes, they’re the newest thing. Haven’t you seen them advertised? Little metal clips. I use them at the shop to keep my orders together.”

  Karl appeared impressed. “Paper fasteners.” He picked a pen from out of the conglomeration atop his desk and moved as if to jot the name down, then stopped and frowned upon finding his pen dry of ink. He scanned his desktop, only to discover that his inkwell was buried, too.

  “Never mind,” Emily said, taking a seat and pulling off her black kid gloves. “I’ll try to remember to pick up a box of them for you at the drugstore.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ll certainly give them a try.” Shifting his cane to his other hand, he sat in a leather upholstered chair. “So what brings you by today? Trying to drum up more business?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “What could it be, then? Since you’re not working for the Herald anymore, I thought you’d be spending your days down at the shop.”

  Emily winced. She’d been fired on Wednesday. Today was Friday. News traveled fast. “So you’ve heard.”

  “Everybody’s heard. In fact, this morning I ran into your old friend, um, oh... what was her name, the preacher’s daughter?”

  “Melissa Carpenter,” Emily supplied.

  Karl snapped his fingers. “Yes! That’s it. Melissa Carpenter.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “You know, I didn’t recognize her right off. She wears her hair different, and she’s thinned out some. I thought her eyes used to be brown, but today they looked more like—”

  “You were saying?” Emily was impatient to learn the gossip that was already making its rounds.

  “Oh, yes. Well, at any rate, at the vestry meeting just last evening, Malcolm Davenport was apparently quite vocal about what transpired between the two of you. According to him, you accepted his charitable offer of employment, then turned around and stole his print customers right out from under his nose.” Karl grinned and shook a finger at her. “Very naughty, Miss Emily. I’m proud of you.”

  She made a wry face. “I don’t suppose he remembered to mention that he sabotaged the Penn Gazette before it went out of business, did he?”

  “No, I don’t believe Miss Carpenter said he mentioned anything about that.” Karl’s grin faded, and he leaned forward over his desk, suddenly intent. “It is still Miss Carpenter, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Emily said, “but that’s not why I’m here. Malcolm Davenport is the least of my worr
ies.”

  “Oh? Something I can help you with?”

  “I need a job.”

  “But what about the printing business? Don’t tell me you’re giving up on it so soon?”

  “No, not at all, but it’s going to take more time until I can turn enough profit to hire some help. Until then, I need a temporary job to earn some outside income to purchase new inventory and—” She stumbled at the thought of Ross, then cleared her throat to finish. “And to pay back, uh, some loans as well as other expenses.”

  “But how are you going to hold down two jobs? Since your secret’s out, you’ll have to open your doors for business, am I right? You can’t be in two places at the same time.”

  “That’s true, I can’t, but luckily I’ve got some help.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother and sister.”

  Karl’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? Then, I take it you’ve finally told your mother what you’ve been up to these past few weeks?”

  “I didn’t have much choice. The news was out. She was bound to learn of it from someone. I preferred that someone to be me.”

  “Very wise. When the jig is up, it’s always best to come clean and beg forgiveness.”

  “Actually, she took it very well. In fact, she didn’t even seem very surprised.”

  Karl chuckled. “Perhaps she knows her daughter better than you thought. What did she say?”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “What?”

  Emily let out a resigned sigh. “She said that if I was so dead set on trying to make a go of this business that I’ve been working myself ragged and sneaking around like a Confederate spy, then we might as well follow through and see what happens.”

  Karl sat back in his seat and interlaced his fingers around his middle. “I always did like your mother.”

  “The point is, until my sister’s new baby makes its appearance a few months hence, both she and my mother will be able to help watch the shop during the day. They can take orders and organize deliveries and tally up accounts.” Emily leaned forward and tapped a finger on the desktop for emphasis. “The important thing is, come hell or high water, our doors will be open for business from nine in the morning until five at night. Whether Mr. Davenport knows it or not, he’s going to get a good run for his money.”

  Karl laughed heartily. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! Now, that’s the spirit!”

  Emily gave him a shrewd little smile. “So, what do you say?”

  “About what?”

  “About that job you mentioned to me a while back. It’s obvious that you need someone to help get you organized.”

  “Is it?” he quipped with an amused grin.

  “The question is, are you and Mr. Stauffer willing to pay for it, and if so, are you up to placing your trust in a woman to help whip this place into shape?”

  Karl’s eyes sparkled with devilment. “Why, Miss Emily, when you put it that way, how can I possibly resist?”

  *

  When Ross came out of the Davenport building, the sweltering summer heat rose like a rude slap to greet him. Jamming his watch into his pocket, he muttered a string of invectives as he crossed the busy square to city hall. It was only ten-thirty on Friday, and he already had a raging headache. Virgil Davis, the local intelligence reporter, hadn’t shown up for work. This wasn’t the first time Ross had covered for him. Although he liked Virgil, the man’s fondness for whiskey was a problem.

  The police station and lockup were located in the basement of the city hall building. When Ross entered the small, windowless office, he found one of the constables, Lionell Smith, eating an early box dinner at his desk. Lionell was in his mid-twenties, but his fair, wispy hair was already thin on top and he carried about a dozen unnecessary inches around the waistline. As far as Ross was concerned, Lionell was a perfect example of how badly the war had depleted the labor force during the past four years.

  “Morning, Ross,” Lionell called as he set aside a half-consumed sandwich and pulled a sheet of paper from his cluttered desk. “Where’s Virgil?”

  “Sick.” Ross already had his pencil and notepad ready by the time Lionell moseyed over to the oak counter near the door.

  “Old Virge hitting the bottle too hard again, eh?” The young constable smirked as he presented the police log sheet to Ross. He was in the mood to gossip.

  “Couldn’t say for sure, Lionell.” Taking the sheet, Ross caught whiffs of sweat and pickle juice as he scanned the first items on the police log. A burglary, a petty theft, a lost boy, and a drunk and disorderly. “So, how have you been?”

  “Can’t complain,” Lionell said with a huge yawn. “You?”

  “Fine.”

  Ross knew his reply was ludicrous. Ever since Emily had told him the truth, he’d been feeling anything but fine. Still, he managed to force a tight smile before he began jotting down the particulars for the following morning’s local intelligence column.

  “The little boy have a name?” Ross asked as he scribbled.

  “What? Huh?”

  “The little boy they found wandering in Duke Street.”

  “Uh, yeah, right there. Michael. Can’t ya read?”

  In fact, Ross couldn’t read much of Lionell’s chicken scratch, and his spelling was atrocious. “Michael,” Ross repeated. “I see they took him over to the Home for Friendless Children. How old is he?”

  “About three. Ain’t old enough to tell us.”

  Ross moved to the next item. A stolen awning rope from Mr. Stahl’s store on Orange Street. “Didn’t we just do a write-up about his awning rope being stolen last week?”

  “Yup.”

  “Twice now,” Ross mused as he wrote. “I imagine old Mr. Stahl’s getting pretty steamed.”

  “Said he was gonna sit up all night with a loaded shotgun to catch the rascals, but the chief talked him out of it.”

  “Hmm.” Ross stopped writing upon spotting an eye-catching name on the next line. He looked up. “Arnold Gibson? Holy smokes, that can’t be the city councilman’s son, can it?”

  “It can and it is.” Lionell’s eyes sparkled with juicy knowledge.

  This could be big. Ross knew he would have to satisfy Lionell’s need to feel important. “I see what’s down on paper here, Lionell, but I’m sure there’s more to the story than that. Were you here? Do you know the details?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was here. And you’re right. The story is a little more complicated than just what’s on the sheet.”

  Ross leaned on the counter to get closer. He lowered his voice. “Why don’t you tell me the real story?”

  Ross’s avid interest seemed to satisfy Lionell for the moment. “Well, you see, a fella from Marietta came in early yesterday evening saying he picked up a lady all bruised and bleeding by the side of the road outside town.”

  “What happened?”

  “According to the little lady, she agreed to go for a ride with Arnie Gibson, but once they got out of town, he turned mean. She managed to get away from him and run back to the road where this fella happened to be going by and picked her up.”

  Ross kept a neutral expression, but he remembered Arnie well from their growing-up years. Arnie had been a crony of the late John Butler, quick with his fists, and never terribly bright. So, what he was hearing now didn’t surprise him. “She hurt bad?”

  “Considering Amie’s size and temper and all, I’d say she got off pretty light.” Lionell paused to extract a wrinkled handkerchief from a trouser pocket. He mopped beads of sweat from his forehead. “You know, that boy ain’t been right in the head ever since he got back from the war.”

  “Is the lady going to be all right?”

  “Her face was bruised up some, she had a knife gash on her arm, and her dress was torn. We sent her to see Doc Weaver in case she needed to be stitched up. You’d have to check with him.”

  “I don’t see here that any charges were filed,” Ross said. “Why not?”

&nbs
p; Lionell offered an I’ve-seen-it-all chuckle as he jammed his soiled handkerchief back home. “Well, now, you know as well as I do, Ross, Arnie’s daddy has lots of pull in this town. The chief brought Amie down for questioning, but the councilman came charging in after him, mad as a hornet. Got a lawyer with him and everything. Can’t tell you one way or another whether there’ll be charges filed or not.”

  “But what about the lady’s family?” Ross pressed. “Why aren’t they up in arms?”

  “The lady?” Lionell drawled the word dubiously. “Now, you see, there’s the other part of the problem.”

  “No,” Ross said, “I don’t see.”

  “The lady in question ain’t exactly a lady if you get my meaning.”

  “Why? Who is she?”

  “Her name is Miss Stacy Bliss.”

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  The constable leaned his pudgy forearms on the oak counter and gave Ross a lascivious wink. “So, you know her, do you? Ain’t surprisin’. A lot of fellas around here do.” It was then that Ross put his finger on it. Stacy Bliss. A pretty, if not terribly bright, farm girl who had left school in the eighth grade. “I knew her when we were kids. She was a nice girl.”

  Lionell snorted. “Yeah, real nice. She’s working down at the Bull Tavern these days, if you get a hankering to catch up on old times.”

  What the man was saying, plain and simple, was that Stacy was a prostitute. Considering what he remembered of the girl’s worn-out shoes and poor clothes, this didn’t come to Ross as a big surprise, but it was sad just the same. He’d meant it when he’d said Stacy was a nice girl. At least when Ross had known her. That was a long time ago now.

  Ignoring Lionell’s snide comment, Ross pressed him. “So, what you mean is, since the lady hasn’t got anyone to take up her side in this matter, it’s likely to be forgotten. Is that about the size of it?”

  At this, the rotund constable’s dull eyes lit with wary comprehension. He pushed up from the counter and straightened. “Her family ain’t had nothing to do with her for years now. Just what’re you getting at, Ross?”