The Miser of Cherry Hill

by Scott Mackay

  Miss Wade gave me a glance. She might have been radiant, but I also saw evidence of our current discord in the tension around her lips. ‘I hope he was kind.’

  I rushed in. ‘I believe you’ve met my nurse.’

  More coldly now, she said, ‘Yes. Merry Christmas, Miss Gregsby.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Miss Wade.’

  For several seconds none of us said anything.

  Then Miss Wade broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘I should return to my companion. He’s from Boston. He’ll be lost in this crowd. So nice to see you, Dr Deacon. And a pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah. Enjoy the party.’

  She moved off, as graceful as a summer breeze.

  Jeremiah leaned over and murmured, ‘Pa, go after her.’

  I turned to my son. ‘Who’s that man she’s with?’

  ‘I don’t know. But you should do something about it.’

  I turned to Henny. Her dark eyes now had a patina of distress. I saw that she was beginning to understand. As much as I wanted her to have a fine Christmas, I knew I had to go after Miss Wade, even though I had no idea what I would say to her.

  ‘Miss Wade, a word, please.’

  Olive turned, her expression a picture of self control. ‘Of course, Dr Deacon. How can I be of service?’

  Her manner remained distant, formal. It pained me greatly. I still had no idea what I was going to say to her. In casting about for a subject, my mind naturally trolled areas of current focus, and I now remembered there was something I had to ask her in regard to the Purcell murder case. ‘As you know, I’m still investigating the murder of Ephraim Purcell.’

  She nodded with appropriate solemnity. ‘Such a sad crime.’

  ‘I’ve now learned that Miss Reynolds did not admit herself to Sisters of Charity Hospital in Buffalo on the night you so graciously helped me attend her.’

  Her golden brow rose. ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘No. It would appear she came back to Fairfield with her maid after reaching West Shelby. She then sought Miss Pond’s hospitality on Finch Street, where she stayed a number of days during her convalescence before returning to her own house.’

  Miss Wade thought about this. ‘She’s a strong-willed girl, sir. If she didn’t want to go to the hospital, nothing, not even your order, would induce her. How can I help you in this matter, Dr Deacon?’

  My heart sank. ‘Olive, please, call me Clyde.’

  ‘No, doctor, your proper title is more appropriate at this point.’

  For the next several seconds I couldn’t go on. But then I again used the Purcell case as a pretext to talk to her. ‘I think you said Miss Pond and Miss Reynolds were friends, did you not?’

  ‘I did. The best of friends.’

  ‘And did Daisy approve of Marigold’s liaison with Billy Fray?’

  Olive glanced toward the Christmas tree, where two children stared at candy canes with hungry eyes. Her brow knitted and she turned back to me. ‘I would have to say that Daisy Pond was as much in love with Billy Fray as Marigold was.’

  This unexpected fact gave me reason to pause. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘No, doctor, it’s quite sad, really. Unrequited love always is.’

  I couldn’t help thinking she was making an oblique comment on our own situation.

  ‘So in other words, she didn’t approve,’ I said.

  ‘Only because she loved Billy herself.’ Her eyes strayed to the refreshments table. ‘I should return to my friend.’ She moved off.

  I grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Olive, please, wait.’

  She turned to me. ‘Dr Deacon, no.’

  ‘Who is your companion? He’s not Edgar Keenan, is he?’

  She peered at me. She at last seemed to divine the true depth of my suffering. She looked away. ‘He’s not Edgar. He’s Edgar’s cousin, Drake.’

  The implication of this panicked me. ‘Edgar’s cousin?’ My heart lurched like a carriage with one wheel smaller than the other. ‘Olive, what’s going on?’

  Her shoulders rose. ‘Edgar has sent Drake to talk to me.’ With this admission she became a little more relenting in her tone toward me, even if she remained uninformative. ‘I should be off. If I can be of further assistance in your investigation, please don’t hesitate to call.’ She gave me a small bow. ‘Good evening, doctor.’

  She made off through the crowd. This time I didn’t attempt to restrain her.

  For several seconds I couldn’t move. All my reservations about Olive’s summer with Everett Howse now seemed small and pointless compared to the news that Keenan had sent his cousin from Boston.

  Perhaps I would have turned to stone on the spot if Stanley Armstrong hadn’t made his way through the crowd in an ill-fitting tuxedo that looked as if it belonged in a vaudeville show. He took me by the arm and, without saying a word, ushered me away like a wounded soldier off the battlefield.

  A short while later, the sheriff and I stood by the bar having a drink, he a whisky, I my usual bourbon.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ I said, ‘is why Keenan’s cousin is here in the first place. She said he’s here to talk to her, but what does she mean by that? And couldn’t he have telephoned? Why did he have to come all this way?’

  The sheriff took a sip of whisky and pondered. ‘Maybe this Keenan feller sent his cousin as an emissary. Last time I checked, you couldn’t send an emissary through the telephone.’

  I sighed. ‘You think Olive’s fixing to go back to Boston?’

  ‘Maybe Keenan’s called it off with his wife and is trying to win her back.’

  I stiffened. ‘I won’t let that happen.’

  ‘It seems you’ve been letting it happen all this while.’

  I sighed. ‘Small things got in the way of bigger things.’

  Stanley’s voice and manner grew more emphatic. ‘Then, Clyde, you have to take a stand. Remember when we had that buffalo herd bearing down on us the time we rode up to Amarillo? Must have been in ’89 or ’90, one of the last herds that size? We were hunkered down in that hollow, and there was no way out for us because the herd was a half mile across. We thought we were goners. So what did you do? You stood up and did that crazy Comanche war dance. What did the herd do? They parted like the dang Red Sea. You got to do a Comanche war dance for Olive, Clyde, and make her take notice.’

  I sighed, confused. ‘You want me to do a Comanche war dance at Dr Thorensen’s holiday party? That hardly seems appropriate, Stanley.’

  ‘All I know is that if you don’t do something soon, you’re going to lose whatever chance you have. There she is over there. And it looks like she’s fixin’ to dance with this here feller from Boston. Are you going to let that happen?’

  ‘What would you have me do, Stanley? She’s made it as plain as a pikestaff that she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. If I cut in on Keenan’s cousin, I’ll look like a real chump, and that will just make matters worse.’

  ‘Come up with something, Clyde. You know you love her, and you’re going to lose her if you don’t.’

  THIRTY

  After mounting the stage and telling the conductor what I needed, he nodded and went over and spoke to the pianist. The pianist, continuing to play, listened, and finally nodded. Then the conductor had a few words with the first violinist. The violinist, in the middle of some pizzicato, nodded as well.

  The conductor came back to me. ‘The piano player knows the piece,’ he told me. ‘And Hal says you can use his violin. We’re just going to finish this song.’

  Hal came over after the song had finished and surrendered his violin and bow. ‘My rosin’s on my stand if you need some.’

  Giving the E-string a few scratches, I was satisfied that the horsehair had sufficient purchase to produce a tone, so didn’t bother with the rosin. I thanked Hal and approached the small proscenium arch.

  People turned, curious that I was up here.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I would like to make a special musical offering to a lady I’ve grow
n to know well since coming to Fairfield last spring. She is fair of temperament, generous in spirit, and, I hope, forgiving in nature. I speak of Miss Olive Wade.’ I could see her now, stiff in the audience, her mauve gown making her look like an iris bracing against a strong wind. Her companion from Boston stood beside her with a glass of champagne in his hand, a handsome tall rogue with an insufferable smirk on his face. ‘Miss Wade, please accept this musical offering as a white flag, and take it as an early Christmas present from a true and ardent admirer.’ I turned to the conductor. ‘Maestro?’

  I played the same piece I had heard Miss Wade herself play the day I had presented myself at her door and had been turned away by her maid, Freda, Chopin’s Prelude Number 4 from his Opus 28 collection, now adapted, by ear, for violin and piano.

  I poured my soul into each phrase. The pianist followed beautifully. I saw rapture on the faces of many ladies in the audience. I felt my love for Olive Wade as never before – love always finding its truest expression in music.

  We were two-thirds the way through when I saw Miss Wade break away from Edgar Keenan’s cousin and make for the front door in an agitated manner. My violin went scratch, and I found I was quite incapable of playing another note.

  I turned to Hal and gave his instrument back to him. ‘Carry on, my good man.’

  He took the instrument, found his place, and continued with the Chopin.

  To the astonished murmurs of the audience, I rushed down the steps after Miss Wade. I caught a glimpse of Henny looking at me from the far side of the room with the most tragic eyes I’d ever seen.

  I saw Olive hurry out the front door, leaving her silver fox stole and muff in the hands of a dumbfounded butler.

  As I neared the front door the butler said to me, ‘Sir, perhaps you would be so kind as to give Miss Wade her muff and stole.’

  I snatched the fur articles from the butler and hurried outside.

  Snow still fell, odd because the moon had come out from behind some clouds and the sky was clear. I was confronted with lustrous flakes tumbling gently through moonlight. After a few moments of gazing at this silver-tinted miracle, distracted by the prettiness of it all, I spotted Olive at the end of the drive, her back to me, standing there, staring out at the road. The gas lamps on the street, still not replaced by electrical ones, lit her up so that she glowed as if with platinum-plating.

  I descended the steps and approached her with much circumspection.

  As I drew near, my feet sinking up to my ankles, I called. ‘Miss Wade?’ I took a few more steps. ‘I say, Olive.’

  She swung round. For the first time since my ill-fated sleigh ride with Miss Gregsby, I saw reflected in her expression a true account of the way she felt, tortured, the searching look in her eyes desperate, her lips pulled back at the corners to show the full depth of the way she was suffering. Despite this, she maintained her formal tone.

  ‘I came out for a breath,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing you need concern yourself with, Dr Deacon.’

  I reached her. ‘Is it Miss Gregsby?’

  ‘Look at this snow. And with moonlight, too.’

  ‘Would it help if I asked her to leave?’

  She glanced away, and her sadness became so acute she looked bereft. ‘Your playing is so beautiful. I had no idea.’

  ‘Olive, what is it?’ I put the fox stole around her neck, the muff upon her right hand, and placed my own hands upon her shoulders. ‘What’s happened?’

  She turned to me. In that infuriatingly proper voice, she said, ‘I’m so glad your son has come from Boston to visit for Christmas, Dr Deacon. I myself will be travelling to Boston for the holiday.’

  My heart now rushed like the Tonawanda did down near the locks. ‘Olive, don’t let that cad Keenan entice you a second time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t categorize him as a cad, Dr Deacon. I believe he just needs a woman’s proper influence. I’m not sure he ever got that from his wife, who, by the way, no longer lives in Boston but has removed herself to Baltimore to be with her parents.’

  ‘Olive, no, please.’

  ‘I’m sure you will have a wonderful Christmas with Miss Gregsby.’

  ‘She means nothing to me. Surely you understand that.’

  ‘I understand only what my eyes tell me to understand.’

  ‘Then your eyes deceive you.’

  ‘I think not.’

  Frustrated with her, knowing that in her current state I couldn’t talk sense to her, I zeroed in like a hawk on a field mouse and kissed her square on the lips. Her body stiffened, and I could sense she was shocked. But then, after a moment, her muscles eased and she didn’t resist, but rather responded. Her lips were soft, like velvet, and the smell of her perfume, mixed with a hint of champagne, was intoxicating. My lids were closed. I opened them, and saw Olive looking up at me, blue eyes wide, studying me as if she were trying to divine the true depth of my soul.

  I pulled back. We stared at each other. I detected new significance to the way she looked at me, and I had the curious sensation that my heart was leaving my chest and connecting with hers, and that the two together were joined in flight above us. I felt that the story was already written. We were, in a word, a couple; and, at least for those few moments, as the snow fell around us like flakes from a silversmith’s grinding wheel, we shared a deep and unburdened trust, that feeling of union only a husband and wife can share, a permanent and unshakeable belief in one another.

  Our lips latched again, this time with greater eagerness, and we kissed with such passion that had there been a hundred violins playing Chopin on the front lawn they wouldn’t have achieved the same intensity of our lip-locked embrace. She let her muff slide to the snow, put her arms around me, and drew me near. She began to shake, and I sensed her great need. I remembered how her parents had recently died, and how her Aunt Tabitha had passed away, and how she had been ill-used first by Keenan, then by our junior assemblyman from Albany, Everett Howse. If only I could have had greater understanding of this woman at the outset and not let my reservations guide my behaviour. I saw now that she needed me, but that she was afraid, and unsure – unsure of any man, given her past.

  When she finally pulled away, she unexpectedly erected battlements again, and, rather than trust the man who loved her, she encouraged those misconceptions that had been driving us apart since November.

  ‘You would send her away?’

  She didn’t understand that Henny didn’t need sending away, and that she had never needed sending away because she didn’t mean anything to me.

  Before I could allay her renewed suspicions by professing my undying devotion to her, I heard someone hurry down the front steps. I turned and saw Drake, Keenan’s cousin from Boston, now with not just a glass of champagne in his hand but a whole bottle.

  He called across the yard. ‘Badly done, Miss Wade. Badly done, indeed. What will Edgar think? Especially after he’s made so many sacrifices.’

  We disengaged. Under her breath, Olive said, ‘That was wrong of us.’

  ‘On the contrary, you know just how right it was.’

  ‘It was horribly misguided.’

  My throat thickened with anguish. I clasped her hands. ‘Search your heart.’

  ‘Leave her alone, mister.’ Drake came right up to us, the grin on his face in no way friendly, clutched my elbow, and broke my hold on Olive. ‘That is unless you want to find a five-fingered sandwich in your mouth.’

  Olive intervened. ‘Drake, please. There’s no need for that.’

  ‘As Edgar’s representative, I think there’s every need. Think of me as your personal Border collie.’

  ‘Sir, you insult Miss Wade with your inference.’

  Drake’s smile disappeared. ‘Mister, I don’t know who you are, or how you know Miss Wade, but you have no business fooling with her. She’s not herself tonight, and you shouldn’t be taking advantage of her when she’s in this state. She needs a guiding hand just now, and that’s why I’m here. If you know
what’s good for you, you’ll leave her alone.’ He gripped Miss Wade by the elbow. ‘Come on, Olive. I’ll have the stable-boy bring the sleigh around. We’re going.’

  She allowed herself to be led away.

  But a quarter way up the drive, she turned and called. ‘I’m sorry, Clyde. I’ve been a fool.’

  I said nothing, but I thought to myself: so have I, Olive. So have I.

  Later that night, after Jeremiah had gone to bed, Henny came and knocked on my bedroom door. I answered. Her hair was down and she was in her nightgown.

  Before either of us could say anything, she pressed her head against my chest. I didn’t know what to do. I felt a hot tear fall on my hand. She put her arms around me and held me tightly.

  ‘I can’t have you, can I?’

  I left my arms at my sides. ‘I’m sorry, Henny.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  I had nothing to say.

  She broke away from me and hurried to her room.

  Merry miserable Christmas, I thought.

  When I was sure she was settled, I got dressed and went downstairs to my study. I took out writing materials and composed a letter to the Booths, the parents of Henny’s dead fiancé. I explained to them how their son’s suicide shouldn’t be blamed on Henny, gave them many medical details regarding Martin’s condition, and told them how Henny was an orphaned young woman in search of a family – a family to come home to for Christmas. I continued by lauding her many wonderful qualities and suggested that though they may never have their son back, a daughter like Henny would be a blessing to any family. I then added a one-dollar bill, asking them that they telegraph an answer as soon as possible, and that, if they were so inclined, I would send Henny to Wisconsin, all expenses paid.

  Having taken their address from Henny’s desk earlier in the month, I affixed it to an envelope, attached sufficient postage, and put it on Munroe’s tray for mailing in the morning.

  I was going to miss Henny.

  At the same time, I hoped and prayed that this particular Comanche war dance would be enough to convince Olive Wade I had no one but her in my mind.