“Uncle, there’s no one around back.” He saw Emily and stopped short. “Who is this?
“She’s leaving,” Mr. Wentworth said, pausing on the first step of the rickety porch.
Emily summoned her courage. “Mr. Wentworth, to whom did you give a chunk of honeycomb on Friday? Hon-eycomb that tasted of clover, honeysuckle, and apples?”
He came back and stood close—too close—to Emily, staring suspiciously. She held her ground with an effort; she had never seen a man so tightly wound around his own temper.
“I was in Northampton, buying a new carriage,” he answered grudgingly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Emily turned to the nephew, steeling herself to look him in the face. “What about you, then?” she asked, remembering not to betray her eavesdropping by call- ing him Henry. “Perhaps a long-lost member of the family came to visit and you offered him some honey?”
The young man’s face darkened and he burst out, “I don’t talk about my family to strangers.”
“I told you that someone was listening outside the window,” Mr. Wentworth said grimly. He moved closer to Emily. The nephew shifted from one foot to another and licked his lips nervously. Emily felt her breath come more quickly. She retreated and found herself backed against the house. Mr. Wentworth came toward her.
Suddenly there were voices from the road. Through the apple trees, Emily saw a farmer and a lad driving a small herd of cows toward town.
“Uncle . . . ” the young man said urgently.
Emily seized her chance. While their attention was on the potential witnesses, she gathered all her fear and courage and took off through the trees. She was halfway to the road before Mr. Wentworth even saw that she was gone.
Bursting though the creaking gate, she startled the farmer and his cows. Falling into step with her unlikely rescuers, she glanced back. Mr. Wentworth had taken a few steps, but his nephew restrained him. Their glares followed her down the dirt road.
Nature—the gentlest mother is.
Impatient of no child—,
The feeblest or the waywardest—
Her admonition mild—
CHAPTER 8
It was afternoon by the time Emily arrived home; she had missed dinner. She went straight to the pump in the garden. Her skin was tight with dried sweat. Cupping her hands to catch the ice-cold water, she splashed her face. Then she filled the tin cup hanging on a hook by the pump and drank until she was as refreshed as she could be without a change of clothing.
Eyeing the house, she decided to enter by the front door. With any luck, her mother would still be resting and Emily could slip by and postpone the inevitable scolding. Since Emily knew exactly what would be said, she saw no reason to rush toward the confrontation.
“Emily Elizabeth!”
Perhaps there was no more luck to be had today.
“Where have you been?” Her mother was waiting in the parlor. She must have been watching for Emily’s return. “Look at that dress! You’ll be lucky if those stains come out. What have you been doing to get so dirty?
Emily felt fatigued down to the marrow of her bones. Her feet hurt and the bee sting throbbed. Worse, her chest was beginning to feel hollow, a sure sign that the coughing was not too far behind. Once her mother heard her cough, Emily’s freedom would be gone. She needed to rest and, above all, she needed time to think. But her mother’s anger filled the room.
“Well, Emily?”
“Mother, I’m confused. Which question should I answer first?” She felt guilty the moment she said it. It was one of her worst character flaws to resort to impertinence when she was in the wrong.
“Emily, your tone is unacceptable.” Her mother pushed herself up from the chair. Emily could make out the spidery veins under the surface of her mother’s pale complexion. With a rush of contrition, she hurried to her mother’s side and placed a careful arm around her waist.
“Mother, you don’t look well. Let me help you to bed.” She led her mother upstairs to her bedroom, a room that felt too large when Mr. Dickinson was away.
“Emily . . .”
“Mother, I know I’ve been an awful daughter. Please don’t exhaust yourself by scolding me right now.” Emily added mischievously, “If you like, I can punish myself while you take a nap.”
In spite of herself, a wan smile appeared on her mother’s lips.
“I’ll be better, I promise.” Emily fluffed her mother’s pillow and tucked a quilt around her mother’s legs.
“You will have no choice,” Mrs. Dickinson said simply. “Your father is coming home.”
Emily’s hands froze. “Father?”
Mrs. Dickinson closed her eyes and said sleepily, “Yes. I asked him to come home for a quick visit. If you won’t pay me any attention, I know you’ll listen to him.”
“When will he be here?”
“Next Monday.”
That meant Emily had only six days to discover the identity of Mr. Nobody and why he died. Not a long time, especially when she had chores. But Mr. Dickinson worried about Emily’s health, too. He could not be got around as easily as her mother. And with a sinking stomach, Emily realized that once Mr. Dickinson found out what she was doing, her investigation would be over.
She drew the curtains in her mother’s room and was closing the door quietly behind her when her mother’s voice, still gentle but with a hint of steel, said, “Emily, my dear, tomorrow you’ll do the laundry by yourself.”
All solicitude for her invalid mother forgotten, Emily protested loudly, “By myself! That will take an eternity. It’s not fair.”
“Your sister isn’t jumping into ponds or rolling in the grass. Your soiled dresses make up half the laundry basket. You will do it by yourself.”
“Yes, Mother,” Emily said dutifully, though she was seething. How could she pursue her investigations while she was up to her elbows in soapy water? But there was no arguing with her mother once her mind was made up.
“Emily, sometimes I think you don’t listen to my stories from the newspaper. Do you remember the girl in Atlanta who died of overexertion? She was running outside.” Her mother was still mumbling drowsily as Emily closed the door. “I daresay her dress was dirty, too.”
Fifteen minutes later, Emily was in a clean dress and her hair was neatly brushed and securely tucked under a net cap. She went warily down the back stairs to the kitchen. The encounter with her mother had gone so poorly that she could not predict how sour Vinnie’s welcome would be. But when she came into the kitchen there were no remonstrations, no temper—not even a question. Vinnie was finishing up the washing from the dinner that Emily had missed.
“Vinnie?” There was no reply. “Darling Vinnie, I’m so sorry.”
Silence.
“I had something important to do and I lost track of time. Please forgive me.”
Vinnie finished the last dish. She dried her hands and calmly walked past Emily into the parlor. Emily, growing frustrated, followed. “Vinnie, I said I was sorry. You’re being petty.”
As Emily had hoped, Vinnie couldn’t stand to be put in the wrong. She whirled around and faced her sister, hands on her hips. “Petty? I did your chores today. I told tales to keep you out of trouble. I prepared dinner by myself. And I took care of mother. I haven’t had a moment to myself all day!”
Emily clasped her sister’s hands between her own. “I know, darling Vinnie. And it’s my fault. Tomorrow you shall gambol with your kittens and eat bonbons all day if I have to make them myself.” With an air of extreme virtue, she said, “I’ll even do all the laundry alone.”
“You are a complete fraud.” Vinnie burst out laughing. “I know that Mother is making you do the washing tomorrow, so don’t offer it up to me on a sacrificial platter!”
“All right, I’ll clean the chamber pots for a week!”
“Now th
at is a sacrifice.” Vinnie grinned.
Relieved to have her sister’s good humor back, Emily sank onto the sofa.
“If you were truly sorry,” Vinnie said as she perched in the coziest armchair, “you would tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Emily hesitated. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Vinnie gave her a sly look. “It’s not as if I haven’t already guessed.”
A succession of images flashed through Emily’s mind. Mr. Nobody in the meadow. His catching her unawares at the smithy’s stable. His lifeless body laid out in the cold vestry.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked in a small voice.
“At first I thought it was about that awful body. But you were mysterious even before that. I thought and thought and then I realized the truth. You have a beau! It’s the only explanation. As I’ve been doing all your chores, I’ve been wracking my mind trying to decide who it is. Most of the College boys are gone for the break. No one in town has interested you before. Before I die of curiosity, who is it?”
“Nobody.” Emily stood up abruptly and walked out of the room.
Tell him night finished before we finished
CHAPTER 9
“Emily, what are you scribbling in your little book?” Vinnie asked as she climbed into their bed.
“Never you mind,” Emily said from the window seat. It was just getting dark outside; soon the church bells would ring to warn all respectable citizens to be inside and ready for bed. This was often Emily’s only time to write in peace, even if she had to do it by candlelight. What would her family think if they saw the list of clues filling the pages of her precious notebook.
Uncle and Nephew—bound together by blood and secrets.
She had puzzled for hours over what had happened at the farmhouse. She couldn’t discount her one piece of solid evidence: Mr. Nobody had been carrying a fresh piece of honeycomb that he must have gotten at the farm. And Sam Wentworth’s behavior was undoubtedly suspicious.
Honey, shimmering with the taste of summer, sweeter than the irascible beekeeper.
Perhaps Henry, Mr. Wentworth’s nephew, had given the honeycomb to Mr. Nobody. His behavior and the words she had overheard were intriguing.
Another odd detail involved her father’s law clerk, Mr. Ripley. When he had heard the name Wentworth, he had behaved very strangely. And of course, she couldn’t forget that Mr. Nobody had asked her the way to the law offices of Edward Dickinson.
What connection did Mr. Nobody have with the Wentworths and her father’s office? Mr. Ripley wouldn’t tell her; she would have to discover it for herself. Luckily, she knew where her father kept the spare key to his office. All she had to do was wait until the household was quiet.
She snuffed out her candle and slipped into the bed next to Vinnie, who was already half asleep. Lying motionless, Emily listened to Vinnie’s deep regular breathing. When the darkness seemed thick enough to conceal her, she slid out of bed. She had placed a simple dress at hand, ready to pull on.
She picked up her boots and quietly let herself out of the room. The grandfather clock chimed midnight as she slipped down the stairs.
Emily went to her father’s desk and took his spare keys. Gusts of wind rattled the window.
The wind—tapped like a tired Man—.
Emily stopped and lit a candle. She pulled out her notebook and jotted down her thought—she wanted to think about that line some more.
A few minutes later, she was walking rapidly up the hill toward the Common, swinging a covered oil lamp. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there. Not for the first time, Emily noticed that the knowledge that you were misbehaving played tricks on your mind.
She was surprised to see the windows of the Amherst House Hotel were brightly lit, and the noise of men laughing and talking spilled out onto the Common. From the sound of it, the tavern was doing a fine business on a Tuesday night.
Edward Dickinson’s law office was on the second floor of a brick building on the street adjacent to the hotel. Keeping to the shadows, she was grateful that the town had not yet lit the Common with gaslights. The darkness preserved her reputation. She cringed to think of her father’s reaction if he knew what she was doing. All the more reason to do it now before he came home.
Looking around carefully, Emily dug in her skirt pocket for the heavy iron key and opened the door. One last glance around to be sure she wasn’t seen, and she was inside the vestibule and climbing the stairs.
Emily unlocked the door and held the unshielded lantern high to take a good look at the main room. It was familiar to her, but in the dark it took on an eerie air.
Her father had a private office, but Mr. Ripley’s desk was out here, as were the files. Last summer when Mr. Ripley had been ill, Emily had helped her father with the filing for a month. She knew her father’s byzantine system backward and forward. Armed with the name “Wentworth,” she was sure she could find what she needed.
On the right were files related to litigation: cases that would go to court, both criminal and civil. Mr. Nobody had spoken of accounts that needed settling—perhaps he meant before a judge? She started there, with the Ws. Nothing.
On the far wall was a cabinet in which wills were kept. These, she thought, had possibilities. Her persistence was rewarded with a thin folder marked Wentworth.
She brought it to Mr. Ripley’s desk and positioned the lamp so she could read. Her fingertips hovered above the folder—what would her father think of her looking at confidential files? She was invading Mr. Wentworth’s privacy in a way she herself would find intolerable. Then she recalled the dab of honey on her nose, and she opened the file.
The will didn’t belong to the beekeeper, Samuel Wentworth, at all. It was the last will and testament of another man: Jeremiah Wentworth, Deceased. She checked his date of birth; he had been an old man when he died. She remembered Mr. Nobody’s handkerchief marked “JW”—was there a link between him and Jeremiah, Deceased.
The will was dated seven years earlier and had been drafted by her father—she recognized his copperplate printing. The will was brief: If Jeremiah should die, he left small bequests to his brother, Sam, and to his sister, Violet Langston.
Sam Wentworth was the beekeeper. “Violet Langston,” Emily murmured. “Who lives on College Street, here in town.” She smiled to herself; Violet’s name opened up a new avenue of investigation.
The bulk of Jeremiah’s estate went to his son, James. There was a list of properties and investments that made Emily raise her eyebrows. Jeremiah had been a very rich man. According to his death certificate, he had died the previous Christmas.
The next page in the file was a codicil. Emily smiled, remembering how she had once asked her father what a “codicil” was—she had loved the round sound of the word. He had explained it was a document added to a will after it was written. She frowned; she knew it should always be attached to the will, not lying loose in the file.
This codicil was written in Mr. Ripley’s hand, which was not nearly as elegant as her father’s. It amended the will to eliminate James as the primary heir because he had died before his father. It was dated the previous November, just after Thanksgiving.
Without James to inherit, the money went to Jeremiah’s brother, Sam, and his sister, Violet. Emily wondered why Sam’s house was so dilapidated if he had inherited half of a huge fortune.
She rifled through the remaining papers and found only some correspondence and a copy of the application to have the will probated. She knew her father was conscientious to a fault—so where was the death certificate for the son, James.
“Who’s here?” The door slammed open. A voice from the doorway was like a clap of thunder. Emily closed the file and shoved it back in the drawer.
“I have a shotgun! I’ll shoot!” The voice wasn’t quite as
bold as the words, but Emily thought she recognized it. She hastily lifted the lantern to show her face. “Mr. Ripley, is that you?” she asked. The light quivered in her trembling hand.
“Miss Emily?” Mr. Ripley stepped into the office, still aiming the shotgun in her direction. “What are you doing here?
“I can explain,” Emily said. She backed away and moved behind his desk. She opened her mouth, but her usual facile explanations deserted her. How could she possibly explain her presence?
“What are you doing here?” he repeated, coming close enough so that she could smell whiskey on his breath.
“Perhaps you might put the weapon away,” Emily said. She kept her eyes on the shotgun until Mr. Ripley, looking slightly shamefaced, broke open the barrel and laid the gun safely on the table. “Thank you.”
A thought occurred to her. “Where did that gun come from?”
“I keep this locked in the outside closet,” he said. “But why are you here?”
With a sinking stomach, she realized that Mr. Ripley was bound to tell her father everything. Her only option was to take the offensive. “What are you doing out so late at night? My father prefers his clerks to be sober. I’m sure he would not approve of you carousing.”
Mr. Ripley took a step backward. “Miss Emily, I assure you my habits are regular indeed. Tonight I was celebrating a special occasion. . . . I am engaged to be married.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Ripley,” Emily said. “Who is the fortunate lady?”
But the clerk would not be deflected. “I must insist you tell me why you are here. Has Mr. Dickinson returned?” He glanced toward his employer’s dark office.
A third voice startled both of them. “I can explain.” Emily and Mr. Ripley turned with astonishment to the doorway to see Vinnie. She was wrapped in her mother’s shawl and clutching a lantern.
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