A Deceptive Homecoming (26 page)

Maybe I have found a new home.
And I couldn't get back there soon enough.

“B
ut he was gone when the police arrived?” Mrs. Chaplin said.

I was sitting in Mrs. Chaplin's front parlor sipping tea with her, Miss Woodruff, Madame Maisonet, and Mrs. Emily Upchurch. Over a plate of lemon shortbread, wine cake, scotch cake, and a variety of cheese and crackers, I'd told them everything, or at least almost everything, I knew about Frank Hayward's deception and disappearance.

I nodded. “Officer Quick promised they would pursue the outlaw but pressed upon me the possibility that they might never catch him or bring him to justice.”

“Well, I don't care what he's done, he'll always be a gentleman to me,” Miss Woodruff said, defiantly. Although she'd given up her mourning dress, she still had a small black ribbon tied around her wrist.

“Ah l'amour,”
Madame Maisonet wistfully said. “One can forgive anything, yes?”

“Despite the shocking truth, I for one am not going to judge the man,” Mrs. Upchurch said. I'd noticed the moment I arrived that she was no longer wearing her pearls and I could detect only her wedding band beneath her gloves. “Despite his past transgressions, it seems he has led a faultless life since working for you, Mrs. Chaplin.”

Unlike your husband,
I thought, knowing from Mrs. Chaplin's raised eyebrow, I wasn't the only one.

“Yes, you're quite right, Mrs. Upchurch,” Mrs. Chaplin said, her booming voice filling the room. “This comes as a complete shock to me. I knew Mr. Hayward as an outstanding member of my staff. I was deeply saddened by his supposed death and have no reason to believe he was anything but loyal to me and the school. But a member of the James-Younger gang? Those men were cutthroats, thieves, and murderers. I don't know how to reconcile the Frank Hayward I knew and this . . . what did you say his real name was, Hattie?”

“Charles Mayfield.” I'd read it on the newspaper cutout of the James-Younger gang portrait.

“Yes, and this Charles Mayfield fellow,” Mrs. Chaplin said, finishing her thought. “You did say he denied any involvement in violence of any kind?”

“Yes,” I said. Yet I wasn't so certain; there was still the scar on his face to explain.

“And he was quite young at the time,” Miss Woodruff said, adding to his defense.

“And he showed considerable remorse for putting everyone through such pain,” I said, looking directly at Miss Woodruff. She lowered her eyes to the floor as she lifted her handkerchief to her face once more. “He saw the opportunity and took it. He didn't consider the consequences. He didn't know of any other way.”

“And if we atone, we all deserve forgiveness for our mistakes,” Miss Woodruff said. She lifted her head high. “Isn't that right, Mrs. Upchurch?” Mrs. Upchurch's cheeks burned red. Shamed into silence, she merely nodded.

“C'est vrai, ma chère,”
Madame Maisonet said. “It is true.”

We all looked at Mrs. Chaplin, waiting for her verdict.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Chaplin said, as if that concluded the discussion.

“Speaking of transgressions,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. Upchurch blanched in anticipation of my comment. “May I enquire about the fate of Miss Gilbert?” Without looking at her, I heard Mrs. Upchurch sigh with relief. Her husband wasn't going to be the topic of conversation.

“If you're asking in your polite and discreet manner whether I'll be turning her in to the police, Miss Davish, the answer is no,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “I have, however, encouraged Miss Gilbert to seek employment elsewhere.”

“Then what about the president's position?” Miss Woodruff asked. Mrs. Upchurch blanched again, her dimples nearly disappearing.

The poor woman,
I thought. This is torture for her. Why had she even been invited to tea? And then I got my answer.

“Obviously I will come out of retirement and run the school myself until my successor can be properly trained.”

“Your successor?” I asked.

“
Oui,
it is a good decision,” Madame Maisonet said, nodding her approval. “You choose well, Madame Chaplin.”

“Yes, well, I'm undoing a grievous mistake. I obviously hired the wrong Upchurch in the first place,” Mrs. Chaplin said, indicating the blushing woman across from her with her hand. Mrs. Upchurch smiled meekly.

Miss Woodruff's hand flew to her chin. “Mrs. Upchurch?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “She's more than competent. She needs some specific guidance from me, of course, but then I'll be able to rest easy knowing Mrs. Chaplin's School for Women is in good hands.” I recalled how she'd organized the funeral and the lake party, had done her husband's book work, and was a genuinely amiable person; not a single staff member or student I spoke to had said a bad word about her. I smiled at Mrs. Upchurch. Mrs. Chaplin had made a good choice.

“Congratulations,” I said, knowing how difficult it would've been for the wife of an embezzler to succeed anywhere else. If not for this opportunity, Mrs. Upchurch would be at the mercy of any relatives she might have, or worse.

And Mrs. Chaplin has an excuse to come out of retirement,
I thought.

“Thank you, Miss Davish. It's an honor and a challenge. To tell you the truth, I'm quite excited to begin. If I've learned nothing else from your visit, it's that we women can overcome our past, face challenges gracefully and succeed.”

She learned that from me?
I thought, blushing at her compliment.

“Don't be so surprised, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Chaplin said, reading my mind. “You know you're quite capable to inspire.” Before I'd a chance to refute her comment, Mrs. Chaplin continued. “Speaking of, what are your plans now, Miss Davish? Off on the grand tour with a millionaire writing his memoirs? Taking dictation for a debutante who'd rather flirt than put pen to paper? Helping some business magnate conquer the world one typewritten memorandum at a time?”

“Or?” Miss Woodruff added, winking at Mrs. Chaplin. “Do you plan to trade your typewriter for an apron and settle down? I've heard you receive daily letters from a beau, a doctor no less!”

“Ah, mademoiselle, you did not tell me!” Madame Maisonet chided.

Even as I blushed again at the mention of Walter and the possibility of a future together, I wondered how Miss Woodruff had learned about my letters from him.

Maybe Mr. Putney at the hotel likes his gossip a bit too much,
I thought.

“Miss Mollie Woodruff,” Mrs. Chaplin said, “I'm surprised at you. You make it sound as though you'd recommend this outcome.”

“Wouldn't you? What woman wouldn't prefer marrying and settling down to having to work every day for a living and worry about her future?”

“A Chaplin girl, that's who. I train my girls to be independent in body, mind, and spirit. Not to pine after any man that will pay the bills. Beau or no beau, our Miss Davish isn't going to put away her typewriter without a fight. She's one of us. She's a Chaplin girl. We make our own way in the world, don't we, Hattie?”

“Yes, we do but . . .” I wasn't sure if I completely agreed with Mrs. Chaplin. I did draw immense satisfaction from my work, but I loved Walter too.

If only there was a way to have both,
I thought, careful to keep the thought to myself.

“But you were married once, Mrs. Chaplin,” Miss Woodruff said.

“Yes, Miss Woodruff, I was and can therefore speak from experience. Wouldn't you agree, Madame Maisonet and Mrs. Upchurch?” Madame simply nodded and smiled.

“Yes, I'm afraid I do,” Emily Upchurch said. “As you all know, being married didn't stop me worrying about the future. Asa was a good provider and a generous husband, but at what cost? I actually envy you and Miss Davish.”

“Why?” Miss Woodruff and I said simultaneously.

“Because you both have your whole lives ahead of you. You don't know what the future holds. It's quite exciting to think about, really.”

“It is indeed something to envy,” Madame said.

“But the past?” Miss Woodruff said, obviously thinking about Frank. “How do we overcome the past to face an uncertain future?”

I looked to Mrs. Chaplin, who sighed deeply but remained silent, her tea turning cold in her lap. I looked to Mrs. Upchurch who, despite her earlier declaration, seemed hesitant and unsure. She took a bite of the lemon shortbread instead of answering the question. Madame Maisonet stared at me over the rim of her coffee cup. And then I looked at Miss Woodruff who, with her hand covering the scar on her chin, sat tall in her chair, expectant.

I pictured my typewriter, locked in its case and propped against the desk in the library at Lady Philippa's summer home in Newport.

“With diligence, faith, and love,” I said, as the other two women nodded. “With those we can accomplish anything.”

“Oh là là là là là là,”
Madame Maisonet said. I glanced at Mrs. Chaplin; she beamed with pride. “You have become quite the philosopher, mademoiselle.”

I should've blushed again as the other women laughed, but I didn't. I wasn't embarrassed by what I'd said. I knew I was right.

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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Copyright © 2015 by Anna Loan-Wilsey

 

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eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-727-5
eISBN-10: 1-61773-727-5
First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2015

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3727-5