13
Walking along the hallway dressed in a nightgown she’d owned at the time of her mother’s death, Frances knew she was dreaming again. The gown had been stored in a chest in the attic, yet her dream-self wore it as a woman grown, and it fit her. Every night since they’d made the decision to return to Indianapolis, the nightmare had come to her. Each time, it got worse, and she could tell tonight’s would be bad.
Wake up. Wake up.
Her dreaming form continued down the hallway toward her father’s office where she heard the familiar voices of Father and William. He was shouting, insisting her father give him something. In the past, the men’s words had never been intelligible, but the repeating dream seemed clearer each night. Would Frances finally understand what they were saying?
She approached the door quietly and pressed her ear to the wood.
“I won’t give it to you,” her father was saying. “It was Ruth’s.”
Great Aunt Ruth? Frances held her breath, so she could hear better.
“You know she meant for me to have it.”
“I don’t know that. We both know she left everything to me.”
“What did you tell her to make her change her mind?” Uncle William’s voice had gone deeper, more ominous.
“I didn’t have to tell her anything.” Father’s tone had taken on an edge Frances had rarely heard him use. “She already knew you well enough not to trust you.”
“That’s a lie.”
The sound of loud footsteps approaching the door sent Frances scurrying away. With her heart pounding in her throat, she searched the hallway for some place to hide. She slipped into the darkness of the alcove and took cover behind the statue, praying he wouldn’t see her there. More than once, when she was younger, she’d felt the back of his hand when he hadn’t liked something she’d said or done.
The door flew open so hard it banged against the wall. Her uncle stormed past her, muttering as he went. She’d never been able to make out what he said in previous dreams. Now his words were clear.
“It’s mine, and I’ll have it. You won’t keep it from me, Albert.”
The words were said with such finality that Frances knew her uncle had made his decision to take action at that moment. But how could they prove that to a court? He had killed her father. It was William Lancaster who would pay.
The dream shifted, and Frances was at the dining room table again, holding the letter which would let her pursue her music. Pale and sweating, her father smiled at her with such love it made her heart swell, as much for the look as the papers she held. He’d included his submission letter which they’d returned with their notice of acceptance. The loving words her father had written about Frances had made her flush with pleasure. Then his face contorted with pain, bending over as he clutched his stomach.
Even knowing his death was coming and she could do nothing about it, she scrambled to catch him before he hit the floor. Sobbing, the pages dropped and forgotten, as she clutched her dying father. He’d finally looked at Frances—seen her—and now she was going to lose him again, this time forever.
When Frances’s foot kicked Nick’s calf, he decided he had to do something. The train’s double bed was smaller than the one they shared at the Lucky L. It was harder not to sleep too close to each other, especially when she was thrashing around.
“Shh, Frances,” he said in a soft voice like he would use with a child. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
Nick brought his body up behind her, his hands taking hers and holding them to her abdomen. He whispered assurances. Her hands calmed, but her feet continued to move as though she were running. He finally had to bring one leg over her ankles. At first, she struggled against him, but his words must have finally gotten through to her, and she settled down.
She stilled, and he wondered if she’d fallen back to sleep. Her shoulders began to shake. She was crying.
“Aww, Frances.”
Nick shifted, intending to roll her toward him, but he didn’t have to. She turned, pressing her face against his shoulder. He held her while she sobbed. Eventually, she started to hiccup. He could only remember one time when his younger sister had cried so hard she’d gotten them. That’d been a bad case, but this one of Frances’s put his sister’s crying fit to shame.
What was causing these dreams? Going back to Indianapolis must be bringing them on. It was their fourth night on the train, and it was her fourth nightmare. Each night they seemed to get worse. Every morning he’d tried to ask her about them, and every morning she’d refused to tell him.
It took a while, but Frances finally relaxed. Her tears had soaked his flannel shirt. She said nothing, and he didn’t want her to move.
Nick’s heart ached for whatever painful memories were causing the nightmares. Talking about them would likely help her to dispel them.
“Frances?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer, so he said her name again. Still no answer. He heaved out a breath.
“What?” she said, tilting back her head.
Before he could say anything, Frances pressed her lips to his chin. Then he couldn’t speak. She kissed him again, this time closer to his mouth. What was she doing? They didn’t have people they had to pretend for. She reached up and pulled Nick’s face closer, her lips finding his. This was dangerous territory. The thought didn’t stop his arms from tightening around his wife.
And she was his wife. He knew how passionate about things Frances could get. And spontaneous. She thought she knew so much, and she did more than most properly raised young ladies. But she was still naïve in so many ways. He doubted she’d considered where their kissing could lead. If they consummated their marriage now, without agreeing to it beforehand, she’d regret it. Might even come to hate him for it.
Nick loved this woman with all his being. His heart wanted Frances as much as his body did, but this didn’t feel right. He had no interest in loving her now and still having to split the blanket later. They’d do this right or not at all.
It took everything in him to break the kiss. He pressed his lips gently to her forehead and rolled over so his back was to her, praying she’d understand. Frances sniffed, something she’d been doing less often. Then she scooted closer and rested her cheek against his back, her left hand resting on his waist.
Nick let out a breath. That had been too close.
Frances scowled at her reflection as she brushed her teeth. She didn’t want to think about the nightmare, but she definitely didn’t want to remember the crying jag which had followed. Or the kissing.
Being married to Nick confused her. In so many ways he was still her chum. She liked sleeping next to him. He was the best bedwarmer ever. Waking up, cuddled in his arms, felt like coming home. Like when she’d been a little girl before her mother had died, and she’d be lying in her tower bedroom, safe in the knowledge of a comfortable home with sisters to play with and parents who loved her and would keep her safe.
But Frances had to remember the marriage was temporary. She might not be interested in it for herself, but the Bible said it was sacred and should be honored. And then there was Nick. He should have a wife who loved him as more than a friend, who’d look at him like her sisters did their husbands and Luke did Judith. He deserved better than Frances.
After rinsing her mouth, she started braiding her hair. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the trip. Her only experience in traveling by train had been the journey from Indianapolis to Lilac City. That one had definitely not been taken in luxury, but it had been comfortable. It’d also been when Maude and Charles had first realized they had growing feelings for each other.
Because of that, Frances had often found herself watching them. She’d recognized their growing fondness and had even encouraged them when Charles had detoured his trip to San Francisco to court Maude.
Frances had always thought marriage would only strip a woman of her power and leave her a pawn to an unscrupulous husband. Like how Unc
le William bullied poor Aunt Ann. But Charles wasn’t like that. Everything he and Maude did, they decided together. A partnership.
Their marriage was nothing like the society ones back home. Even Father, as much as he’d loved and adored Mother, had never looked upon her as a partner. His word had been the law in their home.
Done dressing, Frances went to the parlor. Nick sat with a book in his lap, but he was studying the passing scenery out the window. Their comfortable closeness wasn’t quite the same as it’d been before. Was he as confused by the kissing as she was? She said a silent prayer the temporary marriage didn’t ruin their friendship.
She sat beside him. Nick didn’t look at her but shifted his right hand to his knee, palm up. Frances recognized it for what it was: an invitation to take his hand.
Almost against her will, she slowly ran her fingers along his palm. Under her touch, his skin seemed to convulse, and the now-familiar electricity of attraction ran up her arm. She threaded her fingers through his and leaned her head against his shoulder. Frances had best not tease Nick. Or herself.
Her thoughts drifted to some of the recent kisses shared, but she didn’t want to look at those too closely. Falling in love with him was not allowed. But, for the first time in Frances’s life, she could imagine what it would be like to have a husband, to be a wife. Also, the thought was just the tiniest bit tempting.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be married. Frances had made a promise to herself years ago she’d never give a man power over her. Uncle William’s behavior had only reinforced her decision. She would never marry. Besides, it was against the contract. When it was all done, Nick would be free to find himself a wife who was worthy of him, a young woman who wanted marriage.
For a second, Frances imagined another woman kissing Nick, and she was glad she hadn’t brought her rifle. Taking a deep breath, she told herself to stop thinking about it. The answer was no.
“Well, my wife,” Nick said, his voice teasing. “I suppose we should probably finish packing.”
“It’ll be late enough when we get in that we won’t be able to visit the bank this afternoon,” Marshall said.
“My father is sending carriages for us,” Charles added. “Mother is excited to have the company. It took everything I could do to convince her not to invite the rest of the family as the house would be full enough with us.”
“I hope having eight of us won’t tax your father’s patience,” Doris said, her expression worried.
“Nick and I could stay at our old house,” Frances suggested again.
“We already talked about this,” Nick said softly.
“I’d prefer we go together.” Maude’s face had blanched as it had every time the subject was raised. “Now we know there’s a possibility father was murdered, the thought of sleeping there makes me uncomfortable.”
“Please don’t,” Doris said. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing you two were staying there.”
“The house isn’t haunted,” Frances argued, not sure why she was pushing the issue.
“Not by ghosts,” Maude said.
“Trying to be practical,” Nick held up his hands, “the house hasn’t been lived in for nearly a year. It’ll likely need a good cleaning before it’s fit to stay in again.”
“That’s right.” Luke shook his head at Frances. “Do you think your uncle has been paying to have the place heated all this time?”
“All right. All right.” Frances didn’t know how to explain the compulsion she felt to visit the house again. She spent so much time dreaming of the place, especially lately, that the idea of entering the home of her youth put her on edge too. But going in there and facing her fears might be the only way to be free of them.
14
The Merricks welcomed them into their home. Charles’ father’s efficiency impressed Nick. The man didn’t waste time getting to the reason for the visit.
“I’d like to introduce a good friend of my father’s,” Charles said as they gathered in the parlor after dinner. He indicated an older man wearing the largest handlebar mustache Nick had ever seen. Charles said, “This is George Littrell. He specializes in estate law.”
After the introductions were completed, Mr. Littrell moved to the front of the room. He cleared his throat, looking pompous.
“Even before I was approached about taking on this case, I—and many of my colleagues—have been watching it with interest. I knew Albert Lancaster well, and I’d met his brother William—and heard things about him. Albert’s early demise was a shock to all of us. I offer my condolences for your loss.” Littrell nodded his head to each of the sisters.
Beside Nick, Frances had stiffened. She looked like she wanted to say something rude, so he tightened his clasp on her hand.
She sighed. “I know,” she whispered and said nothing else.
“I’ve had a chance to review your marriage papers,” Littrell continued, “and the court ruling on Mr. Hamblin’s authority to sign for each of you. Everything appears to be in order. It should be quite straightforward now for you to take possession of your inheritances. We have an appointment in the morning with the bank.”
Frances straightened a little, and Nick knew she was thinking of the safe-deposit-box key. They’d discussed it on the train until they were all sick of the topic. He’d been surprised at what a large industrial city Indianapolis was and wondered how many banks there were. How difficult was it going to be to find which bank had the box?
“I want to know if it’s a crime to pilfer money from an account you’re only an executor over,” Frances said.
“Your uncle’s accountant and his attorney will be in attendance,” Mr. Littrell said, seemingly unfazed by her confrontational tone. “At your brother’s request and citing your uncle’s questionable actions in trying to force you to return to him, I’ve sent word he need not attend.”
“Now I’m disappointed,” Frances whispered to Nick.
“Why? You can’t shoot him.” He kept his tone light. “They’d put you in jail.”
“Because I want to look him in the eye and ask him if he murdered my father.”
Leave it to Frances to take the bull by the horns.
The thought gave Nick pause. Maybe that’s what he needed to do in regard to their relationship. They’d been married for two weeks now, and he could tell she was getting used to it. After last night, he thought she might even decide she didn’t mind being married to him. Was it time to tell her how he felt and suggest they stay married? Maybe tonight when they were alone.
“I think it’s time we put all the different pieces together.” Frances turned to Charles. “Like those photos of my father’s will. If we can’t see those, we can go to the court and look at them ourselves.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Littrell said, his brows creased, “what about photos?”
“Frances wants to compare the signature on her father’s will,” Charles said. “It appears the director of the county staff is a friend of William Lancaster’s.”
“Ahh. Yes.” The attorney gave the tips of his mustache a little twist. “I can see where that would be a problem.”
“Like not being able to account for certain records,” Nick added.
“The deed to their home,” Charles said.
“Interesting,” Mr. Littrell said. “Mrs. Reynolds is correct. We should create a list.”
As though she wouldn’t have already done that. “Here it is.” Frances released Nick’s hand and rose. She removed the list from her pocket and took it to the lawyer. “We talked about it in detail on the train. At the bottom are items we think we can verify once we see certain documents.”
“What will you do if you cannot locate other documents to compare your father’s signature on it?” Mr. Littrell asked, scanning the list.
“I have a letter my father gave me the night he died,” Frances said, her voice tight. “And I’ll bet there are plenty of people in this city who did business with him who might still have c
orrespondence.”
“I’m not sure what purpose would be served in such an effort,” the attorney said looking up to study her.
Frances opened her mouth, but her throat tightened. Nick stepped beside her and took her hand.
“If William Lancaster had anything to do with his brother’s death,” he said softly, “my wife intends her uncle will see justice for his crime.”
“The only way that could happen is for the man to be arrested and convicted.” Mr. Littrell shook his head. “You don’t want to bring that kind of shame on your family name.”
“That’s his shame, not ours,” Frances hissed. “I won’t sit back and let him get away with murder.”
The lawyer started to argue again, but then the others jumped up to stand beside Frances and Nick. Mr. Littrell blinked at the sign of solidarity.
“William Lancaster has shown no conscience,” Charles said.
“He must be stopped,” Maude agreed.
“Whatever it takes,” Doris added.
“I’ll do as you wish,” Mr. Littrell said, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Frances,” Charles said once they’d all taken their seats again, “in that note you left when you three fled your uncle’s home, you mentioned knowing how much money was in your father’s accounts. Was that true?”
“Yes.” Her cheeks went hot at the memory, but she refused to be embarrassed by the truth anymore. “As you’re all aware, my father could barely stand to look at me the last couple of years of his life.”
“No,” Doris and Maude cried.
“Yes. You both know it’s true. He couldn’t bear the sight of me—we think—because I look like Mother. But it’s a moot point now. He’s not here to ask.” Frances clenched her fists, and Nick covered one with his hand. “But when he shut me out, I started doing whatever I could to get close to him. That included snooping through his papers. It made me feel like I was still part of his life.”
A Fella for Frances Page 10