The Purple Nightgown

by A. D. Lawrence

  “You’ve been writing my niece under false pretenses.” It wasn’t a question. The conclusion had already been drawn with surprising accuracy.

  But Henry hadn’t signed his name. How had Weston traced the letter to him?

  “Surely you knew your scheme would be uncovered.” Weston tossed the letter at him, and Henry caught it. “I recognized your handwriting from last week’s gasoline receipt. I keep a close eye on expenditures, and it’s lucky for Miss Burke that I do.” He rose, fingers splayed across the gleaming wood desktop.

  Henry found his voice. “It wasn’t a scheme. I love—”

  “Don’t drown me in sentimentality. You no more love her than a cat loves a canary.” Weston’s hands fisted. “You know she’s worth a fortune and you hoped to advance your station. Well, I truly love Stella, and her father charged me with her care. That’s not a task I take lightly.”

  Did Weston honestly believe he was caring for Stella’s welfare by providing a parade of clowns disguised as potential suitors? This man’s only goal was to form an alliance, and his niece was little more than a pawn in his schemes. “You know nothing of love, nothing of me, and certainly nothing of Stella.”

  “Excuse me?” Weston’s mustache tipped downward.

  Henry’s job would be terminated. That fact was as evident as a snout on a sow. He clenched his teeth. Stella deserved better than the hand she’d been dealt, and her uncle needed to know his disregard for her had been noticed. “You act as if mundane fabric selections are a contribution to her father’s business, but she sees past the nonsense. She’s an innovator. Her ideas would grow profit, but you’re either too proud or too stubborn to see what an asset she is.”

  “Are you through?”

  “Not hardly.” Henry flexed his jaw. “I never meant to deceive her. She needed a friend, an equal after her father died. You were too busy. I’d planned to tell her the truth, but the opportunity never came up.”

  “Because you saw a chance to make millions.” Weston’s eyes narrowed. “You’re nothing but a fortune hunter.”

  “Not everyone is like you.” Had his mouth ever been so dry? “Money doesn’t fuel my fire, and if Stella were poor as a gypsy and living in a hovel, I’d still love her with every breath I take. She’s special. She’s kind. And those things have nothing to do with her fortune.”

  “Enough.” Weston’s voice lowered an octave. “Pack your things. Your services are no longer needed. And don’t expect a reference.”

  Oxygen gushed from Henry’s lungs along with the bravado he had possessed moments earlier. No job. No reference. No way to salvage his dream of building an orphanage.

  He strode from the library, shoulders heavy.

  Jane stood at the door, her brow puckered.

  At her pitying look he asked, “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough.” She chewed her lip. “And I heard why.”

  Henry grasped the door handle.

  “Miss Stella needed someone to talk to so badly after her father died.” Jane’s words froze him in place. “You gave her back the spark she’d lost. But it’s all in the past now. And you’ll both be better off for it.” Her voice no longer held the certainty it had in Washington. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth long ago?”

  “I wanted to.” But he’d been foolish to nearly bare his heart to her in Seattle. She had known what he planned to say but cut him off before the words spilled out.

  “What’ll you do now? Do you have a place to stay?” Jane’s motherly tone brought burning tears to his eyes.

  “I’ll find someplace.” He blinked until the haze in his vision dissipated. “But it will be difficult to find work without a reference.”

  Jane pulled a key ring from her pocket and removed a key, then jotted something on a scrap of paper. “I’ve got a place, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you need it.”

  Henry tilted his head. Why would Jane possess a house when she lived at the Burke estate?

  The old woman smiled as if reading his thoughts. “My father died seventeen years back. He left the place to me along with a tidy inheritance.”

  “Why did you stay if you didn’t need the money?”

  “I’d just started working here, caring for Miss Stella. She was always such a bright little thing. But her mother was sick and wasn’t long for this world. Miss Stella needed me. An upheaval during that time wouldn’t have been good for her. And the longer I stayed, the less I wanted to leave. I love her as if she were my own child.”

  Stella Burke had that effect on people, it seemed. A prickly knot welled in Henry’s throat. He’d ruined everything, even their friendship. He scrubbed a hand over his face. How could he make things right between them?

  “Don’t despair.” Jane pressed the key into his palm and closed his fingers around it. “You’ve got a place to live. And you’re a smart young man. Work shouldn’t be too difficult to come by.”

  “Thank you.” The words weren’t enough.

  “It’s no trouble.” She handed him the paper scribbled with an address then swiped at her eyes. “Everything will work out as it should. Life has a way of shaking us up, but God can settle us again.”

  Henry swallowed hard. Easy words to say when it wasn’t your life coming apart. “When I find work, I’ll repay you.”

  Jane shook her head. “No need.”

  The library door groaned.

  “You’d best be off.” Jane’s eyes glistened.

  The full weight of loss punched his middle. “You won’t tell Stella that I was let go? Or why?” The thought of her hearing of his deception from Jane rankled. He would send Stella a letter. Tell her the truth.

  “It’s not my secret to tell.” Jane pulled open the door. “I’ll stop by to check on you. Make sure you’re eating your vegetables.”

  Henry forced a smile then hustled to the room above the garage to collect his things. He glanced at the house over his shoulder, and his heart wilted. How would Stella react when she discovered his lie?

  With saggy carpetbag in hand, Henry strode toward the post office. Best to cancel his box. He no longer had the means to pay for it. Though he fought the urge to check the box one last time, he slipped the key from his pocket, stepped to the wall of brass squares, inserted the key into number 277, and opened it. An envelope. A smile pulled at his lips, but reality tightened a noose around his throat. This was the last time he’d hear from her. He retrieved the letter. Stella’s sweet perfume clung to the paper. After writing one more letter to confess his deception, their correspondence would end. Forever.

  There was no way around it. He couldn’t go on lying to her, and she wouldn’t have given him another thought while he was a chauffeur. Now that he was unemployed, living on Jane’s charity, how could he expect anything more? The little he’d once had to offer had blown away like exhaust fumes. He slipped the letter into his breast pocket to savor later. No use torturing himself with her words before he reached Jane’s house.

  He relinquished the box with the postal worker, returned his key, then stepped onto the sidewalk. Birds sang in the tree branches overhead, mocking his pain. The vexing sunlight beat down on his back. The seams of his shirt chafed against his skin. He slipped off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, eyes on the pavement.

  He stopped. A single violet had sprouted though a crack in the concrete. Stella would love this. For all her hoity-toity ways, the simple things in life gave her the most pleasure. He shoved aside the ache in his chest as he bent and plucked it. While he breathed in the aroma, concern for Stella scratched his brain. What were the treatments like? Was she hungry? Homesick?

  “Stop that thief!” Shouts caught his attention, and he glanced up in time to see a boy around ten years old dart past.

  A man wearing an apron over his rotund gut huffed behind him. He bent over, hands on his knees, coughing and sucking in air. “That rapscallion …” His sentence died in a gasp.

  The boy dashed into an alley a few hundred fe
et ahead.

  “I’ll go after him.” Henry shoved the flower into his pocket and made chase. In a few long strides, he caught up to the shoplifter and reached for his shoulder. The boy dodged his grasp.

  A sense of déjà vu halted him beside a row of garbage barrels. This alley. He’d been here before.

  Henry’s running slowed to a jog. Wasn’t this the alley where Stella had found the three children? Their familiar pallet lay along the wall. Two malnourished little girls huddled on a filthy blanket.

  The boy stopped and glanced back at Henry, eyes wide. “I was only trying to feed my sisters.”

  “Robby?” Henry held up his hands.

  The boy clasped a loaf of bread to his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Who’s asking?”

  “It is Robby, isn’t it?” Henry’s voice softened. He motioned to the girls. “And Rose and Daisy?”

  Nodding, Robby wiped his nose with his sleeve. “How’d you know our names? You been spying on us?”

  Henry chuckled. “Stel—my friend—a lady spoke with you. I think she gave your sisters a gift.”

  “Robby, stop being rude.” The older girl, Rose, climbed off the mattress. “I ’member her. She gave me a peppermint, but I let Daisy have it ’cause she was crying.”

  Henry smiled. “That was kind of you.”

  Rose beamed then turned to Robby and stuck out her tongue. “Ya hear that? I’m kind.”

  Robby rolled his eyes. “Better knock it off with the ugly faces, or you’ll freeze that way. Oh, wait, you already did.”

  Daisy popped her thumb in her mouth and wiped shaggy blond hair out of her eyes. A ratty stuffed cat dangled from the crook of her arm. Rose crammed her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her fingers at Robby.

  Henry scanned the alley. Where were these children’s parents? He crouched beside Daisy and held out his arms. She leaned against his shoulder, sucking her thumb.

  He leveled his gaze on Robby. “Your parents aren’t coming back, are they?” The hurt in the boy’s eyes struck a familiar chord in Henry’s chest.

  Robby’s shoulders slumped, and the sleeves of his oversized shirt covered his hands. He trudged closer to Henry and whispered in his ear, “The girls don’t know.” Tears choked his voice.

  Did Jane’s house have room for all of them? Would she be upset if he filled her home with orphans without asking permission? One look in Daisy’s blue eyes turned him to mush. He’d risk Jane’s displeasure.

  “Come with me.” He lifted Daisy. She weighed little more than a leaf. Would he have the money to feed them?

  “We have to stay here, so we’re ready when Ma and Pa come back.” Rose tugged on his sleeve, eyes brimming with concern.

  This wasn’t the time or place to enlighten the poor girl to life’s harsh realities. Especially since he didn’t know if the children’s parents had died or simply couldn’t afford to care for them. Hopefully Robby would be forthcoming after a hot meal. “We’ll leave a note so they know where to find you.” He fished Stella’s envelope from his pocket with his free hand. Daisy rested her head on his shoulder. Her warm breath tickled his neck.

  “Can I write the note?” Rose bounced on battered shoes.

  “You can write?” Henry tore off the envelope’s flap and handed it to her then dug for the pencil he kept in his pocket.

  Rose nodded. “I’m seven.” Her tone informed him that her answer was explanation enough of her scholastic abilities.

  Robby fixed understanding eyes on Henry and nodded as if to thank him for sparing his sister heartache a while longer.

  Rose scribbled with childlike penmanship, the tip of her tongue peeking from her mouth. Henry moved Daisy to his other hip. “We have to pay for the bread.” He cocked a brow at Robby. “You were trying to help, but stealing is wrong. If you ever need anything, ask me. I’ll do my best to get it for you.”

  The boy fiddled with his suspenders. “Yeah. Okay.” He clamped the loaf snug under his arm.

  “And you’ll tell the shopkeeper you’re sorry.” He returned Stella’s letter to his pocket. He had taken more from her than a loaf of bread. He’d stolen her trust. The sooner he wrote her and apologized, the better. But no apology could begin to right the wrong he’d done her. That situation couldn’t be rectified as easily as the one between Robby and the baker.

  “But I’m not sorry.” Robby jutted his chin. “I only done it to feed Rose and Daisy, and I’d do it again.”

  And how should Henry handle that attitude? Rose placed her note beneath the blanket on their pallet and grinned at him. Aside from the unmistakable joy she found in terrorizing her brother, she seemed compliant. Daisy had fallen asleep on his shoulder like an angel and turned to lead in his arms. But Robby’s outright defiance in refusing to apologize? Henry shook his head.

  Was false contrition worse than none at all? His conscience pricked. Why did he plan to ask Stella’s forgiveness? Was he truly sorry for what he’d done?

  He ushered the children out of the alley and toward the bakery. The stern-faced man waited at the door with hands on hips.

  Henry mulled the words he’d pen to Stella. While the thought of hurting her left him with a sick ache, remorse over his actions failed to swell in his chest. She had needed a friend, and he’d stepped into the gap. True, he should have been open with her from the start. But if Stella had known the truth, would she have written him or simply continued grieving, alone and friendless?

  Robby’s eyes narrowed as they approached the angry shop owner.

  Henry clenched his jaw. The boy was more like him than Henry cared to admit. Maybe they could both learn a thing or two.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stella traced the bruises on her arm with her finger. Though she didn’t wish to endure another internal bath, Tilda was right. The massages were somehow worse.

  Between the darkened patches, her skin was red as an apple peel and hot to the touch. When Stella had been called to bath time, she’d told Nurse Sarah the water was too hot, but her protests were gently stifled with the reminder that these were Dr. Hazzard’s orders. The scalding water must offer something by way of healing, but the heat that enveloped Stella’s body had made her grit her teeth and swallow the prickling in her throat until either her skin went numb or the water cooled. It had been impossible to tell which came first.

  She covered her arm with her sleeve then glanced around the small chamber. White walls. White door. White bedding. White, white, white. The whole place was sterile and uninviting, though Sam and Linda Hazzard used it for a personal home. The sameness of it all rolled a weight onto Stella’s chest. This was no home. If she had known how drab her room would be, she would have had Jane pack her purple blanket. Mama’s favorite color. She used to bury her nose in the violets Stella brought from the garden much to the gardener’s chagrin. Mama had said the color reminded her of home and family. Now, purple reminded Stella of Mama. Why had God taken her so early? She blinked back the tears that marred her vision.

  Home and family.

  This place offered nothing of the kind. A simple letter from home might ease the ache in her chest. But Jane likely hadn’t arrived at the estate until earlier that morning, so it was too soon to receive news from her. And Uncle Weston’s business ventures always took first place. Though she’d told him her plans and he’d kissed her goodbye, he might never truly feel her absence. After her rejection of his last prospective husband, she’d fallen from grace in his eyes.

  And although logic told her days or even weeks might pass before a letter from her secret friend reached her, her heart yearned for that lifeline as well. Something to remind her that this stint at Wilderness Heights was not only temporary, but needful. That someone—even if she didn’t know his name—stood in her corner, cheering her on. If he agreed to her offer of a partnership, she’d have a goal to work toward. Some meaningful reason to keep sipping orange juice. Because the children she’d help in the future would need her to be healthy and strong.

  Perfe
ct health. Those words must be stuck to her brain with glue, as often as she conjured them. All the hunger, exhaustion, and loneliness would be worth it when her headaches ceased to burden her.

  A muscle in her leg throbbed, and she kneaded it. Dr. Hazzard prodded all her patients to walk the grounds during daylight hours. Even though Stella’s legs grew tired, the exercise offered welcome relief from the enemas and the massages that mirrored a beating by a gang of street toughs. She rubbed the back of her neck, but the ache lingered. Dr. Hazzard’s heavy fists and her talent for inflicting pain could translate easily into the boxing ring.

  What would Henry think of these beatings? A wave of homesickness crashed over her, threatening to drown her.

  Had he received her telegram?

  Tears prickled, and she clasped a hand over her mouth. He’d been right, but she’d been so stubborn. She choked on a sob. Nevertheless, he would come for her. He had to. Since childhood, they’d grown so close, their souls were practically knit together. When he read her message, though she’d had to limit her word count, he’d understand her true meaning. He would know she was sorrier than she could say in such a stilted form of communication.

  She’d given the message to Rollie yesterday, and he had assured her he would see it safely to the telegraph office. She bit the inside of her cheek. How soon until she could reasonably expect Henry? It was a two-day drive to Olalla. Surely when he received the telegram, he’d jump in the automobile straightaway. Come to rescue her like the hero in a love story.

  Three days at the most. Within three days she’d start her journey home and put this nightmare behind her.

  A knock at her door brought her head up. “Yes.” She forced a semblance of composure into her voice.

  “Supper’s ready, Miss Burke.” A nurse peeked into the room.

  Stella pressed her hand against her stomach. She’d eaten nothing more than spoonfuls of orange juice and tomato broth since yesterday. The hollow sensation expanded within her. The liquid diet didn’t touch the discomfort or take the edge off her growing appetite. This went far beyond craving and gluttony. Hunger. True hunger screamed with every gurgle in her middle. Perhaps her fasting regime was close to completion. That woman Dr. Hazzard had spoken of—Mrs. Barnett—had been given food once real hunger set in. Of course, that hadn’t happened until she’d fasted more than forty days. But from the doctor’s description, Mrs. Barnett had been much sicker than Stella. Perhaps there were more toxins in her body to eliminate. Stella cringed, the bruises on her back pulsing. That word—eliminate—still rang in her ears from last night’s massage.