“My father was an American. My parents met in Ireland, while he was a seaman aboard a cargo ship. They fell in love and Da stayed, working the Dublin docks until I was about ten years old. Then they realized they’d never have more than a tiny flat there, would never be able to offer their family more. They had only me at the time—Mam had lost two others—when Da returned to America. He planned to work until he could send money for us. It took a couple of years, but the money came and Mam and I came over, with my aunt.” Her voice trembled over the memories. “But Da . . . he died before we got here. And not long after, my mam died. Some said it was of a broken heart.” She laughed bitterly. “It was from working herself so hard she became sick. Consumptive.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You poor dear.” Nanny rose to pour more tea into Miss Riley’s cup. They continued to discuss Miss Riley’s experiences after arriving in America, but I barely heard them. My mind tumbled over two facts I had just learned. First, that Miss Riley’s father was an American; what’s more he’d worked a very physical job, one that required great upper body strength. And secondly her mother’s name had been Rose.
Harry Ainsley had sung “Red Is the Rose” . . .
Could it be more than coincidence? But I didn’t believe in coincidence. Not in matters like this.
A chill of understanding went through me as several pieces of the puzzle fell into place. My own words came back to mock me: Maids are stronger than they look; they have to be. Yes, someone used to carrying rugs outside and beating them clean, who carried heavy trays through the house, who moved furniture to clean behind it, possessed greater than the average woman’s strength. Enough strength, perhaps, to push an automobile into another person, possibly even over a tree root.
I hoped I was wrong. Prayed I was wrong. But I didn’t believe I was.
“Nanny,” I said, “would you excuse us?”
Nanny broke off from whatever she had been saying and frowned, clearly mystified.
“Please, Nanny. There’s something Miss Riley and I need to discuss. And I’m sure Katie would appreciate your help in the kitchen.” Her gaze bore into me as I tried to convey a silent message.
She nodded imperceptibly. Her frown didn’t fade, but she eased herself up from her chair. “I’m sure she would. Excuse me, then.”
I waited until I could no longer hear the heavy shuffling of her footsteps in the hallway. Then I turned back to Miss Riley. “Is Harry Ainsley your father?”
Miss Riley’s lips parted but no sound came out. The room became so quiet I could hear crickets along with the distant sound of the ocean through the open windows. I braced for whatever she might do, quickly scanning the room for items I could use as weapons. The fire poker, the conch shell my cousin Neily brought me from a sailing trip around the Bahamas islands, the brass paperweight that kept our newspapers in a neat pile. And there was Patch, still sitting at Miss Riley’s side. He seemed unperturbed, not at all on edge. I felt confident he would sense any ill intentions on Miss Riley’s part and warn me.
After the moments stretched interminably, she said, “What are you going to do?”
I held her gaze another long moment, wondering that very same thing. Isaiah Baldwin had destroyed another man’s life, and that of his daughter and granddaughter, who struggled all the more for having to make their own way in the world. Coupled with that, Isaiah Baldwin hadn’t been a good man. He had preyed upon those beneath him, using his authority to make their lives difficult and to have his way with defenseless women.
But none of that justified murder.
I shook my head, caught in a wretchedness of indecision. “I don’t know, Miss Riley, and that’s the truth.”
“How did you know?” she asked me so quietly it might have been the breeze rustling the trees outside.
“Your daughter’s and mother’s name, Rose. ‘Red Is the Rose’ is your father’s favorite song. Did you know that? And no, he isn’t dead. I know that because I saw Harry Ainsley only today.”
She gasped as new tears gathered in her eyes. “You’ve seen my father? Is he . . . any better?”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. Surely not well enough to leave the hospital. But obviously, in some way, he remembers his family. He remembers the love he felt for your mother.”
“After the first couple of years, I couldn’t bring myself to visit him again. It hurt too much. The man who had been my father no longer existed. Our family—the Ainsley family—no longer existed, and calling myself Olivia Ainsley brought me constant pain, so I began to use my mother’s maiden name and tried to forget about what our family might have been.” Her brow furrowed, and she stared down at her feet. “Poor Da. Mam never wanted him to fight. But he did it because he could make so much more money than working on the docks. He wanted to keep us in good style. A house. Plenty to eat . . . And look what happened.” She shook her head, and when she spoke again, sobs clogged her throat—and my own. “He never knew she died. It happened only months after we arrived and discovered what had happened to him.”
We both fell silent; she, as she waged a battle against the tears that fell freely now, and me, as I wrestled with what I should do. Logic told me the person sitting beside me had committed murder and must be apprehended, tried, and yes, convicted. Beyond that, I couldn’t contemplate, for it was too horrible. I knew what happened to convicted murderers. Her being a woman wouldn’t save her, not unless the judge and jury took pity on her because of her circumstances. Had she been an American born and raised, perhaps she would have been shown mercy. But opinions against the Irish, who had surged to our shores during the Great Famine and after, hadn’t eased much in recent years. Her background would more than likely be held against her.
I couldn’t bring myself to think it, much less speak of it. I had reached an impossible impasse, something I’d never experienced before—me, who believed in truth and taking responsibility for one’s actions.
And then I remembered she hadn’t only killed Isaiah Baldwin. There had been another, and she had put up quite an act about it afterward. “Why Clarence?” I whispered. “Why that honest young man? I realize he’d discovered the truth, but—” I broke off as her head swung up and her eyes blazed.
“I didn’t. Not Clarence. I don’t know who killed him, and I don’t know why.”
“I don’t understand. He didn’t come out to the laundry yard to confront you with that boxing match ticket?”
“What ticket, Miss Cross?” With her sleeve she wiped the tears off her cheeks. “It happened like I told the police. I went out to take sheets off the clothesline, and I found Clarence like . . . like that.”
I came to my feet and started to pace. If Olivia Riley murdered Baldwin, what reason could someone else possibly have had to murder Clarence? The footman had had the boxing-match ticket in his possession—I was certain of it. Either Baldwin had left other hints, or he had told Clarence something that allowed the footman to discover the connection not only between Baldwin and Harry Ainsley, but between those two men and Miss Riley.
Or was she lying about everything? Everything, except that she had killed Baldwin.
I became aware of her watching me and ceased my pacing. “Miss Cross,” she said with desperation in her voice, “I have a child who needs me. Who depends on me for her very survival. If I go to prison . . . or”—her voice dropped to a lifeless murmur—“the gallows, what will become of my Fiona Rose?”
Her words tore at my heart and filled me with agony. I knew what I wished could happen, but could I let a killer go free? She had committed the crime for a reason—a very specific one. Would she ever do it again? Would she someday find another reason to be rid of an inconvenient human being? Could I make the judgment and take such a risk with some unknown person’s life? The answer might seem simple: no. And yet, a small person who was known to me, whose wan face would forever hover in my mind’s eye, needed this woman.
For the first time in my life, I wished I could walk away and pretend I knew
nothing. Pretend the truth didn’t exist.
“I can’t simply turn my back,” I said before I’d even realized I’d answered my own questions. “You were going to let Philip King take the blame. He’s innocent in what happened to your family. How could you allow his life to be taken from him?”
“I . . . They called it an accident. He wouldn’t have gone to prison or the gallows. He’d have been let off and . . .” She fell silent, shamefaced and hiding her eyes behind her hands. “He’s wealthy and the toffs are never held accountable. But me . . . I’ll hang, won’t I?”
“I don’t know, Miss Riley. All I know is you can’t keep lying and allow another person to suffer for your guilt.”
Her hands fell away. Her eyes widened, the pupils large and black. Then she blinked and darted her gaze around the room. Was she looking for weapons, as I had done minutes ago? Which of us would arm herself first? Who would be the first to strike?
She would, because I would give her the benefit of the doubt until proven wrong.
But in the end, nothing needed to be proved. She tucked her chin low, into the stark white collar of her maid’s uniform. “No, I can’t. I don’t suppose either of us can walk away from this. When I took the job at Kingscote, I had no idea I’d see that man. I discovered his identity quite by accident. By his own doing, actually. I overheard him boasting to the other manservants about what he’d done to some poor sot of a fighter years ago. He expressed no guilt about it, only smug arrogance. It didn’t take me long to realize who he was talking about.
“And then, oh, Miss Cross, rage filled me. Rage for myself because yes, he’d made advances. And rage for my daughter and for Da, and my mam, too. Isaiah Baldwin as good as killed my father. He robbed him of his life, and because of it drove Mam to her death. I felt justified in doing the same to him. How many others has he destroyed? You talked about a maid he ruined. She can’t have been the only one over the years.” She shut her eyes and swallowed. “And yet, as soon as I’d acted, I realized I’d done wrong. I did regret it, Miss Cross. I still do. For my daughter’s sake if nothing else, but I can’t bring myself to mourn that man.”
I folded my hands at my waist and stood motionless across from her. “Tell me what happened that night.”
She exhaled a heavy breath. “He’d been at it again, putting his hands on me. And, somehow, he’d learned about Fiona. He must have gone through my things again, probably looking for more trinkets like my brooch. He threatened to tell Mrs. King about her. I should have let him, but I feared getting the sack. And he said if I didn’t let him do what he wanted, Fiona would suffer.” Her story turned my insides to ice and tied sickening knots in the pit of my stomach. Already, she had told me enough to rouse my loathing of the man. But there was more. And for the next several minutes she told me of it.
Then, she returned to the night in question. “That evening, I watched from my bedroom as he went outside to meet with some woman.”
“Mrs. Ross?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was foggy, but they stood in the lamplight and I could just make them out. They kept their voices down, but I could see they were arguing. She slapped him, and he made to strike her back. He didn’t, but he shoved her, and she stumbled to her knees.”
As Miss Riley described these details, I surmised it was then that Mrs. Ross’s pearl necklace broke.
“I made my way downstairs and outside,” Miss Riley went on. “I’d decided that was the last time Isaiah Baldwin would hurt another person, especially a woman.”
“What came next?”
“When I reached the lawn, they were still arguing. I don’t even know what it was about. They stood near that big tree with the drooping branches, and their voices were so angry I thought they’d come to blows. I realized I shouldn’t have come out alone, that I should have brought one of the footmen. I was about to go back for one of them when I heard Mrs. King’s name mentioned. I wondered what this had to do with her.
“I hid behind the motorcar and waited to hear more, but when I leaned against it, it rolled. Just a tiny bit, because I stood up straight so it wouldn’t keep going. Finally, the woman left, but Baldwin just stood there by the tree, watching her disappear into the fog. Even then, I had no plan to hurt him. Not until I heard him laugh. Oh, his mean, snide laughter. It went straight through me, like a pickax, and the next thing I knew, I was pushing the car. I gave it a good push to set it going, but almost immediately I regretted it, Miss Cross. Truly. I . . . I tried to stop it. I grabbed the rear panel, but I couldn’t. It kept going. And at that point, I panicked and hurried back inside. I simply hoped Baldwin would see it coming and get out of the way . . .”
She fell silent, her eyes scrunched tight. Then, “If only I had been able to stop it. To stop myself. Because now . . .”
I regarded her from my stance above her. At long last, I said, “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you never meant to kill him. That the thought didn’t occur to you the moment you realized who he was.”
Another long sigh left her. She shook her head, smiled grimly, and swallowed. “Yes, you’re right, Miss Cross. You see, I’d grown up wanting to see him dead. I’d pictured it many times in my mind. Sometimes he died by my hand; other times I pictured some horrible accident taking his life. I wanted revenge, and that is the truth.”
“You were also willing to let Philip King take the blame for something you did,” I reminded her relentlessly.
She bowed her head. “I told you, I didn’t think the law would deal harshly with him. He’s . . . well, who he is, and I’m who I am. They would let him go, call it an accident. But me—I’d be made to suffer. Will be made to suffer.” Yes, I couldn’t deny that she spoke the truth, nor offer her false hope. In her position, might I have done the same? Another question I couldn’t answer. “And now, because I couldn’t let it go, my daughter will . . .”
“I’ll see she’s taken care of. She doesn’t deserve to suffer.” Miss Riley and I locked gazes with an intensity that all but drew a drop of blood from each of us, striking an unbreakable oath between us. Miss Riley stared hard at the floor, but I knew it wasn’t my threadbare rug she saw. It was her daughter’s face that filled her vision.
“That’s it, then,” she said with finality. “When your Mr. Andrews returns, will you come with me to the police station?”
“Of course I will.” I went back to the sofa and resumed my seat beside her. I took her hand. “I’ll even speak on your behalf, if it helps. Perhaps . . .” I trailed off as she shook her head.
“No, Miss Cross. There will be no second chances for me, I’m afraid. But if I can only know my daughter will be safe and cared for, that will be enough for me. My aunt would die for her, but she hasn’t any money of her own.”
“I’ll see to it they have everything they need.” It wasn’t a hollow promise. I’d speak to all of my relatives if I had to. I thought of Louise, my uncle Frederick’s wife. She loved children and they hadn’t been able to have any of their own. I believed Louise would be more than willing to provide for an orphaned little girl.
Miss Riley drew a tremulous breath and let it out slowly. Her gaze now traveled the room, darting from one thing to another as if she were trying to memorize every line, though perhaps what she wished to remember was her sense of freedom, of liberty. Because soon enough—
A knocking on the front door, less urgent than when Miss Riley had arrived, sounded once again. Patch lurched to all four feet and let out a low bark. I frowned. It seemed much too soon for Derrick to be back from town. I went to answer the door, then wished I hadn’t when I beheld who stood on the other side.
Chapter 19
John Donavan pushed his way into my foyer, thrusting me aside as he came over the threshold. When I let out a cry of protest and attempted to seize his arm, his other arm came up, a crowbar gripped in his hand. “Get out of my way, Miss Cross, or I’ll crack your skull.” He pointed the tool toward the back of the house. “And then I’ll go s
mash the brains of those other two hens that live here.”
My hands fell away and I lurched a step backward. At the same time, Patch came barreling into the hall. He showed no alarm; his tail wagged in his eagerness to see who had come to visit. Perhaps he believed Derrick had returned. Donavan scowled down at him and raised the crowbar.
“Patch, quiet,” I commanded in alarm, fearing what Donavan would do to him. While his twitching nose and wagging tail told me his excitement hadn’t abated, he backed away from the coachman and came to my side.
Donavan strode into the parlor. Miss Riley surged to her feet. “John? What are you doing here? And what is that for?” She pointed to the implement in his hand.
“I’ve come for you, Olivia. To take you away from here. I’m going to help you.” He held his free hand out to her.
She didn’t move. “How did you know I was here?”
He hesitated before admitting, “I followed you. Now let’s go before it’s too late.”
She held her ground. “I don’t understand.”
“The police are looking for you, Mr. Donavan,” I said to his back. “You’ll never get off Aquidneck Island.”
He half turned toward me and slapped the end of the crowbar against his other palm. Patch jumped, and I leaned to place a firm hand on the back of his neck. “I’ll find a way.”
I longed to send Patch to the kitchen, out of harm’s way, but I knew he’d put up a fuss and refuse to budge. Better, then, to keep him beside me, where I could grab his collar to prevent him from doing something that would end in his being hurt. Nudging him to move along with me, I walked through the parlor doorway and circled John Donavan to stand beside Miss Riley. Patch sat directly in front of me, his rump resting on the tips of my boots. He was on the alert now, albeit he didn’t quite know why. He watched John Donavan with wary interest.
My other foremost concern was whether Nanny or Katie might return to the parlor. True, Donavan knew they were in the house, but I considered them safer where they were in the kitchen. Better still, I wished they’d flee through the kitchen door and go for help.
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