Rekindling Trust

by Sandra Ardoin

  WHEN READY, EDYTHE descended the stairs and entered the drawing room to find her father in conversation with a man standing in front of the fireplace.

  She’d erred in her identification of the banker. Rather than the mousy little man she often spotted through the window at the bank, the gentleman who stood before her was neither little nor mousy. In fact, he was at least Barrett’s height and had the same solid build. His charming grin could captivate even the most churlish matron.

  She would fight to keep from becoming one of them.

  “There you are, Edythe. Come in and meet Mr. Treadway.”

  Despite her intention to remain aloof, her gaze never left the face of their guest. She stopped, keeping the length of the sofa between her and the men—close enough to be polite, yet far enough to be safe from the confidence oozing from the banker. “Good evening, Mr. Treadway.”

  He closed the distance in two strides, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Along with talcum powder to hide the redness on her wrist, she’d slipped on a bangle bracelet. He showed no curiosity, no sign of having spotted the discoloration on her skin. “I’m honored to meet you, Mrs. Westin.”

  She forced a smile and managed to take part in frivolous conversation until she glimpsed the cook’s signal. “If you gentlemen are ready, I believe Mrs. Cameron has our supper prepared.”

  Mr. Treadway crooked his elbow. After a subtle glance at her father, she took the man’s arm and directed him to the dining room.

  She had to admit, Ansel Treadway was a far cry from the man she had expected to meet tonight.

  OFFICER SOUTER USHERED a man into the small room where Barrett waited, then left, shutting the door behind him. Barrett was six feet, one inch, but Jeremiah Quincy had another four inches on him, which left a strange picture in Barrett’s mind when it came to this giant having such a petite wife.

  He shook the man’s hand. “I’m Barrett Seaton.”

  “The attorney Mary keeps house for. She said she’d talk to you. Did she tell you I ain’t got much money for a lawyer?”

  “Let’s take one thing at a time. I haven’t agreed to represent you yet.” Barrett studied him from the top of his head to the toes of his dirty boots. His beard was scruffy and his hair stood on end, as though he’d pulled on both.

  Barrett pointed to the dried stain on the bib of the man’s coveralls. “Where did you get that?”

  Quincy dipped his head and pulled on the bib. “When I went to the livery, I noticed one of the draft horses in the corral had cut herself on the neck. It looked like a deep gash. I was trying to get a better look, and she got cantankerous. She pushed me against the barn wall, got blood on me, and near broke a rib. The police think it’s that man’s blood, but it ain’t.”

  Barrett gestured to the chair the policeman had vacated. “Have a seat, Mr. Quincy. I have more questions for you.”

  The man cocked his head. Wariness filled his expression.

  Barrett spent the next half hour conferring with Jeremiah. He compared the man’s answers to the notes he’d taken in his office and during his questioning of the police officer. So far, Jeremiah hadn’t deviated from the story he’d told his wife.

  Still, there was that blood smear on his clothing. Not as much as Barrett would expect to see after such a gruesome stabbing, but enough to raise doubts about Jeremiah’s version of the truth.

  “How tall was Mr. Dulong?”

  “He was a whippersnapper.” The chair scraped the floor as Quincy stood and placed his hand to an area below his throat. “Didn’t come up no taller than this on me.”

  “According to you, you hit him at Swain’s after he tried to strike you.”

  “Yes, sir, but I ain’t one to go hitting a man unless it’s to protect me or mine.”

  “What about stabbing him?”

  Quincy’s eyes widened. “No, sir! I ain’t never stabbed nobody and never would.” He held up a fist. “I already admitted that I hit Dulong, but it only took one blow to bloody his nose. Why hit him again? I proved my point. Why would I kill him?”

  “Because he had you fired?”

  “I only worked at the brewery a couple days a week to add a little money to the coffers. I’ll admit I didn’t look on him favorably for what he done, but we’ll get by. I never saw him after I left Swain’s, and that’s the truth of it.”

  The victim had been stabbed several times in the abdomen and chest. “Dulong was found face down. If you stabbed him—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “If you stabbed him and he fell against you, bleeding on you, the stain would be at your waist or below, not up here.” Barrett poked at the blood near the top of the bib.

  The light of understanding lit Quincy’s eyes. “That makes sense. Ain’t that enough to get me outta here?”

  “I’m afraid not.” But the case intrigued Barrett. “What did you argue about?”

  “I seen him as soon as he come in to the tavern. He was looking for a fight.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His face. Hard and mean-like. He wasn’t a happy man. He saw me,”—Quincy snorted—“I ain’t exactly hard to miss. Next thing I know, he starts talking about men like me being no good and a bad influence on others, then he takes a swing at me.”

  “What about the man you bumped into? Was he coming out of the alley?”

  “Can’t say for sure. I was walking down the sidewalk, thinking about a fence that needed mending and didn’t see him. I guess no one else did either, ’cause the police say they can’t find him.”

  “Describe him.”

  The farmer raised both shackled arms and scratched the days-old beard covering his face. “He looked to be in his fifties, and kinda wiry. Honestly, I don’t remember much.”

  Did Jeremiah Quincy really bump into someone near the alley? If so, such a vague description would make it nearly impossible to find him.

  Barrett studied the man and said a silent prayer for guidance. Even during times when he questioned God’s concern over earthly justice, he’d developed a habit to pray before taking on a client. Throughout the entire case, really. He had broken that habit when he involved himself in Andy Westin’s legal problem. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to know if his impetuous agreement had been a mistake.

  Sensing no objection, Barrett stuffed the small notebook and pencil in his coat pocket and stood. “All right, Mr. Quincy. I’ll do my best for you.”

  Relief smoothed the lines on the man’s face. “Can you get me outta here? I got a farm to run and cows to milk. My wife can’t do it all.”

  “I’m afraid not. The court frowns on bail for murder.”

  “Does that mean I won’t get out until the trial is over?”

  At least his new client had confidence in his acquittal. “Perhaps things won’t go that far.”

  Barrett walked out of the police department into a moonlit night. He had another client whose guilt seemed assured. Before he changed his mind, Barrett strode toward the Danby house, hopeful Edy’s father wouldn’t deny him the chance to speak with his daughter or grandson.

  WITH THE MEAL FINISHED and dinner plates cleared, Edythe sipped her coffee while the two men discussed financial matters.

  “I’m afraid we’ve bored you, Mrs. Westin.” Mr. Treadway’s face flushed with apology.

  Not only was he handsome, he was kind. She placed her cup on the saucer. “Not at all.” In fact, she had enjoyed his deep and soothing voice—a little like listening to her music.

  The muted chimes of the grandfather clock in the foyer announced the top of the hour.

  Mr. Treadway set his napkin on the table and pushed away the empty dessert plate. “It’s nine o’clock. I had no idea we’d been sitting here for two hours. It was a splendid meal and good company, but I should take my leave before I wear out my welcome.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry, Ansel.” Her father stood. “It’s the perfect night for a walk. Why don’t you take my daughter for a stroll around the
neighborhood?”

  “Father, I—”

  “I’d be honored to accompany you on a stroll, Mrs. Westin.” The banker rose from his seat to stand alongside her. He held out his hand.

  Edythe stared at it, wanting to take it, yet wanting to defy her father’s obvious attempt to play matchmaker—to control her future.

  Beaming, Mr. Treadway waited patiently. His delight waned when she hesitated to take his hand.

  What harm would come from it? She let him help her to her feet.

  He closed the front door behind him, drew in a deep breath, and released it. “Are those roses I smell?”

  “From the bushes at each corner of the house.”

  “Roses suit you.” As if he sensed her discomfort, he turned toward the street. “Your father was right. It is a lovely night.”

  “Yes, it is.” He was correct in using the term night to describe the time. The sun had set and she had no desire to walk the streets with a man in the dark. What had her father been thinking? “If you don’t mind, why don’t we sit on the porch?”

  At least, the lamps shining from the drawing room provided a little light, and she wouldn’t feel as susceptible to both the possible wiles of a handsome stranger and neighborhood gossip.

  Edythe eased into one wicker chair and motioned for him to occupy the other. A potted ivy plant draped the top of the small table separating them. Now what? It had been years since she’d been alone with a man. Alone in this way. She didn’t count the time she spent with Barrett two days ago. In fact, she tried to forget it.

  Mr. Treadway twisted in the chair to face her, the light from the drawing room painting a golden glow on his face. “I’ve looked forward to this evening, Mrs. Westin. Whenever your father visits the bank, he never fails to sing your praises. Now that we’ve met, I understand why.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Treadway.” If her father held her in such high regard, why had she been forced to cover up the consequences of their earlier confrontation?

  “I would be honored if you would call me Ansel.”

  She responded with a noncommittal smile.

  Insects played a background serenade in the silence between the two of them. A bat wheeled through the air.

  Edythe struggled for something to say to ease the awkwardness. “How do you like your work?”

  “It’s an honorable profession and what I was meant to do. One day, I hope to run the bank.”

  “You sound confident in your ambition.”

  He laughed. “As I told your father last week, my plans have been set in stone for a decade, and I’m well on my way to achieving them.”

  “Then I’m sure you will succeed.”

  Undoubtedly, her father chose this man because he saw success in him.

  Movement along the street caught her eye. A figure stood in the dark, staring at her father’s house, his face partially illuminated by a gas lamp in the neighbor’s yard.

  Barrett.

  She silently willed him to leave before her father saw him. If he stepped one foot on Danby property, the judge wouldn’t hesitate to see he was jailed.

  “You know that fellow?” Mr. Treadway had followed her gaze.

  The question was filled with complex implications. At one time, Edythe would have said she knew Barrett well—his likes, dislikes, moods.

  Did she know the Barrett of today? Based on her mistaken impression at breakfast, she had to say no. “That man you see is a stranger.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Edythe sat propped against the bed’s headboard. She pressed a cool, damp cloth to her forehead, hoping to convince the carpenters in her head to stop hammering on her skull.

  The strain of the past week’s events sent her to her bedroom after church. In the past hours, neither rest nor willow bark tea had lessened her headache.

  Last night, when pressed by her father, she’d admitted that Ansel Treadway seemed like a nice man, which increased his smug grin. But she’d agreed to act only as hostess to her father’s guest, not as a potential bride, something she’d failed to verbalize at the time.

  She had found Ansel pleasant and attractive, hadn’t she? And he had shown an interest in her. Yet...

  Oh, why had Barrett returned to Riverport and complicated her emotions? Her heart had no business fluttering when near him. Her mind had no right to keep bringing up thoughts of him.

  “Mrs. Westin?” Mrs. Cameron knocked on the bedroom door.

  Edythe lowered the cloth. “Yes?”

  “You have visitors, ma’am.”

  Edythe groaned and left the bed. She dropped the damp cloth on the marble top of her washstand and opened the door. “Who is it, Mrs. Cameron?”

  “Two ladies—Mrs. Jensen and Mrs. Kingsley.”

  Verbenia and Claire? Of course. It was Sunday, and Edythe had missed the Widow’s Might meeting. “Please show them to the sitting room and tell them I’ll be down shortly. I’m sure they would like some of that cake you served last night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Edythe peered into the dressing table mirror to fix her hair. The edge of her sleeve slid upward, revealing a bluish splotch on her skin. She tugged it back down. The small bruise, though not painful, was not something she cared to display.

  A few minutes later, Edythe stood in the doorway to the sitting room, listening to her guests’ vibrant and carefree conversation. Both women noticed her presence and rose, their brows twisted with concern.

  Verbenia studied Edythe. “Are you ill?”

  Edythe would shake her head if it weren’t for the concern it might fall off. “A mere headache.”

  “Perhaps we should have put off our visit, dear, but we were concerned when you didn’t join us today.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t send word.”

  Claire guided her to the small sofa. “Sit before you fall down. What can we do for you?”

  “You can tell me what I missed and how everyone has fared this week.”

  While they partook of the refreshments, the women discussed Ruby Kelly’s new job at the post office, Louisa Gruhn’s absence due to her daughter’s summer cold, and Claire’s plan to make next Sunday her last meeting with the Widow’s Might circle.

  Edythe had formed friendships with all the women in the group but felt closest to Claire and Phoebe. Maybe because both women possessed traits Edythe admired. They were talented, intelligent, outgoing. They stood up for themselves and what they wanted. In many ways, they were her heroines. “You and Mark aren’t marrying until the end of October.”

  “True, but Phoebe already left, making room for Louisa. Since our group is limited to seven”—Claire gestured toward their mentor—“eight with Verbenia, I feel it’s time I make room for someone else.”

  “I’m sorry to see you go.”

  Claire laughed. “Oh, you won’t get rid of me that easily. If it’s all right, I’d like to visit you on occasion, and you’re always welcome to visit me.”

  “I would like that.” Edythe turned her attention to Verbenia. “At the moment, I’m not aware of anyone who would fit into our circle, are you?” Widowhood wasn’t a qualification most young women aspired to achieve.

  “Actually, we do have a candidate and voted this afternoon. However, with member approval required to be unanimous, we won’t ask her until we receive your vote.”

  “Who is she?”

  Verbenia exchanged a glance with Claire. “Roslyn Malone.”

  “Mrs. Malone?” Edythe’s only knowledge of the woman consisted of the rumors surrounding her missing husband’s embezzlement months ago and Claire’s decision to move out of her parents’ house and in with the woman. “I hadn’t heard that her husband had died.”

  “He’s still missing.” Claire shook her head. “Roslyn is not a widow as far as she or anyone else is aware.”

  “Then, I don’t understand why we would consider her.” Both Claire and Verbenia had worked with the woman at Newland’s. They knew her well, so despite her concern, Edythe w
ould take their suggestion seriously.

  “Since Gil Malone’s theft and betrayal last Christmas, people have mistrusted her. Some believe she assisted him in his embezzlement at Newland’s.” Claire scowled at the cake on the plate in her lap. “A ridiculous and unfair notion.”

  “If that were the case, I would have expected her to flee Riverport with him.” Why did people insist on jumping to the worst conclusions about others?

  “Exactly. His crime caught her as much by surprise as it did the Newlands. Fortunately, they don’t believe the rumors any more than I do.” Claire set her plate on a nearby table. “She’s lonely, Edythe. She could use what Widow’s Might offers. Camaraderie and helping other women are the cornerstones of our group. Everything we do is built on that.”

  Edythe hid a tiny smile. Leave it to Claire, an architect, to explain things in construction terms. “How did the others vote?”

  Verbenia also set her plate aside. “We’d rather not influence your decision.”

  It was possible Widow’s Might was a fit for Roslyn Malone, but was Roslyn Malone a fit for Widow’s Might?

  Edythe addressed Claire. “No one has heard from Gil Malone since he left?”

  “No.”

  “So as a matter of practicality, she lives as a widow, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I won’t object to her membership in the group until we’re sure of her marital status.”

  Claire grinned at Verbenia. “I told you she wouldn’t say no.”

  Was she that easily read? “What about Louisa?”

  “We’ve already spoken with her. She agreed.” Claire sighed. “I’m going to miss you ladies more than you’ll ever realize, but I’m happy that you’ll welcome Roslyn and treat her with respect. She’s not as tough as she pretends.”

  “We’ll do our best, Claire.”

  Whether real or imagined, it seemed Verbenia’s shrewd gaze narrowed in on Edythe’s wrist. Her instinct was to tug on the edge of her sleeve. Her friend started to say something but Edythe’s father entered the sitting room and drew everyone’s attention.