A Lady of Hidden Intent (3 page)

Catherine could see his determination. “Is there no other way? No other hope for me to remain at your side?”

“No. I have not begun to tell you the full details, but let me say this much: Two men were murdered this night in Bristol by Baker’s hand. There will be little rest for anyone until these issues are resolved.” He dropped the pen and went to one of the bookcases. Pulling out several volumes, he placed the books on his desk, then went back to open a concealed compartment. “You will take this money and see to your needs. To the needs of Dugan and Selma as well.”

The clock chimed from over the mantel. It was only a quarter until five. Soon the entire household would be about their duties. Catherine felt a chill permeate her body. Not even her housecoat could ward off the sense of doom that was now upon them.

“Here,” her father said, thrusting a small leather satchel into her hands. “Take it and hide it well. The morning train would be the best way to get to Bristol, but I fear it will be watched. I’ll advise Dugan to take the carriage.”

Catherine hugged the satchel to her breast. “Why don’t you come with us, Father? You can resolve the matter from America.”

He looked at her sadly and gently touched her cheek. “I might be a poor judge of men, but I am no coward. I will face my mistakes, but I will not allow my only remaining child to do so as well.”

She threw herself into his arms and held him as though she might drown if she let go. And truly that was what she felt might happen. How could she lose him like this? She’d only bid her mother and siblings good-bye two years ago. She needed him. He was her only connection to the past—to her mother and brothers—to her childhood.

Sobbing, she tried one more time. “Please let me stay with you.”

“I love you too much to allow for that, kitten. You must be a good girl now. You must be brave and stand fast that I might also do the same.”

She recognized the rough, desperate plea in his voice and knew her show of sorrow and despair was taking its toll on him.

The thought sobered her, and straightening, Catherine stretched on tiptoe and kissed her father’s cheek.

“I love you, Father. I will go to America, but even from there I will do whatever is possible to be at your aid—at your side.”

“You will always be with me—at least in heart,” he whispered. He kissed her forehead, then put her away from him. “Now go pack. There isn’t time or the ability to take many things, I’m sorry to say. Take what will service you well. It will be cold on the Atlantic—I know it well. Take whatever will see you through the winter.”

Catherine nodded and turned for the door. She wanted desperately to look back—to see his face and memorize every detail. A fear began to eat at her—tearing away her strength and resolve. She might never see him again. This might very well be good-bye.

CHAPTER 1

Philadelphia
June 1855

C
atherine, where are you?”

Looking up from the bodice she’d just pinned, Catherine called out, “I’m here, Mrs. Clarkson. In the sewing room.” Her employer, a stocky woman whose curly brown hair had been pulled straight back into a tight little bun, charged into the room like a general taking new ground.

“The news is very good. Your designs have been talked about all over the world.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone is excited. Remember when I went to the Industry of the Nations exhibit in Paris? Well, I gave some of your drawings to my friends in the fashion industry there.
Catherine Shay
is a name they are now speaking with great reverence. They believe you will soon be known throughout all of society as the most reputable of American fashion designers for women.”

Catherine straightened and put the bodice aside. She could scarcely believe Mrs. Clarkson was serious.

“Surely you jest. There are far too many credible French designers to worry about a silly . . . American woman.” Catherine nearly stumbled on the description of herself. It had been five years since she’d come to hide in America. She couldn’t risk losing that shelter now. Of course, if Mrs. Clarkson had her way, the entire world would be privy to Catherine’s hiding place.

Mrs. Clarkson took a chair and pulled it up to the sewing table. “My dear, you are already greatly appreciated here. Why, every woman in Philadelphia is now demanding your fresh designs for their gowns. I cannot even allow you to take time away from your creative work to merely sew on garments of lesser value.”

Catherine laughed. “You exaggerate, of course. Although, I appreciate your kind regard.”

“It is not exaggeration. With the winter season beginning and holiday gowns in demand, you will soon see the truth of it. I had no fewer than ten requests for your personal attention and design. I’ve no doubt there will be at least another fifty before the end of the month.”

“Well, I certainly hope for your sake that is true, but of course I cannot possibly design fifty or sixty new gowns in the time needed.”

“But don’t you see? That is what will make your creations even more sought after. Women will know that they will be among the chosen few, should they get a gown designed by Shay.” She smiled and pulled off her gold-rimmed glasses. “I am quite pleased, my dear. You must know that.”

Catherine heard the satisfaction in Mrs. Clarkson’s voice as she added, “The business is doing very well, and you can be quite proud of what you have accomplished.”

It was true. The business was doing exceptionally well. Only the day before a new sign had been delivered and installed over the door of the modest four-story brick building. It read
Clarkson’s Dressmaking
in large lettering. Then in smaller print,
Specialized Designs for Women.

“No one works alone here,” Catherine finally offered. “We all do our part. Praise me if you will, but then allow that such praise must also fall back on yourself and the others.”

“My dear, I will not be swayed. I know very well that your work here has brought about much of my success. Your designs are unequaled, except perhaps for those in France.” She grinned mischievously. “I cannot discredit my own countrymen—no matter that I have been an American lo these thirty-two years. My, but it does not seem so much time has passed. Only yesterday Jean Pierre and I were working to tailor suits for fashionable men of means.” She sighed and leaned back in the chair. “My brother is greatly missed. He was such a comfort to me after my own husband died; now I must comfort myself in knowing I shall one day see them both in heaven.”

“I can very well understand,” Catherine replied, not daring to meet Mrs. Clarkson’s eyes. “At least I like to imagine that I can,” she added, lest there be any question to her comment.

The longing to see her father again was something that ate at Catherine’s heart daily. For so long there had been no word—no understanding of what had happened to him. She knew he had been sent to prison, but little else. With his assets taken by the Crown, there had been little hope of proper representation.

“Well, we must each bear our cross, no?”

“It is true.” Catherine held up the bodice. “I think this will work nicely for Mrs. Stern.” The low neckline was something Catherine had imitated after seeing a fashion plate in
Peterson’s Magazine.

“She does like to reveal more of herself than most,” Mrs.

Clarkson said, admiring Catherine’s work. “You have made it perfectly.”

Catherine smiled. “We shall see.”

“Mrs. Clarkson?” A young girl of no more than fifteen entered the room. She brought a pattern to the older woman and frowned.

“I cannot seem to remember how to enlarge the bust.”

“Lydia, you cannot advance to Improver if you are slack in your work. Pay attention to the little things.” Mrs. Clarkson got on her feet. “Come to the table by the window.”

Catherine watched the girl begrudgingly follow. Lydia had been troubled since moving into the sewing house. She had apprenticed for a year before coming to live at Clarkson’s, and the transition had not been easy. She missed her mother and sisters greatly and cried herself to sleep on many a night. Catherine had tried to befriend her, but Lydia seemed inclined toward Felicia, one of the more troublesome young women in the house.

Living at the sewing house had been Catherine’s deliverance. It had been made even better by the fact that besides hiring Catherine because of her sewing abilities, Mrs. Clarkson had needed Dugan and Selma for their skills. Selma now cooked and cleaned for the house, and Dugan handled her yards and carriage.

Their time in America had been arduous, but finding work here with Mrs. Clarkson had been an answer to prayer. Catherine didn’t even mind the long hours. Spending ten or twelve hours sewing each day gave her little time to feel sorry for herself. By the time the holidays came around, the hours increased to fifteen, and even then Catherine was grateful. It was a difficult task, but Catherine found that with some effort she was slowly purging the memories of better days gone by.

Catherine put the bodice away and made her way upstairs to her room. Her shoulders ached from sitting hunched over her work. It would soon be time to retire for the night, and there were still things she needed to tend to. Two blouses and several pairs of stockings would need to be washed by hand. Then, of course, she had tried to be faithful to read her Bible and spend time in prayer for her father.

“I hoped I might catch you before you went to bed.”

Catherine looked up to find the ever-faithful Selma. “Of course. Shall we go to your quarters?”

Selma nodded. The woman had been like a mother to Catherine for these five long years. Yet Selma had always been special. When Nanny Bryce had died during the same influenza epidemic that claimed her mother and brothers, Catherine had sought solace in Selma’s company.

“We’ve had a letter,” Selma whispered conspiratorially as Catherine joined her.

“From home?”

“Yes. It’s not much, but it will offer a thread of hope.”

Catherine had great difficulty keeping her hopes up. Selma had told her over and over that God had not forgotten them, but that wasn’t how it felt.

In their fourth-floor apartment, Dugan already had a fire lit in welcome. Catherine smiled as she came into their tiny sitting room. Apparently Dugan wasn’t the only one who had anticipated her arrival. Selma had tea and buttered bread waiting to refresh them.

“Dugan, how are you tonight?”

“I’m fit as a fiddle, miss. You needn’t worry about old Dugan.”

He smiled and pointed to the chair nearest the hearth. “You sit yourself right now.”

Catherine knew better than to argue. The chair offered was Dugan’s favorite, but he would not hear of her sitting elsewhere.

“Selma said you’d had a letter.”

“A short one,” Selma explained as she retrieved the missive.

“ ’Tis from my sister Agnes.” She extended the letter to Catherine.

“You read while I pour tea.”

Reading the contents was as refreshing as a glass of cold water on a warm day. There was the usual chatter about missing Selma and Dugan, as well as the exchange of pleasantries and news of the family. Finally there were a few lines regarding Catherine’s father.

“ ‘We do not know,’ ” Catherine read aloud, “ ‘how our master endures his days in the prison. When we learned he was resettled in an institution nearby, Bradley tried to see him, but they would not allow for visitors. They assured us he was well and, in truth, Bradley felt the prison to be smaller and in better condition than most.’

“At least we know where he is,” Catherine murmured, then continued reading.

“ ‘Mr. Newbury was always of strong constitution. We pray that has followed him through his incarceration. The prison guard told Bradley that Mr. Newbury’s sentence would see him there another twenty years.’ ”

Catherine felt the words cut deep. “ ‘There has come word that Mr. Baker was seen in France, but whether or not the proper authorities could be notified before he slipped away once again, no one can say. Then, too, this might well be nothing more than useless gossip.’ ”

Catherine looked up, letting the letter drop to her lap, “But surely there would be no reason to offer pretense on such a matter.”

“I cannot think it would serve any good purpose,” Selma replied. “But you know how people can be. Someone might very well have mentioned it simply to feel important.” She handed Catherine a cup of tea. “Help yourself to the bread.”

Catherine sipped the tea thoughtfully and glanced again at the letter. “Thank you. The tea is quite good.”

“Something to warm your bones. The chill of autumn is upon us,” Selma offered with a smile.

“I feel so helpless. I feel I have failed Father.” Catherine reread the letter, hoping a second glance might offer something more. She shook her head and folded the pages. “I wish we could do something. I’ve saved as much money as I could these last years, but it is so little. It wouldn’t even buy us passage home, much less buy adequate legal help or hire an investigator to hunt down Mr. Baker.”

“You cannot blame yourself for that, child.” Dugan reached for his pipe. “You and your father are innocent of the wrong in this matter.”