Anything But Civil (15 page)

What am I doing?
I wondered.

I should be at my typewriter and not standing on the street, alone with a strange man, even a policeman, at this time of night. What would Sir Arthur think if he or someone he knew drove by at this instant? And because of me, a possible killer had fled town and justice. Had my curiosity led me to trouble again? I couldn’t wait a moment longer to find out.

“. . . rest assured, we’ll track him down and—” Officer Corbett was speaking. I had missed some of what he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, interrupting the policeman and abruptly walking away. “I must get back.”

“Of c-c-ourse,” he stammered. “Let me accompany you.”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” A pang of guilt shot through me when I saw the hurt on the policeman’s face my rudeness had caused. I softened my tone and smiled. “Besides, you still have Enoch Jamison to question.” He chuckled.

“You are determined,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling. “An inspiration, really. I’ll say good night then.” He tipped his hat and retrieved his harmonica from his pocket.

“Good night,” I said as we went our separate ways. The soft strains of his playing echoed between the buildings, fading slowly with the growing distance between us.

D
ue to my foray into police business last night, I had barely finished typing the manuscript pages when Sir Arthur retired. My mind was a whirl when I’d found that Oscar Killian had inexplicably closed his store less than an hour after I’d spoken to him. Was I right? Was he involved in the poisoning and death of Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook? Killian’s behavior certainly led me to believe so. But a few hours of typing up passages about the role of General Ely S. Parker at Appomattox was just what I’d needed to calm my mind. This was my purpose. This was why I was here. With a renewed focus on my work, I almost slept through the night.

But last night’s peace vanished as I walked along Main Street this morning. As I peered into storefronts, I could see shopkeeper after shopkeeper restocking shelves, sweeping floors, washing windows, lighting stoves, all in preparation for the start of the business day. But Killian & Sons was dark and empty. I peered through the window when I passed, hoping to see movement inside. All was still. This was one store that wouldn’t open today despite Christmas being only a few days away. What if I’d been wrong? Could a false accusation cause as much trouble as a true one? My heart sank. Was I to blame for the fear that drove this man away? I dragged my feet slowly away. I walked block after block without noticing where I was going. When I finally looked up, I was near the Spring Street Bridge, its steel trusses covered with ice, sparkling. I waited while a road wagon struggled to cross from the other side of the river. The two horses pulling snorted in the cold. The wooden planks of the bridge were snow covered and slippery for the wagon’s metal wheels. It didn’t fare much better as it turned onto the slushy, muddy surface of Main Street.

Why didn’t they use a sleigh?
I wondered as I cautiously stepped onto the bridge.

Although it was early, two sleighs, both heading toward Main Street, had passed me before I was halfway across the bridge. To cross the river, I usually used the Green Street Bridge, but I should’ve realized that this one would be busy, even at this hour of the morning; Spring Street Bridge was the main bridge in and out of town. But the width of the bridge easily accommodated both pedestrians and sleighs, so I had no reason to be concerned when a sleigh approached the bridge from Main Street and started to cross. But this one was different. The horses were galloping. I turned to see the sleigh slide back and forth as the horses slipped and temporarily lost their footing. I immediately tried to get out of the way, but instead of driving on the side opposite to me, the driver headed straight for me. I ran, slipping on the icy boards and finally falling. As I struggled to gain my footing, ripping my hem, I could see the breath of the horses as they ran toward me. I scrambled to the iron railing and flung myself against it, doubled over at the waist. My hat flew off my head. The horses barely missed me as they galloped past.

My hat!
I clutched the air in vain and then cried out as a sharp pain shot through my middle. I gasped for breath and watched helplessly as my felt hat, the navy blue velvet ribbon flapping in the wind, floated down onto the icy river. Tears streamed down my face. I’d purchased the hat only days before as an early Christmas present to myself. As I clung to the railing, looking down at the river below, anger welled inside me.
Who did this? I want to know. And why?
They owed me more than a new hat. I turned to see the driver as he passed, only a few feet away.

It was Enoch Jamison! His head was bare and his face was flush from the wind. His eyes were wide as he stared at me. He pulled the reins hard to the right, pulling his horses away from me. An instant later he was gone, careening off the bridge and disappearing up the hill.
What just happened?
I wondered. Had he meant to scare me? Had he meant to knock me off the bridge? He certainly seemed angry yesterday at Killian’s store when he thought I knew something. Or had he lost control of his horses at the moment I’d happened to be on the bridge? I was starting to believe that a coincidence like that didn’t exist.

I stood up slowly. I glanced down once more at my hat, lying on the thin ice below the bridge, only to see it picked up by the wind and blown farther downstream. I wrapped my arms around my ribs, the pain making it difficult to breathe. My gloves and dress were dirty and covered in slush and my hat was gone. Yet again I was going to have to make my way back to Sir Arthur’s disheveled, dirty, and bruised. At least this time it was Enoch Jamison who was the one with some explaining to do.

 

“I said it was nothing,” Mrs. Baines was saying to her husband and Lieutenant Triggs, both of whom were feeling much better, in tow. The two men had spent last night at the Reynards’ home and were finally returning to Sir Arthur’s. They both looked slightly pale but much better. Then she noticed me.

“What did you do now?” Mrs. Baines said, grimacing. She gestured toward my soiled dress with a flip of her hand. I’d returned from my near fall off the bridge, and instead of making it up the stairs before anyone saw me like this I’d been met in the hall by the returning guests.

Mrs. Baines shook her head and sighed. “Why Sir Arthur keeps you in his employ is beyond me. Here, and don’t get it wet.” Instead of handing William her cloak, Mrs. Baines handed it to me. She turned her attention back to her husband. “John, the man was delirious. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

I handed the cloak to William, who shook his head slightly in disapproval. He didn’t like Mrs. Baines confusing our perspective roles in Sir Arthur’s employ any more than I did.

“But the man was astonishingly crude to you, darling,” John Baines said. “Considering you nursed him back to health.”

“I told you, John. It means nothing, so there’s nothing more to talk about,” Rachel Baines said.

“Nothing? Nothing? At one point in time, I could demand satisfaction over something like this!” her husband exclaimed as his eye began to twitch.

“They’re talking about Henry Starrett,” Lieutenant Triggs whispered to me behind his hand. “Thanks, but I’ve got this, Finch,” he said to William as the butler tried to take the overnight bag Mrs. Triggs had sent over to her husband last night.

The exchange between the arguing couple became more heated.

“That’s enough, John! I’m the wronged party here and I say leave it alone.” Mrs. Baines stomped into the parlor.

“I will not!” her husband shouted, following after her.

“Seems Henry Starrett has recovered enough to make lewd advances toward Mrs. Baines,” Morgan Triggs explained. “Scoundrel touched her inappropriately, though as a gentleman I won’t say where, and he tried to kiss her . . . twice. Lucky John arrived when he did.”

“My,” I said, chuckling weakly, trying to hide my astonishment and my pain, “Captain Starrett must be recovering.”

“And as you can see,” Morgan Triggs said, “John Baines is none too happy about it.”

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Lieutenant,” I said.

“Me too,” he said, smiling. “I have to admit I felt so miserable I thought it was the war and I was back in Cahaba again. Is my wife around?” he said, looking through the parlor’s open door.

“I wouldn’t know. I arrived only a moment ago myself.” He nodded, his eyes taking in my soiled attire, and then leaned in to conspire again.

“By the way, why do you look like you’ve been dragged behind a sleigh through the slush and the snow?” I knew I looked unpresentable, but did I look that bad? No wonder Mrs. Baines had treated me with such disdain. “Who needed rescuing today?” He chuckled.

“It’s a long story,” I said, not appreciating his jest. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must change.”

 

After changing my clothes, gratefully being able to loosen my corset, and having a quick cup of coffee with Mrs. Monday, I spent the remainder of the morning doing what I’d intended to do before the incident at the bridge, go Christmas shopping. Sir Arthur had handed me a list yesterday that his wife, Philippa, had sent detailing Christmas presents he was to give on her behalf to the staff and Sir Arthur’s houseguests. Tactfully, my name wasn’t on the list.

Upon my return from shopping, loaded with packages and barely able to stand up straight from the pain in my ribs, I had trouble opening the back door. I fumbled with the knob for the second time and the top package, an assortment of hair ribbons I’d purchased to give to Ida for all the early morning fires she had lit for me, had slipped from my arms into the snow when the door opened from the inside.

“Walter!”

In my surprise, I nearly dropped everything else. Dr. Walter Grice, his eyes sparkling in the glow of the kitchen fire, stood on the kitchen threshold, holding the door open. In a finely pressed tailored wool suit and silk four-in-hand tie, he was the perfect gentleman.

My first impulse was to assume the worst. “What’s happened?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“From the look of you, absolutely nothing,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. He stooped over, retrieved the present from the snow, and took several other packages from my arms. I was instantly flooded with emotions: astonishment, joy, relief? He held the door open and we both came into the welcoming warmth of the kitchen.

“Then why?” I said, not needing the answer. He was here. What else mattered?

“Because you were dangerously ill. Or so I was made to believe.” It wasn’t the answer I expected or wanted to hear. I wished I hadn’t asked. “Sir Arthur telegraphed Miss Lizzie, who in turn telegraphed me. I took the first train out of St. Louis.”

“You’ve been on a train for almost two days? You must be exhausted. And as you can see, I’m fine.” I didn’t mention my ribs.

“I’m relieved to find you well.”

“But your long journey was all for nothing,” I said.

Walter took my hand and kissed it. “No, not for nothing.”

“Well, who’s this in my kitchen?” Mrs. Monday said, kindly announcing her arrival. I instinctually pulled my hand away and took a step back. She carried a tray of colorful flower corsages.

“Hello,” Walter said, a grin still on his face.

“Mrs. Monday, this is Dr. Walter Grice, my . . .” I hesitated, not knowing what to call him.

“I’m Miss Davish’s friend from Arkansas,” Walter said. “Please to meet you, Mrs. Monday.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Grice. Any friend of Hattie’s is certainly welcome anytime in my kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Walter said.

“In town for the entertainment?” Mrs. Monday asked. Walter looked at me inquiringly. I shrugged. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“What entertainment?” I asked.

“Why, the annual Christmas entertainment at Turner Hall, of course,” Mrs. Monday said. “It’s one of the biggest events of the year. Granted Reverend Hart insists on giving his annual dramatic reading, but if you plan it right you can skip that and arrive in time for the children’s play. Then the high school choir performs their annual concert of Christmas hymns and carols. And supper will be good this year since Bertha Williams and I planned the menu. You’ll love the currant and cinnamon tea cakes, Hattie.” Walter smirked at me. He knew of my penchant for cake. “And don’t forget the dancing.” Mrs. Monday closed her eyes and swayed back and forth for a moment. “Everyone’s welcome.”

“Sounds very . . . entertaining,” Walter said with a smirk.

“That’s why it’s called an ‘entertainment,’ ” Mrs. Monday said, not realizing Walter was trying to jest.

“When is it?” I asked.

“It’s tonight.”

Tonight?
I thought. I wasn’t up to another social engagement. I touched my aching ribs. And I’d never be able to dance. How would I explain it? Walter eyed me suspiciously.

“Tonight? I’d be delighted,” Walter said, “provided Miss Davish will be there.”

“Of course, she’ll be there,” Mrs. Monday said. “The whole town will be there.” I unconsciously touched my ribs again.

“You are all right, aren’t you, Miss Davish?” Walter said. I smiled, trying to deflect his professional attention from me. Mrs. Monday instead did it for me.

“By the way, Mr. Reynard sent these over,” Mrs. Monday said as she placed the corsages in a bowl of water. “He provided these fancy ones for you, Mrs. Baines, and Mrs. Triggs to wear tonight. The simple white rose boutonnieres are for the gentlemen.” It was obvious by the arrangement and fragrance that the flowers had come fresh from Frederick Reynard’s greenhouse.

“For me too?” I said, surprised to be included due not only to my social status but also for the strange way he’d behaved toward me yesterday. “They’re beautiful.” Accented by ivy, rosebuds, and tiny yellow celandine flowers, each had a different flower as its centerpiece: a white lily for Mrs. Triggs, magenta orchids for Mrs. Baines, and a pink camellia for me.

“Like I said, it’s quite the event,” Mrs. Monday said.

“But isn’t Lieutenant Triggs allergic to flowers?” I asked. We had strict instructions to not put any Christmas bouquets in the Triggses’ room.

“That’s right. I guess you’re in luck, Dr. Grice,” Mrs. Monday said, handing Walter the extra boutonniere.

“Why, thank you. Who’s Mr. Reynard?” Walter asked, pinning it to his jacket.

“The grandson-in-law of one of Sir Arthur’s research subjects,” I explained.

“More like the father of the little girl whose life Hattie saved,” Mrs. Monday said. Walter looked at me and raised his eyebrows in question.