by Jen Turano
Beatrix smoothed a hand over her own hair, earning a telling look from her aunt in the process, which she ignored. Butterflies immediately began churning in her stomach, but those butterflies lost flight when Edgar walked back into the room holding a large package wrapped in brown paper, no Norman in sight.
Theodosia nodded to the package. “What do you want to bet that’s from Norman, and is the first step he’s taking to try to make you more amiable to accepting more kisses from him?”
The entire room went silent as Aunt Gladys leaned forward, her eyes gleaming in a most concerning way. “You never mentioned a word about Norman and kissing.”
Beatrix forced a smile. “Must have slipped my mind.”
Aunt Gladys arched a brow. “I highly doubt that. So what happened?”
“He kissed her,” Theodosia said when Beatrix faltered.
The gleam in Aunt Gladys’s eyes intensified. “Did he really?”
Theodosia nodded. “Right in the middle of the street, in front of everyone, and—”
She stopped talking when Beatrix kicked her under the table and frowned. “I never took you for a clumsy sort, Beatrix, but you’ve just lost control of your foot and kicked me.”
“It wasn’t clumsiness on my part.” Beatrix turned to Aunt Gladys. “And to settle this matter once and for all, Norman only kissed me because he was swept up in the moment after the attack we suffered in the street.”
“She then annoyed Norman,” Theodosia interjected, “by telling him she found his kiss merely pleasant, and—”
Beatrix placed her foot directly over Theodosia’s and pressed down in a rather determined fashion.
Theodosia stopped talking as her brows drew together. “Since you recently claimed you weren’t being clumsy when you kicked me, may I now presume you’re all but smashing my foot into the floor because you don’t want me to expand on the kissing business?”
“We’re going to have to have a long discussion on what friends are expected to keep to themselves,” Beatrix returned.
“We’re friends?”
“Of course we are.”
Theodosia’s eyes turned suspiciously bright. “I’ve never had a woman friend before.”
“And now you have an entire room filled with them,” Aunt Gladys proclaimed, which had all the women nodding their heads in agreement as well as Edgar and Hubert. “With that settled, and because it seems as if Beatrix is not going to divulge all when it comes to Norman, perhaps you should give Beatrix that package you’re holding, Edgar.”
Edgar shook his head. “It’s not for Miss Beatrix. It’s for Miss Theodosia.”
“For me?” Theodosia asked slowly. “Why would someone send me something here instead of having it delivered to my house? And who would send me something anyways?”
Edgar walked over to Theodosia, setting the package directly in front of her after Hubert made space. “You’ll have to open it up to discover all that.”
Biting her lip, Theodosia ripped away the brown paper, then opened the large box, staring at the contents for a long moment, apparently rendered speechless.
Scooting her chair closer, Beatrix looked into the box and discovered a beautiful ivory gown with hundreds of glass beads attached to the fabric, glittering in the light cast from the chandelier.
“I don’t understand,” Theodosia whispered.
“There’s a note.” Beatrix plucked the note card from where it had been lying on top of the gown and handed it to Theodosia.
She opened it with hands that were now trembling, her eyes turning bright with unshed tears as she read it. She drew in a breath and lifted her head. “It’s from Norman. He bought it at Marshall Field & Company, and he wants me to wear it to the Palmer ball, writing that he’s been told it’s a gown worthy of the phrase in the first state of fashion.” She dashed a hand over her eyes before she grinned a somewhat wobbly grin. “He also included that I’m not to take a knife to the hem if it’s too long but to ask if anyone here is proficient with alterations.”
Half the women now gathered around Theodosia lifted their hands.
“Norman certainly knew what he was about, sending that gown here,” Aunt Gladys said. “What a dear friend you have in him, Theodosia, one who clearly cares about you and wants to ascertain you’ll face no unkind scrutiny at the ball.” She clapped her hands and nodded all around. “Ladies, it’s time to take Theodosia under our wings, which means . . . to action.”
Before Beatrix knew it, she and Theodosia, along with the rest of the women, had abandoned their outfits for loose-fitting trousers and blouses. They then moved to the parlor, where Edgar had placed linen sheets on the floor and hardback chairs on top of those sheets.
“I thought I was simply going to have my hair trimmed,” Theodosia said warily as Blanche stopped mixing something in a large bowl and frowned.
“Your hair needs more than a trim.” She nodded to the bowl. “I’m going to start by putting this on your head and allowing it to sit. Hopefully my concoction will diminish the brittleness, which will then allow me to know how to proceed with cutting and styling it.”
Even though Theodosia had been remarkably silent throughout the meal, spending her time observing the antics of the women surrounding her, the mention of a concoction had a sparkle settling into her eyes. She strode to Blanche’s side and immediately began throwing questions Blanche’s way regarding what ingredients she was using and what the purported benefits would be, and then went on to throw out suggestions of her own that might improve Blanche’s concoction, such as the addition of olive oil.
The enthusiasm Theodosia was showing suggested she might have found a new avenue to put her unusual mind to work—one that might someday see her becoming involved with the beauty industry that was only now beginning to advance in the country.
“I’m ashamed to admit I never realized how desperately Theodosia needed female companionship,” Aunt Gladys said quietly, stepping up beside Beatrix. “I should have known, what with how she’s been raised by a father who is known to be consumed with his work, but I didn’t.”
“You know now, and I have a feeling you’re going to make certain Theodosia doesn’t suffer from a lack of female companions ever again.”
“Too right I won’t.” Aunt Gladys smiled and nodded to Theodosia, who was now sitting in a chair, having an oily mixture spread over her face. She then nodded to Hubert, who was helping Edgar rearrange a few chairs for some of the women, his limp having all but disappeared. “I’ve been thinking that there have been so many unexpected blessings of late, what with Theodosia finding friends and Hubert gaining a new leg. God certainly knew what He was about when He sent you into our lives, and by sending Norman through you as well. If you ask me, there’s a plan afoot, and I’m looking forward to seeing how it continues to unfold.”
Beatrix ignored the pointed look Aunt Gladys sent her next, but she couldn’t ignore her aunt’s words. Her friendship with Norman had clearly brought about benefits to those around her, his unexpected generosity leaving her with the distinct notion that he was a man with a great deal of potential. She couldn’t deny that there was something appealing about the idea of her being around when he reached that potential.
“I’m looking for my next victim,” Blanche called as she nodded to Beatrix. “Ready to have your face revitalized?”
Pushing all thoughts of Norman aside, Beatrix took a seat in the chair Blanche was pointing to. “What are you going to be doing to my face?”
“I’m going to put a mixture of lemons and cucumbers on you to see if it’ll lighten up a few of your freckles.”
Hoping those were all the ingredients Blanche was going to be slathering over her face, Beatrix forced what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile, which was all the incentive Blanche needed to get to work.
Fifteen minutes later, and after every woman had their faces covered with a variety of mixtures—from special herbs, fruits, vegetables, and even flour—Blanche announced that to enjoy the
greatest benefits from her mixtures, they needed to completely relax, which meant all the lights needed to be turned off and silence maintained for a full thirty minutes.
After Edgar and Hubert turned off all the lights in the parlor, they left to turn off the lights throughout the house after Blanche insisted it would help with the relaxation business.
Beatrix swallowed a bubble of amusement as she sat in a pitch-black room, the smells of lemon, lime, and a variety of other scents mingling in the air.
“Sure is dark in here,” someone remarked, which earned her a shush from Mamie, who was sitting on the other side of Aunt Gladys.
Grinning, Beatrix closed her eyes, finding it impossible to relax because thoughts of Norman immediately sprang to mind.
There was no denying that he was becoming important to her, and while she didn’t regret her declaration that there was no need for them to marry because of a kiss, she couldn’t help but wonder what marriage to a gentleman like Norman would be like.
She’d told Theodosia that she’d found his frequently annoying ways refreshing, and that was certainly nothing less than the truth. For years, gentlemen had gone out of their way to accommodate her, even with her having allowed society to believe she shared an understanding with her very good friend Thomas Hamersley. But even with them knowing she was supposedly spoken for, they’d still treated her with kid gloves because of her status as a grand American heiress.
Norman had never treated her with kid gloves, had proceeded to annoy her every other second, and had even attempted a most outlandish experiment with her as the subject, not realizing how she relished the annoying banter they frequently shared between them.
It was a—
A loud crash sounded from above them, causing everyone to jump. Aunt Gladys actually fell out of her chair and landed on the floor with a thud right as the angry screeches of cats rang out.
“We need some light,” Beatrix yelled, which had Mamie striking a match she pulled from a pocket, the light from that match helping Blanche find the switch that turned on the electrical lights her aunt had recently installed throughout most of the house. As soon as light flooded the room, Beatrix raced for the door, Theodosia and the rest of the women close behind her.
Skidding to a stop when she reached the foot of the staircase, Beatrix glanced up, finding a man running down the steps, being chased by a herd of cats.
The scar on his face had the blood running through her veins turning to ice, but instead of trying to attack her, the man she’d shot only that afternoon raced past her and for the door, wrenching the door open and disappearing through it a second later, the cats in hot pursuit.
Chapter 27
That Norman wasn’t dumbstruck by the sight of a man scrambling over the fortress-like fence that surrounded Gladys’s house with a pack of cats leaping over that fence after him spoke volumes about the state of his life of late.
Kneeing Mort and giving a tug on the reins to set the mule after the rapidly fleeing man, Norman released a grunt when Mort refused to move. Thankfully, Agent Spencer, the Pinkerton who’d relieved Agent Cochran for the evening, was already chasing after the man, his horse apparently far better trained than Mort was.
The gate guarding the entrance to the Huttleston house creaked open, but before it was open more than a foot, another man came dashing though it, pounding down the lane as two additional cats raced through the gate, yowling up a storm.
The moment Mort caught sight of these particular cats, he bolted into motion—not after the fleeing man, but in the opposite direction. As he tried to get control of a mule that was now moving faster than Norman had thought possible, he caught a glimpse of women dressed in flowing trousers and billowing shirts racing through the gate and giving chase to the man, their faces completely covered in one of Blanche’s latest beauty concoctions, if Norman wasn’t mistaken.
It was a good five minutes before Mort decided to stop, and he didn’t stop gradually. One minute he was galloping along, and the next he wasn’t, the abrupt halt of forward motion sending Norman sailing through the air and landing with a thud on the ground.
“I’m going to have to get back to my electrical conveyance vehicle unless you start behaving like a proper mule,” he told Mort, lumbering to his feet and rubbing an elbow that had taken the brunt of his fall.
Mort moseyed over to a grassy spot, sent Norman an injured look out of his big brown eyes, then proceeded to close those eyes, apparently in need of a nap.
“This is hardly the time for that nonsense,” Norman told him, but when Mort didn’t so much as move a single eyelash, Norman threw up his hands, turned on his heel, and began striding back down the lane, hoping Mort would eventually decide to join him at the Huttleston house.
By the time he reached the house, women were streaming back through the gate, a row of cats slinking behind them. His gaze immediately settled on Beatrix, knowing it was her even with her face covered in something questionable and her hair hidden beneath a turban.
That he could identify her so easily was not a surprise.
Beatrix had somehow become permanently etched into his very soul, and he knew he’d always be able to pick her out of a crowd. She had also become important to him, important in a way no one had ever been before.
“Norman,” Beatrix exclaimed, breaking away from the crowd to rush his way. “What happened to you?”
“Got thrown from Mort.”
Beatrix blinked, the action causing the paste on her face to shift, a paste that gave off the distinct smell of lemons. “Where’s Mort now?”
“Taking a nap back that way,” he said, gesturing up the lane that was dimly lit by a few gas lamps. “I think Mort might have an underlying fear of cats, so I’m not certain he’ll rejoin us. Although I’m not quite sure about that fear, what with how he didn’t bolt when the first cats leapt over the fence . . . but perhaps he didn’t see those cats.” He shook thoughts of Mort aside. “Any luck with the men I saw fleeing from the house?”
Beatrix released a sigh. “Afraid not. The man we were chasing had a horse waiting for him, and since we were all on foot, he got away. But Phantom, he’s the black cat, jumped on the man as he was in the saddle and went after the man’s face with his sharp little claws.”
“That must have taken the man by surprise.”
“Oh, it did, but then he gave Phantom a backhand, which sent the poor cat flying, and off the man went. I doubt Phantom will be keen to jump on a horse again.”
“Mort will appreciate that.” Norman pulled out a handkerchief and took a swipe at a clump of something that was about to dribble off her chin. “What is this?”
“Lemon paste mixed with mashed cucumbers and some type of oil.” She grinned. “Blanche is trying to create a formula that will lighten a lady’s skin. She believes I’m the perfect candidate because of my freckles.”
“You want to get rid of your freckles?”
“Not particularly, but in the interest of assisting Blanche with what she hopes will turn into a lucrative beauty business someday, I’m willing to lose a few freckles or perhaps lighten them up.”
“I like your freckles. They make you, well, you.”
Beatrix beamed a bright smile at him. “No one’s ever said that about my freckles before.”
“Well, now someone has,” he returned with a smile right as Gladys and Edgar strode up to join them.
“I cannot believe someone had the audacity to break into my house,” Gladys exclaimed.
“There were two of them,” Edgar pointed out before he glanced past Norman and frowned. “And given that the man walking up the street—a Pinkerton, if I’m not mistaken—is holding two cats and doesn’t appear to have a man in custody, I believe it’s safe to say that both men escaped.”
That was soon confirmed when Agent Spencer reached them.
“He got away,” the agent said, disgust evident in his voice. “It was James McCaleb, which leads me to believe the men came here to steal what the
y weren’t able to steal this afternoon. He had a horse stashed up the lane, and even though the man suffered a cat attack, he still managed to jump on his horse and evade capture.”
A sense of guilt was immediate.
Norman took a step closer to Beatrix. “This is my fault because they were clearly after that satchel I gave you earlier, evidently not knowing that it didn’t contain my research papers.”
“You can’t blame yourself for this, Norman,” Beatrix said. “We couldn’t have known that one of those men evidently saw me take the satchel from you.”
“I should have considered that,” Norman argued. “It’s quite unlike me to neglect such an important consideration, but now that I’m getting a better grasp of how desperate someone is to secure my research, you may be assured that I’ll not be so careless again.” He caught Beatrix’s eye. “In fact, in order to keep you safe, I’ll not be letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future.”
To his relief, Beatrix put up not a single argument to that, until he told her he wanted her to give up her job at Marshall Field & Company.
Chapter 28
“I’ve noticed there always seems to be a certain someone, as in Mr. Norman Nesbit, waiting to pick you up every evening over the past week and a half.”
Swallowing the bite of sandwich she’d taken, Beatrix looked up and found Miss Dixon standing beside the table in the employee lunch room, smiling back at her.
Beatrix motioned Miss Dixon closer and lowered her voice. “Norman has turned remarkably stubborn about escorting me home ever since we were set upon by criminals right outside the store last week. Those very same criminals then broke into my aunt’s home, which is why I haven’t protested Norman’s insistence on picking me up from work every evening.”
Miss Dixon’s eyes widened. “I heard rumors that you ran afoul of some criminals over a week ago but was hopeful that was just idle gossip with no basis in fact.”
“Afraid not, which is why Pinkerton men have been roaming around the Bargain Basement this week. They check on me twice an hour, even though I tried to convince Norman there’s little threat to me while I’m in the store.”