“You see,” Mrs. Benedict said now, pouring out the coffee with a steady hand. “My son was in a rural hospital, and no one knew who he was.” She spoke in the most matter-of-fact way, as if nothing she was describing was remarkable. “Everyone assumed he died in the fire, and since there was absolutely nothing left of it, no one could argue.” She offered Bronwyn a cup, and Bronwyn accepted it. “But I knew,” Mrs. Benedict said simply. “I could feel it. I knew my boy was alive.”
Bronwyn sipped the coffee, and thought that Mrs. Benedict had as rich an imagination as her own.
“It’s been more than a year since he came back,” Mrs. Benedict said. She held her cup between her two small hands, hands that looked deceptively fragile. “You’re thinking, quite naturally, that Preston should have contacted you, once he returned.”
Bronwyn turned her gaze to her right, letting the early morning brilliance of Puget Sound sting her eyes. She recalled her bewildered hurt as she waited for a telephone call or a letter from Preston. She remembered the despair that swept her when she read of his death, and her misery when she understood there would be no engagement, no society wedding, only the loneliness of a husbandless girl expecting a baby. She said in a low voice, “If Preston had wanted to, Mrs. Benedict, he could have. He knew where to find me.”
“With your parents. Quite proper.” Mrs. Benedict spoke in a conversational tone, as if they were merely discussing some society event.
“I wrote to Preston when I found out I was pregnant,” Bronwyn said, still staring at the breeze-rippled water. “He didn’t answer.”
“I scolded him severely for that,” Mrs. Benedict said. “Boys can be so thoughtless.”
Bronwyn was glad, when she turned her gaze back to Mrs. Benedict, that her eyes were sun-dazzled. She couldn’t quite see the expression on the other woman’s face, and she thought that was probably for the best. She tried to keep her own features smooth and still, giving nothing away, but there was ice in her voice. “I don’t think of Preston as a boy.”
“Oh, of course not!” Mrs. Benedict’s laugh was like crystals clinking together. “That’s just a mother’s way, you know!”
Bronwyn pressed her lips together to stop herself from retorting that, of course, she did not know, because her baby had been taken away from her.
Her companion didn’t notice her silence. “He did try to trace the baby, though,” Mrs. Benedict said. “He knew there was a child, and he feels responsible.” Bronwyn felt a choking sensation in her throat, but again, Mrs. Benedict didn’t notice. “He has been telling me,” she said in a confiding way, “that we should find the baby. The little boy. Truly, if the baby’s mother had been anyone less—well, less fitting—I should have told him to leave well enough alone. But you, Miss Morgan, come from such a good family.”
Bronwyn raised her eyebrows. Her eyes had adjusted now, and she could see that Mrs. Benedict looked quite sincere. There was no irony in her expression.
Mrs. Benedict smiled. “Oh, yes! Preston has told me all about you. The Port Townsend Morgans, he said. With a lovely house in Uptown. A charming mother, successful father . . . Naturally, I would have preferred that the two of you were married, but still—quite respectable relations for my first grandchild. We can think about the issue of marriage later.”
Bronwyn blinked at the casual mention of marriage, as if it were nothing more than a housekeeping detail. It prompted her to speak bluntly. “Mrs. Benedict,” she said. “If Preston were alive, wouldn’t he be in Benedict Hall, with you?”
Edith Benedict’s smile faded, and her eyelids and lips drooped, changing the outline of her face. She looked away, out into the bright morning. “If only he could come home,” she said softly. “I’ve begged and begged, but my husband—and Margot—” She spoke Dr. Benedict’s name tightly, as if she had bitten down on a pebble. “They tell me it’s impossible.”
“Why should that be?”
“Well, you see . . .” Sudden tears sparkled in Mrs. Benedict’s eyes, and she paused for a moment, the back of her hand held to her lips. She sniffed once, and said, “Preston was injured, you know. In the fire. He hasn’t been the same ever since. Not himself at all.”
Bronwyn eyed her doubtfully, and Mrs. Benedict’s eyes flashed up to hers and then away, as if she had read her disbelief. “It’s a sanitarium.” She spoke on a little rush of breath. “He’s in the Walla Walla Sanitarium. I haven’t seen it, but I understand they have a very good doctor there. Nurses, too. Mr. Benedict insisted on that, of course.”
Bronwyn watched Mrs. Benedict’s profile, and tried to believe she knew what she was talking about. It would be marvelous if Preston truly was in a sanitarium. She didn’t know what a sanitarium was like, but she pictured rooms like those in a fine hotel, bright and clean, with tall windows and white bedspreads, and landscaped grounds to stroll in.
“Margot and Mr. Benedict don’t really understand what troubles Preston,” Mrs. Benedict said. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “It was the war, you know. He was a hero,” she added defensively, as if Bronwyn might suspect otherwise. “But war changes a man. There’s this sapphire—It’s not like Preston to care about a jewel, but I always thought, if it mattered to him . . .” Her sentence died half-spoken.
“He wore it around his neck,” Bronwyn said, then felt heat staining her cheeks. She couldn’t think why she had said that. She had never discussed any of these details with anyone, not her mother, not her friends.
Mrs. Benedict, evidently, saw nothing unusual in her comment. “Yes, he did. He thought it helped him. Made him stronger.” She sighed. “Margot calls it a delusion. I don’t understand why she can’t allow her brother his comforts.”
Bronwyn breathed a small sigh of her own. The delusion was all on the part of Mrs. Benedict, obviously. She wished she had refused to come. She should have made a scene, woken Ramona, stopped this strange journey before it started.
But if it was true—if Preston were alive after all, and he truly wanted to find their baby—
She turned her gaze back to the bright water. She knew better. Entertaining such thoughts would make her as deluded as Mrs. Benedict.
Blake rose, as he usually did, earlier than anyone else in Benedict Hall. Hattie had left the electric percolator filled and ready for him. He plugged it in, and collected the bottle of cream from the icebox while the percolator gurgled and dripped. When the coffee was ready, he poured a mug full, stirred in cream, and carried the mug to the back porch. He sat there for a time, savoring the cool peace of the early morning, and planning his appeal to Mr. Dickson on behalf of the Church family.
It would all have been easy if Dr. Margot were here. Dr. Margot and her father would argue about the issue. Dickson would say it was not their business to interfere, while Dr. Margot would argue that it was a matter of conscience, that honorable people could not stand by and watch a blameless family thrown out of their home. Mr. Dickson would grumble, but that was mostly for show. He and Dr. Margot were far more alike than either of them realized.
But the major and Dr. Margot weren’t due back for ten days. The Churches didn’t have ten days.
Blake couldn’t argue with Mr. Dickson the way Dr. Margot could. It wouldn’t be proper. He meant to present his case as objectively as he could, politely reminding his employer that the credit for his own return to health, after nearly a year of recuperation, owed a great deal to Nurse Sarah Church. Of course, Mr. Dickson’s generosity had made that possible. Blake’s savings would never have covered a year in a rest home.
The whole situation was delicate. Blake watched the yellow cream swirl in the surface of his coffee, and pondered what he could say. He would wait until Mr. Dickson had breakfasted, and had read his paper. It would be best, perhaps, to speak to him as they drove to the office, with only Mr. Dick to listen. If he made a good case, Mr. Dickson could telephone to the mayor this morning. There was no time to waste.
Poor Sarah! She had been too quiet as he
drove her to her home the night before. Following her directions, he had steered the Cadillac into a tidy neighborhood of two-story brick homes, each with a patch of lawn in front and a garden in back. Her family’s home had a garage, which set it apart from its neighbors, and a well-aged but clean Ford parked inside. When he pulled the motorcar up to the curb, and climbed out to hold her door, her mother appeared in the lighted doorway, wearing a printed apron and a worried expression. He bowed to her, and touched his cap. Mrs. Church lifted one hand in an uncertain gesture.
Sarah had said, “I’m sure my mother would love to give you a cup of tea, Mr. Blake.”
“Thank you, no. It’s late, and I know you have to be at the clinic in the morning.”
“I expect you’re tired, too. I’ll explain to her. Thank you for driving me.”
He touched his cap again. “I’m always at your service, Nurse Church.” He had stood watching until she was safely through the door, then remained a moment longer, eyeing the surrounding neighborhood, and wondering who the men were who had insulted this family.
He was, he thought now, as he pushed himself up and walked toward the kitchen, reasonably tolerant when it came to himself. His dear little Sarah was another matter entirely.
Hattie was already at the stove, cracking eggs into a wide cast-iron skillet. In another pan, slices of ham were frying, filling the kitchen with smoky fragrance. Loena was setting flatware on a tray, and Leona was filling the toaster with thick slices of the bread Hattie had baked the day before. Thelma was arranging small plates on a tray for the nursery.
Blake tied a big cotton dishtowel around his waist, and picked up a spatula to help Hattie at the stove.
The knock at the swinging door that led from the hall made everyone pause, and automatically turn to Blake for a response. He said, “I’ll go,” and crossed the kitchen. Before he opened the door, he remembered to pull off the dishtowel and drape it across a chair.
He found Mr. Dickson standing in the hall, his heavy features drawn. “Sir?” Blake said, surprised. “Coffee will be—”
“Is Mrs. Edith in the kitchen?” Mr. Dickson blurted.
Foolishly, Blake glanced over his shoulder, although he knew perfectly well Mrs. Edith wasn’t there. Every face was turned toward the doorway, the maids with wide eyes, Hattie lifting her dripping spatula from the scrambled eggs.
Hattie dropped her spatula, and bustled across the kitchen. “Mr. Dickson, is something wrong? Mrs. Edith maybe needs me upstairs—”
“She’s not there,” Dickson said harshly. “I thought she might be with you.” He rarely spoke to the servants in such a tone, and Blake and Hattie exchanged a glance.
Blake said carefully, “Mr. Dickson, I don’t believe any of the staff have seen her yet this morning. Would you like me to come—”
Dickson, in another unusual gesture, turned his back before Blake finished his sentence. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “She’s gone. Slipped away while I was asleep.”
Blake, with a movement of his head, indicated to Hattie and the rest of the staff that they should go on about their business. He stepped out into the hall, and let the door swing shut behind him. “Mr. Dickson, I’ll come up and check the rooms. She could be in Mr. Preston’s bedroom.”
“I’ve looked,” Dickson growled. “She’s not there, and she’s not with Ramona, or in the nursery. Or in the Parrishes’ rooms. If she’s not in the kitchen, she’s not in the house. And—” He had started toward the front door, but he stopped, and faced Blake with his hands on his hips. His chin jutted, and his eyes were flinty. “Her handbag is gone, Blake. And her valise, the little brocade one the children gave her. That young woman who was with us at dinner last night has also vanished. Her bedroom door is open, and the bed is rumpled up, but it’s empty. I have to surmise they left together.”
“I think we should ask Loena where the sapphire was,” Blake said. “You’ll remember—”
“Oh, goddammit. You’re right. She spoke of taking it to Preston, didn’t she?” He groaned, and Blake felt a stab of sympathy. Dickson rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, and said, with an air of resignation, “Send Loena out to me, will you? I’ll have her check, since she was the one who saw it. Then you’d better get the car out. Pack a bag, too, Blake. And better ask Hattie to fix sandwiches or something. We’re in for a long drive.”
CHAPTER 18
Margot rose at a shockingly late hour in the narrow bedroom under the eaves of the Parrish ranch house. There were three bedrooms in the rickety, sun-faded building, but only one bathroom. Frank had teased her she should be thankful it was indoors, and she assured him she was. The elder Parrishes were out of their beds by the time the first sunlight glistened on the fields of the Bitterroot Valley, so although Margot wasn’t used to sleeping in, she stayed in bed, listening to the house wrens chattering under the eaves. Only after she heard the older Parrishes descend the steep staircase to the first floor did she throw back the quilt and slide her feet into a pair of borrowed slippers. Even her dressing gown was on loan.
Her mother-in-law had clicked her tongue over the paucity of luggage her son and his wife had been able to bring with them. Jenny and Robert Parrish had driven their battered Model T out to Fort Missoula, where there was enough open space to land the airplane. The propeller had barely stopped spinning before they started eagerly across the field. Margot and Frank climbed down to meet them. Robert shook Frank’s hand and kissed Margot’s cheek, his lips dry and leathery against her skin. Jenny, too, kissed Margot, then folded her son into a long embrace that made Margot’s eyes sting with sympathy. They brought down their modest valises and Margot’s medical bag, and crossed the uneven grass of the field. Jenny clung to Frank’s good arm as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.
Once they reached the ranch house, Jenny showed Margot up the stairs to the bedroom she and Frank would use. It was at the front, facing west. The slanted roof cut the space nearly in half, but the window, tucked under the eaves, gave a beautiful view of the valley and the bulk of the mountains beyond.
When Margot had set down her valise, her mother-in-law took her to her own bedroom, where she opened her closet with an apologetic air. “Not much call for nice clothes, here in the country,” she said. “I’m a mite smaller than you, too, Doctor, but I hope you’ll help yourself.”
“Please call me Margot, won’t you?” Margot said.
“Of course. If you like,” the older woman said, but Margot noticed she didn’t do it. She just didn’t call her anything.
The wardrobe held the simplest of clothes. There were a few dresses, the nicest of which Margot remembered her mother-in-law had worn to their wedding in Seattle. There were a couple of thick jackets that looked as if they were meant for snow. Everything else looked like clothes any workingman could have worn, and Margot hesitated, unsure what to do and not wanting to offend.
She said, “You know, Mother Parrish, I’m sure I could get by.”
“In those trousers?”
Margot glanced down at her flying clothes, and laughed. “Well, no. But I brought a skirt and two shirtwaists.”
Jenny Parrish shook her head. “Oh, no, dear, you don’t want to ruin your nice city clothes. Here now, here’s a dressing gown I hardly ever wear. It’s clean,” she added.
“I can see that. Thank you,” Margot said, feeling helpless.
Jenny dug out a pair of worn but comfortable leather slippers from the bottom of the wardrobe, and from a drawer she pulled a pair of faded denim trousers. The fabric was a lighter weight than the canvas ones Margot had worn for the airplane. Margot chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to wear these,” she confided, and Jenny laughed.
“Best thing for mucking out barns,” she said. “Of course, that’s about the least ladylike thing you could possibly do.”
“Oh, no,” Margot had said. “I’ve done far less ladylike things at the hospital, I’m afraid.”
She wished, a moment later, that she hadn’t referred to her profess
ion, but her mother-in-law appeared unaffected. Unlike Ramona, Jenny Baker Parrish was well acquainted with the gritty side of life, and would have been, Margot suspected, impatient with Ramona’s squeamishness. Jenny only nodded, saying, “Such important work you do.” They smiled at each other then, and Margot’s awkwardness began to ease.
It had been an auspicious beginning to what was turning out to be a wonderfully successful visit. That first day, Frank showed Margot the beloved places of his boyhood, meadows and lofts and streams where he and his friends had fished. The next morning, the two of them tramped through the hot July fields, following Robert as he supervised the haying crews. Robert was tall and lean, like his son. His face was deeply seamed by the sun and wind, and he had more silver in his hair than Frank, but no one seeing them side by side could have mistaken their relationship.
Frank and his father fell into a discussion of the hay crop, the weather, and what price beef on the hoof would bring in the coming winter. Margot lost interest. She sniffed, savoring the sweet smell of freshly cut hay. She listened to the men calling to one another through the dry air. She lifted her head into the wind that blew up the valley, and took off her hat to let it ruffle her hair, and she waded through the thigh-high hay, happy for the protection of the denim trousers. They were surprisingly comfortable, and afforded her a freedom of movement her skirts never did. She wondered if she dared buy a pair to take home.
She was in awe of the great draft horses that pulled the hay wagon. There had been a carriage horse at home, when she was a girl, but the two gray Percherons were nothing like that slim-legged, bad-tempered bay. The Percherons had magnificent feathers draping their wide feet. Their heads were broad, and their eyes large and deep and thickly lashed. They smelled of sun and straw, and their hides shone like silver in the brittle sunlight. She soon discovered they were the gentlest of creatures, careful of where they stepped, tolerant of her cautious attempts to stroke them. The men went in at midday for their dinner, and Frank led the horses into the shade of the barn so they could cool off. He gave Margot a couple of wrinkled apples from the root cellar, and she offered them to the big horses. Their thick, velvety lips tickled her palm as they accepted the treat, making her giggle like a child.
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