Margot sighed, but she knew he was right. She rose, and walked around to her side of the bed. She slipped under the comforter, and nestled close to him. He turned to kiss her, and she put the matter out of her mind.
When she woke later in the night, though, it was the first thing she thought of. She lay watching the undimmed stars wheel above the Bitterroot Valley, pondering the surprise that was Jenny Parrish, and wondering what she could do to help her.
CHAPTER 19
Union Station in Portland hummed with trains coming in and out, crowds of people surging this way and that, and porters and conductors shouting commands over the hubbub. Bronwyn felt shaky with fatigue and anxiety, but Mrs. Benedict seemed charged with energy over their mission. “This way!” she exclaimed as they stepped down from the train. “We have to change lines, but we have time for a sandwich. I’m starved, aren’t you, dear?”
Bronwyn stumbled after her as she led the way across the busy concourse. The high-ceilinged lobby had a curved wall at the front, where shelves of a newsstand stretched from one side to the other. Through the two tiers of windows she saw a circular drive filled with touring cars and sedans and an occasional horse and buggy. She had been here before, with her mother and father, but that time she had been rested, unworried, comfortable under her parents’ protection. At this moment she felt less secure than she had dashing home late at night from the Cellar, with Johnnie’s angry shouts following her.
Everything about Edith Benedict seemed unreliable. She had been silent to the point of rudeness at dinner the night before, and so still that if her eyes had not been open, Bronwyn could have believed she had fallen asleep at the table. Today she was talkative, restless in her movements, fixated on her purpose. She glanced over her shoulder repeatedly to see that Bronwyn was following, and each time she flashed her an eager smile.
She trailed after Mrs. Benedict into the small café at the far side of the lobby. She had no choice, now, but to see this through.
Her parents must know, by now, what had happened and what she had done. When they learned at Benedict Hall that she and Mrs. Benedict had both disappeared in the night, they would surely telephone to Morgan House, but Bronwyn was too exhausted to think about that. She had trouble keeping her thoughts consecutive. Her mind flitted from one thing to another, as random as a foraging bird.
She didn’t hear Mrs. Benedict ordering food. She blinked, and roused herself to see that someone had served her a ham-and-cheese sandwich on a china plate, with an enormous pickle at one side. “Coffee?” Mrs. Benedict asked cheerfully.
“Yes, please,” Bronwyn said. She hoped coffee would help to clear her muddled brain.
“Do eat something now, dear,” Mrs. Benedict said in motherly fashion. “We still have quite a long journey in front of us.” She picked up her own sandwich, and took a delicate bite.
Bronwyn did the same, and discovered all at once that she was ravenous. The ham was rich and savory, and the bread was fresh, spread with sweet butter and tart mustard. Her sandwich was half gone by the time the coffee arrived.
She did, in fact, feel better as they left the café. She would watch over Mrs. Benedict until she had achieved her goal—whatever that might be—and see her safely returned to Seattle. Then she would go home.
Her attempt at independence was at an end. She had surely lost her place with Mother Ryther, and she could hardly stay on in Benedict Hall. Mrs. Benedict might forgive her indiscretion. No one else would, once they knew of her connection to Preston. And Dr. Benedict knew her as Betty Jones.
She was a fallen angel, and she was a liar. When they found her out, it would all be over.
Dickson withdrew to his cramped study to make hasty notes for his son to take to the office. “An hour, Blake,” he said gruffly. “Do you think Mrs. Ramona and Hattie can hold things together here? We’ll be gone at least three days. There’s no help for it.”
“I will discuss it with them,” Blake said. “Since needs must, I’m sure they can manage.”
Blake knew the drive would be long and sometimes arduous. It hadn’t been so many years since it took a team of horses to pull an automobile over the mountain pass. Even now, the journey to Walla Walla meant a rough ride on the graded gravel of the Sunset Highway, the motor roaring on the steepest climbs. It would run more smoothly on the descent. They would drive south through the Yakima Valley, then east to the farthest corner of the state. In many places the roads had no pavement. In others they were rutted and broken by weather. Filling stations could be hard to find, and sometimes when they did come upon one, there was no motor fuel for sale. Against that eventuality, Blake stocked the Cadillac with cans of gasoline, but they made him uneasy, rattling and banging together when the road was rough. He had advised Mr. Dickson long ago that there should be no cigars in a motorcar, and received no argument.
Blake hastily packed a valise, and stowed it in the back of the Cadillac along with the two gasoline cans. He spoke to Hattie, and she assured him she could manage the maids, and that she and Mrs. Ramona would see that Mr. Dick had what he needed.
Blake was already putting on his driving coat when he suddenly remembered Sarah. A chill ran through him, and he stopped with one arm in a sleeve and the other still out. The disappearance of Mrs. Edith, and the urgency of preparing for the drive across the state, had driven the Churches’ crisis right out of his mind.
He had promised Sarah. And he knew what Dr. Margot would want.
He stood in the hallway, frozen with horror. He could hardly speak to Mr. Dickson about it now. He was too upset about Mrs. Edith to take on anyone else’s problems, and he would only growl impatiently that it would have to wait.
Blake glanced at the big clock in the corner, and saw that he had perhaps fifteen minutes until their departure. An idea formed in his mind, slowly, the parts of it falling into place like jigsaw pieces. It wasn’t a good idea, nor even an ethical one, but it was all he had. The risk of his being caught out was high. He could lose his position—if his idea even worked—but it would buy the Churches some time until someone had a better plan.
He pulled his arm out of the sleeve of his coat, and hung it on the coatrack in the hall. Smoothing his shirtsleeves, he started up the stairs, and when he reached the second floor he turned to the back of the house, where Dr. Margot and Major Parrish had their apartment. He heard Louisa’s piping voice from the nursery, and the answers from Mrs. Ramona and Nurse. Downstairs, Hattie and the twins were working in the kitchen. He hoped he wouldn’t find Thelma in one of the upstairs rooms. At least the Parrishes’ apartment wasn’t due to be cleaned until just before they returned.
He opened the door, and found their small sitting area empty. The bedroom beyond looked orderly. He closed the door to the hall before he went to make certain. The bedroom was also empty. He had the apartment to himself for the moment, and very little time to accomplish his goal.
He turned back to the sitting room, where Dr. Margot’s private telephone rested on a small table under an oval mirror. As he picked up the receiver and held the handset to his ear, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, his brow furrowed with anxiety, his lips pressed so tight they had gone pale. He didn’t often look in a mirror, other than to shave, and catching sight of his face this way was a bit of a shock. His hair had gone white almost without his noticing it. He didn’t feel particularly old, as a rule, but this glimpse of his worried features, when he wasn’t prepared to see them, reminded him how far in the past were the days of his youth.
Blake straightened, and turned his back to the mirror. He cleared his throat in preparation. His voice and Mr. Dickson’s weren’t all that different, though he would never have presumed to share such a thought with anyone else. He remembered Mayor Brown’s last visit to Benedict Hall quite clearly. Mr. Dickson addressed His Honor in a familiar way, as if they were great friends. He recalled the mayor’s pleasant, rather youthful demeanor, his thick dark hair, the round glasses that gave him the air of a schoolboy
.
Mayor Brown was, at least, a Democrat. He might be sympathetic.
Blake lifted the handset from the receiver, and waited for the operator. He asked for the mayor’s office, and when he was connected, he told the secretary who answered that he was calling from Benedict Hall. He didn’t say who was speaking, but the secretary made an assumption, and put him through immediately.
“Dickson!” the mayor exclaimed. “Good of you to call.” This, Blake understood, was what substantial political donations earned for their donors. Access. Courtesy.
Power.
“Ed,” he said, with what he hoped and prayed was Mr. Dickson’s usual growl. “Good to talk to you.”
“Any time, Dickson. You know you can reach me any time.”
Blake blew out a breath in relief. He tried to imagine himself as Mr. Dickson, a cigar jutting from his mouth, his feet propped up on his desk. He said, in a gravelly tone he could only pray was convincing, “Good, good to hear. Need a favor, Mr. Mayor.”
By the time the two Benedict men emerged from Dickson’s study, Blake was properly attired in his driving coat, black gloves, and cap. The Cadillac, with its motor running, waited at the end of the walk. Hattie had come out onto the porch with a hamper of sandwiches and several Blue Bottles with various liquids to sustain them through the long drive. Blake got out of the car to come and meet her.
“Now, you listen to me, Blake,” Hattie said as she handed over the hamper. Her eyes were red, and he was sure she had been weeping in the kitchen. He heard the aftermath in her voice. “You drive careful. Won’t help nobody if you go and crash that motorcar because you hurryin’.”
“I know, Hattie. I promise.” He stood with the hamper in his hands. Hattie had packed enough to sustain an army.
“When you find her—poor Mrs. Edith, I mean—” Hattie broke off, and twisted her hands in her apron. More tears rose in her eyes, glistening in the morning light.
Blake said as gently as he could, “Don’t worry, Hattie. We’ll find Mrs. Edith. We’ll bring her safely home.”
“She can’t help it, you know, Blake. You explain that to Mr. Dickson. Mrs. Edith just can’t help it. She loves her boy, and whatever he tells her, she figures it’s God’s honest truth.”
“I know that.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile as he turned to go down the walk. He opened the passenger door of the automobile, and secured the hamper in the front seat. Through the open door he heard Mr. Dickson’s step in the hall. Mr. Dick shook his father’s hand, nodded to Blake, and set off for the streetcar. Mr. Dickson climbed into the backseat, and Blake into the front. A moment later they were on their way.
The mayor, to Blake’s relief, had promised to intervene in the matter of the Churches’ home. He had said he couldn’t do anything about neighbors being unpleasant, but he had leverage in the matter of the developers. If the Goodwin Company wanted to go on acquiring permits for excavation, plumbing, and building, it couldn’t afford to ignore a direct request from the mayoral office. Blake had thanked him, but tersely, the way he thought Mr. Dickson would. He had kept the conversation short, agreed that the two men should dine together soon, and broken the connection with a brief good-bye.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Blake supposed. He picked up the telephone once again and spoke briefly to Sarah.
When he had hung the earpiece back on the receiver, he stared at it for a moment, marveling at his own daring. It was a good thing, he thought, that he had no time to worry about what fate this act of deception might bring about.
As he negotiated the turn down Aloha, then south on Broadway, Blake estimated how long their trip would take, and how long—assuming they found Mrs. Edith with ease and smoothed things over at the sanitarium, if necessary—it would take for them to return. By the time those things were done, and if Mayor Brown was as good as his word, the Klan meeting should be over, and the Church home should be safe. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before his trick was exposed.
It was even possible, he told himself, as he turned the Cadillac onto Rainier Avenue toward Renton, that Mr. Dickson would never know. He hoped that would be the case. Regardless, it was done now. He would confess everything to Dr. Margot, and she could rule on whether Mr. Dickson should be told.
He tried to put it out of his mind. It was a bridge to be crossed in its own time. He faced bridges aplenty already.
In the backseat, Mr. Dickson leaned back with his hat brim turned far down against the hot sun. Blake glanced at the oil and fuel gauge to reassure himself, adjusted his own cap to shade his eyes from the glare, and settled in for the grueling drive.
CHAPTER 20
When Mrs. Benedict asked for tickets for the last leg of their journey, the agent informed her, in disinterested fashion, that there was no Pullman on the route. “Second class only,” he said. He was, apparently, unimpressed by Mrs. Benedict’s fine clothes and expensive hat.
She frowned, and asked again. When he assured her the information was correct, she said, in a tone of real confusion, “Do you mean we have to sleep sitting up?”
“That’s it, ma’am,” he said brusquely. “You and every other passenger. This is a second-class train.”
“I don’t understand. Why is there no Pullman?”
“Ma’am,” he said, scowling. “There ain’t no Pullman on this route. Do you want the tickets or not? If not, move out of the way. I got other people waiting.”
Mrs. Benedict glanced over her shoulder at the short line behind her, and said, “Well, yes. Two, please. The best you have.”
“I told you,” he growled. “All the same on this train.”
“Very well.” She sniffed, and opened her handbag. “Near the dining car, then.”
“Seats not assigned,” the agent responded wearily. “You have to change trains at Wallula, mind. Don’t sleep through or you’ll end up in Spokane.”
Bronwyn gave him a small, surreptitious smile, and he surprised her with a wink, even as he unceremoniously shoved the two tickets under the partition of his cubicle.
The car they stepped up into wasn’t unpleasant at all. It was rather new, the velvet upholstery only a little shiny in places, and rows of small electric lights glowing overhead. They settled side by side into wide seats with worked metal armrests. Mrs. Benedict stowed the valise beneath her feet, and Bronwyn took off her hat so she could rest her head. She gazed through the window as they chugged out of the Portland train yard onto the tracks running alongside the massive Columbia River.
They soon learned the train had to stop at any station with its flag up. In places like Cooke and Goldendale, towns so small Bronwyn could hardly believe they had names, the train ground to a grudging halt before exposed wooden platforms. After taking on passengers or cargo, the train jolted forward again, wheels and rails whining together as it picked up speed. The pattern repeated every hour or so.
At first Bronwyn watched the river. It was so wide that in the gathering darkness she could hardly see the far bank. When she could no longer see the ebb and flow of the water, she turned her head the other way. Here and there lights glimmered in the distance, houses scattered on hilltops or nestled in valleys. Farms, she supposed. She wondered about the people there, living so far from any city or town. Perhaps they would be sitting down to supper. Perhaps they had spent the day laboring in the sun, and now, tired and hungry, they gathered around their tables, satisfied with the day’s work. Such a life, so different from the one she knew, seemed idyllic to her, purposeful and cozy and safe.
It had been a long, strange day after a long, strange week. She had slept little the night before. Her eyelids drooped, and she yawned. Soon she drowsed, and despite sitting up, and the frequent disruptions of tiny stations, she dreamed.
Her dream was, as it so often was, of Preston. But this time—perhaps because of the clanging of bells and blowing of steam whistles, or just the constant jostling—this time she didn’t dream of the magical night in the garden. In this dream, Pre
ston was not the charming sophisticate who had so enchanted her. He was angry, cursing at her, his eyes dark with fury. He shook her with hard hands, so that in her dream she cried out and tried to get away from him. He seemed a monster, not the lover of her imagination. He frightened her, and she struggled to free herself.
She startled awake to find herself being shaken by Mrs. Benedict.
“Wallula,” Mrs. Benedict whispered in her ear.
Bronwyn blinked, and glanced around. Other passengers slept, some braced against the glass windows, others nodding over their folded arms. It was chilly in the car, and it was still dark outside. It seemed cruel to have her sleep interrupted yet again. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept, undisturbed, through the night.
“We have to change,” Mrs. Benedict said. She bent to pull her valise out from beneath the seat, and clutched it close in her arms as she led the way out of the car and onto an uncovered platform beside the tracks. The station was a small wooden building with a single sleepy ticket agent dozing behind his window. Mrs. Benedict took a seat on a wooden bench, her coat tucked around her. Bronwyn pulled the collar of her sweater up to her chin, but she was still cold, and she paced back and forth in an effort to warm herself. As the sky began to brighten, the ticket agent came out to lower the flag to signal to the train. Five minutes later, the train to Walla Walla appeared, blowing an earsplitting blast on its whistle.
Bronwyn turned to Mrs. Benedict. She half expected her, at any moment, to come to her senses. She thought she might gasp, shiver suddenly, and press her hands to her cheeks as she realized where she was. She would blush, and apologize, and explain that since her son’s death she had been subject to such turns, times when she convinced herself Preston was alive, that he needed her.
Bronwyn meant, in that circumstance, to be kind and understanding. She would say soothing things, and promise to accompany the older woman back to her home, to help explain everything to her family.
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