by Marie Silk
Chapter 7
The next morning, Abigail and Mary went to the dining room for breakfast. Mary’s face felt swollen from her tears the night before. She felt guilty for storming out of the clinic as she had, and she planned to apologize to William later in the day when the clinic would not be busy. Abigail stared blankly ahead of her as if she were in another world.
Mary noticed that Abigail was quieter than usual and had not touched her breakfast. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
Abigail snapped back to reality. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Patrick.”
“Have you heard from Ethan this morning?” Mary asked carefully.
“I did,” she replied. “He said the fever broke in the night and that Patrick seemed well, but…”
“You must go to him, Abigail. You won’t have a moment’s peace until you do. If I knew Violet was ill, and I could not be with her, it would drive me mad.”
“Thank you for understanding, Mary. How did your visit with William go last night?”
Mary was unsure how to answer without worrying Abigail, since she had not told William about her pain as she promised. “We talked and—I am going to see him again tonight.”
“Wonderful, Mary,” replied Abigail.
Mrs. Spencer entered the room just then with the morning paper. She placed it on the breakfast table near Mary’s plate. “The Yorktown Times, Madam,” she seemed proud to announce.
“Thank you, Mrs. Spencer,” Mary said. She gasped as she looked it over. “Oh my! Oh, you won’t believe this headline, Abigail! Clara will be so pleased!”
She turned the front page to face Abigail:
WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE WINS!
FEDERAL AMENDMENT RATIFIED, ENTIRE NATION OF WOMEN WILL HAVE THE VOTE THIS FALL
Abigail rose from her seat and clasped her hands together in delight. “What wonderful news! We must show Clara right away!”
The ladies excitedly left the dining room and went up the grand staircase to Clara’s bedroom. Abigail knocked on the door. “Clara dear, there is something you must see,” she called through it.
Clara opened the door quickly. Her hair was a mess and she still wore the clothes she had on the previous night. “Is it from Joe?” she asked frantically.
“Um—no it isn’t from Joe,” Abigail said apologetically. Clara’s face fell. Abigail held the paper in front of Clara. “But look at this morning’s headline!”
Clara gazed at the paper and read the words over and over until they began making sense in her mind. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I suppose it was bound to happen at one time or another.” She went to her bed to lie down.
Mary and Abigail exchanged confused glances. “Clara,” Mary said gently while approaching the bed. “Did you see the news about the vote? All of your efforts have finally paid off. We may all vote in the election now, just as you have dreamed of!”
Clara shrugged and looked into the distance. “What does any of that matter anymore? Please let me alone so I may sleep—unless a letter comes for me in the post, of course.” She closed her eyes.
Mary and Abigail left the room and closed the door behind them. “I hoped she would be happier than that,” Abigail said with a frown. “She seems intent on hearing from Joe…but Mary, what if she is waiting a lifetime?”
Mrs. Spencer emerged from the top of the servants’ stairs just then and approached the ladies on the landing. She held a silver tray with a thick envelope set on top of it.
“Is that—?” Abigail began to ask.
“A letter for Miss Clara,” Mrs. Spencer answered, “delivered by messenger boy.” She walked past them to Clara’s bedroom and knocked. The ladies watched as Clara took the letter from the tray and immediately closed her bedroom door. Mrs. Spencer smiled as she walked past the ladies back to the servants’ staircase.
“I hope that Clara finally gets the answers she was waiting for,” Mary remarked.
“I am suddenly hungry again,” Abigail said. “Let us go finish our breakfast—if the servants haven’t cleared it away yet.” They both returned down the grand staircase to the dining room.
“I am worried for Clara, but I also think I should be home with my family,” Abigail said quietly. “I could not sleep last night. I ended up packing my suitcase in the event Patrick worsened through the night. There is a train that leaves for Philadelphia in two hours.”
“Then I will drive you to the train station myself,” Mary said decidedly. “Jane can look after Violet while we are away, and I have to go to town anyway to submit my advertisement for a nanny. I could not sleep last night either—but I did write the advertisement.”
“If you cannot find anyone in Yorktown, I might send one of my sisters to come work for you,” Abigail said.
Mary smiled. “Thank you, Abigail. We may just have to arrange for that to happen.”
Downstairs in the servants’ quarters, Jane was in the kitchen with Mrs. Malone. She had been wanting to ask about the cook’s suspicions regarding the gossip column, but Mrs. Malone was careful not to say anything while the new housekeeper was about. Mrs. Malone read aloud the previous day’s article while Jane listened with interest, although Jane felt as though she might burst from the suspense. “Who do you think wrote it?” she questioned.
Mrs. Malone looked around the kitchen before she attempted to answer. Mrs. Spencer walked in just then to view the chalkboard where the day’s menu was written. Mrs. Malone looked Jane in the eye and titled her head toward the new housekeeper. Jane’s eyes nearly bugged out of her face. She mouthed the words to Mrs. Malone so she would not be heard out loud, “Mrs. Spencer is the journalist?”
Mrs. Malone nodded with a knowing smile and continued her work chopping vegetables for the soup. Mrs. Spencer suspected that something was going on behind her and turned around to face the cook and housemaid. Jane quickly removed the mop from the wall and moved it across the floor.
“Jane, don’t you need a bucket of water for that to be effective?” Mrs. Spencer questioned.
Jane did not look her in the eye while she leaned the mop back against the wall. “Yes, Mrs. Spencer. I’ll fetch the bucket right away.”
In the city of Yorktown, Mary was driving away from the train station where she had just taken Abigail. She was on her way to the newspaper office and parked her car on the side of the street while she read her advertisement a final time.
“Mrs. Hamilton!” a man’s voice called from behind her. Mary turned to see Mr. Walker, the owner and manager of the Yorktown Inn. “Mrs. Hamilton, thank goodness you’re here!”
Mary climbed out of the car. “What is it, Mr. Walker? Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Hamilton. There’s a lady giving birth in my hotel. My wife is with her right now, but we could really use your help.”
“Of course, Mr. Walker. I will come upstairs with you,” she answered. Mr. Walker led her up the steps to the hotel and through the lobby to the hallway of rooms. When he opened the door to the correct room, Mary could hear a woman’s labored breathing while Mr. Walker’s wife conversed with her.
“Now don’t waste your time with either of the Hamiltons,” Mrs. Walker was saying. “You’ll want to see that new doctor that offers painless childbirth. My friend Marjorie had it in Philadelphia and never felt a thing!”
Mr. Walker cleared his throat to announce he had arrived with Mary. “Here she is,” he said with a nervous laugh.
“Oh—Mrs. Hamilton—thank you for coming up,” stammered Mrs. Walker. “I don’t think she’s quite that far along though. Ruth, this is Mrs. Hamilton, a local midwife. She can answer any questions you have. I’ll just leave you two to talk.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Walker,” Ruth said, trying to catch her breath. Mr. and Mrs. Walker left them alone in the hotel room.
“Good afternoon,” Mary greeted. “How long ago did the pains start?”
“It’s been this way for about an hour or so,” Ruth answered timidly. “But I thin
k it’s too soon to have the baby.”
“It could be false labor,” Mary said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”
“I feel it tightening just here…but it’s not as bad as when I gave birth to my first son,” she explained.
Mary watched her carefully and held her hand. “I believe it is only false labor this time. Will you be traveling much longer?”
“Oh, I’m just passing through your town here with my husband. We never meant to stay long, but I started feeling ill and we came here to rest. When my husband left to get us something to eat—that’s when the pains started.”
“I will stay with you until your husband returns, if you’d like,” offered Mary.
“Oh no, that’s all right, Mrs. Hamilton. I can’t feel it happening anymore now, and I don’t want to take up more of your time. Thank you for the help.”
“It was my pleasure,” Mary said, then turned to leave the room. “I will ask for a pitcher of water to be brought up for you. You must stay well hydrated for your journey.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Hamilton,” Ruth said as Mary went to exit the room.
“Oh, pardon me,” Mary said to a man who was about to enter the room when she opened the door. She felt her heart stop when she recognized the man who stood before her with an armful of bread and cheese. It was Joe Blake.
“Uh—M—Mary,” he sputtered. “What are you doing here?”
“Are you honestly going to ask me what I’m doing here? What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Don’t tell me you are the husband that Ruth said she was waiting for.”
Joe looked at the floor. “It’s a long story,” he said.
Mary’s mouth dropped open. “Joe, what have you done?”
“First of all,” he said defensively, “that’s another man’s child that Ruth’s carrying right now, so don’t be telling Clara any different.”
“You’re hardly in a position to be telling me what I should say to Clara. I assume you explained your long story in your letter to her today?”
Joe shook his head. “I never sent a letter. I know I should have, but…it’s not that simple.”
Mary tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. “How long have you been married?” she asked.
“It’s only happened just this week,” he said in a low voice. “I never planned it, and I certainly never meant to hurt Clara.”
“Then you have failed,” Mary said bitterly. “How could you promise to marry her, and then run off to marry another woman?”
“She’s not just another woman,” Joe said. “Ruth and I were sweethearts from years ago. She wrote to me the week before I was supposed to marry Clara and said she was in trouble, and that I should meet her in Harrisburg. I didn’t know she’d be bringing…our son…to the meeting. I never even knew I had a son. He’s four years old, you see. He’s with Ruth’s mother just now.”
“Does Clara know anything about you and Ruth?” Mary questioned.
“No. I never told her,” he replied. “When I saw my son for the first time in Harrisburg, I knew I needed to stay with Ruth and be a father. The trouble she got into—well there isn’t going to be a father for the child she’s carrying now. I only wanted to do the right thing.”
“And abandoning Clara without a word that you would miss the wedding was the right thing?”
“I’m real sorry about that,” he told her sadly. “Are you going to explain to her?”
Mary was overwhelmed with the new information and unsure how to respond. “Seeing as how it would only devastate her further to know you left her for another woman, I don’t see how I possibly can. Why did you come back to Yorktown, anyway?”
“I had to take care of some business,” he answered vaguely. “I never meant to stay more than an hour or two, but Ruth—well she didn’t feel too good on the ride over.”
“Then I suggest you finish your business in town and never come back,” Mary said emotionally. “Let Clara forget about you so she can move on with her life.” Mary turned and began walking down the hallway to get away from him as quickly as possible. She began to wish that she had never gone into town that day.
Back at Davenport House, Mrs. Spencer was bringing Clara a tray of tea. To her surprise, Clara opened her bedroom door and spoke to her from the doorway. “Mrs. Spencer,” she began. “I believe I may trust you to be discreet with what I am about to tell you.”
“Of course, Madam,” answered Mrs. Spencer. “You may tell me anything.”
Clara gave her a single folded paper. “I need you to complete these things on the list exactly, just as you did with my instructions for the wedding flowers and food.”
Mrs. Spencer set the tea tray on the console table and took the list from Clara. “As you wish, Madam.”
“There is one more thing,” Clara said. She pulled an envelope from her pocket and lowered her voice. “I need you to take this letter directly to the post office. Do not send it with one of the servants or anyone else—it’s very important that no one in the house sees this envelope. Do you understand that no one must see or even know about it?”
Mrs. Spencer’s eyes grew wide when she read the name the envelope was addressed to. “I understand, Miss Clara,” she whispered hoarsely. “I will take it to the post office myself and not another soul shall know of it.”
“Very good,” Clara said, then closed the door. Mrs. Spencer hurried down the hallway to the servants’ stairs. She did not notice Jane, who was standing just around the corner—and had heard every word of the conversation.
A little while later, Jane strutted into the kitchen and looked smugly at Mrs. Malone.
“You seem awfully proud of yourself,” Mrs. Malone commented as she removed a tray of muffins from the oven.
“I am proud of myself. For once, I am the one who knows a secret about this house!” Jane closed her eyes and leaned her head back to bask in the glory.
Mrs. Malone laughed. “Oh, out with it already, Jane. I have to get these salads made.”
“You were wrong about Mrs. Spencer being the writer of that gossip column,” Jane said sensationally.
Mrs. Malone raised her eyebrow. “And how would you know?”
“Because I discovered who the mystery writer is—and it’s none other than Miss Clara, herself!”
Mrs. Malone held her belly and laughed. “I don’t know for sure who the mystery writer is, but I know for sure it ain’t our Mistress!”
Jane was indignant. “It’s a better guess that our new housekeeper!”
Mrs. Malone continued to laugh and Jane left sulking from the kitchen.
The next morning at Davenport House, Jane informed Mary that she had a telephone call in the library. Mary thought it must be William, but was surprised to hear Abigail’s voice on the other end.
“I am calling to say that Patrick is doing well,” Abigail said cheerfully.
“Oh, thank goodness,” replied Mary. “Do you think it was just a cold?”
“Looks that way,” said Abigail. She then went quiet for a minute and Mary wondered whether she should say anything about seeing Joe the previous day. Abigail was the first to speak. “Mary, I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“Anything,” said Mary with a laugh. “After all that you’ve done for me lately, I may be forever in your debt. What do you need?”
“Would you please go next door and tell Phillip that all is well—with Patrick?”
Mary felt perplexed. “You wish me to tell Phillip Valenti?”
“Yes, please,” she confirmed. “I told him about Patrick being ill before I left for the train station yesterday. I just want him to know there is no reason to worry.”
“All right,” Mary said slowly.
“He is Patrick’s godfather, after all,” she added.
“Yes, of course,” Mary responded. “I will go next door just as soon as I hang up the phone with you.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Abigail said gratefully. “Have a lovely day
.”
Mary went upstairs to her room to get ready for her visit with Phillip Valenti. She changed her clothes and checked on her sleeping baby before she returned downstairs. As Mary descended the grand staircase, she could see the new housekeeper pacing anxiously and wringing her hands by the front door. “What is it, Mrs. Spencer?” Mary asked her.
“Um—there’s a lady here to see Miss Clara…”
Mary sighed. “Clara is not able to receive visitors.”
“That’s just it, Mrs. Hamilton. I told the lady that my Mistress was indisposed, but she would not take no for an answer. She kept asking questions about why Miss Clara would not see her.”
“Don’t worry, I will speak to the lady myself since I’m going outside anyway. I only hope it’s not the journalist for that horrid gossip column.” Mary wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and walked out the front door. “Good afternoon,” she greeted the woman who waited at the bottom of the steps.
The woman had gray hair pulled back into a bun and she stooped forward to balance on a thick wooden cane. Mary was perplexed at the way the woman seemed to stare at her. Mary pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as goosebumps covered her arms. She felt relieved when the woman finally stated her business. “I am here to see Clara.”
“I am sorry, but Clara is indisposed today,” answered Mary. “Would you like me to take a message to her?”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked the woman quickly. “She’s not ill, is she?”
Mary was taken aback that the strange woman would speak so boldly, but Mary was not about to give her any details. “Again, I am sorry, but as I say she cannot receive visitors just now. I am glad to relay any message you may have for her.”
“No bother,” the woman muttered. “I need to speak with her in person.”
Mary nodded and tried to smile but felt increasingly awkward under the woman’s intent stare. “Very well, Ma’am. If you’ll just give me your name—I will tell Clara that you stopped by the house to see her.”