Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (28 page)

Daniel observed a sobering in her, and was glad to see it.

“I understand what you’re saying, Dr. Brookston, and promise to be more careful. Now, is there anything
else
I can do to keep this from happening again?”

“Many people opt for a more . . . sedate lifestyle.” A shy smile crept over his face. “But I suspect you would hardly ascribe to that, ma’am. There
are
stronger medications available, such as opium and morphine, that have been used with limited success in cases such as yours, but . . .” He shook his head. “I’m cautious in prescribing those due to adverse secondary effects that accompany their prolonged use. A person can become dependent upon them, and there’s reason to believe that when taken over time, they can actually exacerbate the problem.”

Daniel was familiar with both of these drugs. Physicians on the battlefield had administered morphine liberally, much to a wounded soldier’s appreciation. But the doc was right, overuse exacted a severe price. And the cost still haunted Daniel.

Dr. Brookston reached for a colorful metal tin on the cabinet shelf behind him. “In lieu of those drugs, Miss Westbrook, I’d recommend a tea that has been known to provide comfort in these cases.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I’m already familiar with the teas and use them liberally.” She reached for her reticule and withdrew some coins. She laid them on the table. “But I appreciate your recommendations, and your services.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. And hopefully I won’t see you again for a couple of weeks. Come back then, and I’ll remove the sutures. One final thing before you go, and I realize I’m swimming against the current in making this petition, ma’am.”

Sensing what was coming, Daniel gestured toward the door. “I’ll wait outside.” Coat in hand, he closed the door, but the open window prevented the privacy he halfheartedly sought to give. Beau hopped up from where he’d been lying and came to stand beside him.

“Even before I became a physician, I never ascribed to the use of restrictive feminine garments . . .” Daniel imagined the drop in Elizabeth’s jaw. “And I would highly encourage you to consider eliminating that unnecessary garment from your daily assemblage.”

Silence. Then a more muted exchange he couldn’t make out.

Trying to muster as innocent an appearance as he could, Daniel met her at the door and assisted her down the front stairs.

She wouldn’t look at him.

As he walked her to the boardinghouse, he thought twice about offering his arm. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it had been so long since he’d attempted the gentlemanly gesture. But when he offered, she accepted and tucked her left hand into the crook of his arm, and the pull of time tugged hard, as did the remnant of his past life. A life of gentility and innocence he’d thought gone forever.

Their steps found a rhythm on the planked walkway. She was unusually quiet, which he attributed to fatigue.

McPherson had told him in the hallway outside her room that he was convinced whoever had broken into her room had a purpose other than just looking for money, and after witnessing the extent of the damage, Daniel agreed. Her camera hadn’t been merely broken beyond use. It had been demolished past recognition.

His overriding concern was similar to one McPherson held—whoever did this had gained some kind of pleasure from the act. Either that or was sending Elizabeth Westbrook a strong message. Perhaps both.

Today was the most he and McPherson had spoken in months. Since last fall, when Thomas Boyd had died.

They got to the corner and Elizabeth paused, still not looking at him. “
You
cut off my corset?”

Unprepared for the question but not altogether surprised, Daniel waited until a man and woman had passed before answering. He’d heard embarrassment in her voice rather than anger. “Yes, ma’am, I did. You weren’t breathing, and what I’d already tried . . . wasn’t working. The doc—”

“What you’d already tried?”

He nodded and let his gaze slip to her mouth. Recognition slowly dawned in her expression. She touched her lips in a way he might have considered flirtatious had he not known her better. Yet the effect on him was the same.

“But that didn’t work?”

“No, ma’am.” Not in the way she meant. He smiled in hopes of easing her discomfort. “So the doc told me to cut off your corset, and I did.”

In the glow of the coal-burning streetlamp, her struggle was evident, as was her fatigue. She pressed her lips together. “Was my . . . Did you . . .”

No matter that she couldn’t get the words out, Daniel knew what she was asking. “It was just me and the doc, Elizabeth. Your modesty and decency weren’t compromised in any way.”

She smoothed a hand over the buttons of her coat. “So . . . you and I . . .” She gestured between them. “We’re . . . all right, then.”

He liked this side of her—very much—but was torn between not being completely honest and coming off as some mannerless rogue. He decided to try and split the difference. “You and I are just fine, Elizabeth.”

She exhaled, obviously relieved.

“But may I say that you are one . . . beautiful . . . woman.”

25

D
aniel tried the doorknob, then held out his hand. “May I have your key?”

Wordless, Elizabeth retrieved it from her reticule and handed it to him, still thinking about what he’d said.
“You are one beautiful woman.”
She knew she wasn’t all that pretty, but she liked that he thought she was.

After two attempts, the latch clicked and Daniel pushed the door open. “Stay here.” His soft command brooked no room for argument, not that she would have given any. She still wasn’t eager to return and, though exhausted, didn’t think she would sleep a wink.

She stood outside, Beau sitting beside her, while Daniel lit the lamp and checked the windows, then peered beneath the bed, and—from the telling creak—looked inside the chifforobe.

“Everything’s in order. Or mostly so.”

She stepped inside, surprised at the cleanliness of the room. But like a glass camera plate with an image developed into it, the image of what the room had looked like in its disheveled state was burned into her memory and made it difficult to see it any other way.

Beau sniffed at several places on the floorboards and sneezed.

A silver tea service adorned the desk and—
bless that Miss Ruby
—the pot was warm to the touch. Elizabeth poured herself a cup.

“If that’s tea, you might consider foregoing it. You’ll sleep better tonight.”

Her back to him, Elizabeth opened the desk drawer, relieved to see the bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup still there, and added a portion of its contents to the china cup. “On the contrary. This is an herbal tea my physician prescribed for my lungs and that you heard Dr. Brookston recommend this evening. Miss Ruby delivers a pot every morning and evening, per our arrangement.” She stirred and sipped, closing her eyes as the warm liquid burned its way down. Its bitter taste was a deceitful precursor to a promised calm.

Daniel stared from across the room. “Are you having trouble breathing right now?”

She shook her head, finishing that cup and preparing a second.

“And I’m determined not to. Would you like some? I can get another cup.”

“No . . . thank you.”

She looked around the room, trying to convince herself she could stay. And failing. “I can’t be in this room, Daniel.”

“We can leave for a while. Go for a walk and let it air out some more if—”

“No, I mean I can’t stay here anymore.”

He considered her from across the room. “All right, then, we’ll find you another place to stay. Maybe Miss Ruby has another room. I’ll go ask in a minute. I know the hotel’s full, because I already checked there.”

Elizabeth nodded and ran a hand over the books on the shelf, mentally counting the volumes as she went, in case any were missing. They were all there.

“Miss Westbrook?”

Turning, she saw who was peering through the partially open door and felt the tea churn in her stomach. What timing.

“Mr. Turner . . .”

She acknowledged the illustrious
Timber Ridge Reporter
’s editor, then shot Daniel a glance. Daniel did a quick back step behind the chifforobe, his hand motions clearly communicating that he preferred to remain invisible. Considering the occupation of their visitor and his eagerness to uncover stories, she was inclined to agree. She didn’t need Turner writing anything about her entertaining some late-night visitor. . . .

“Good evening, ma’am. I was hoping to find you in, though I’m sorry to be calling at so late an hour. I heard you’ve had a pretty hard day.”

Elizabeth stepped closer to the door, aware of Beau’s watchfulness and praying he wouldn’t follow her. “It’s had its challenges, and I’m glad it’s almost over.” She guessed why Turner had come to visit and hoped he would take her hint.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Daniel pressed back against the wall, his expression comical. He motioned for Beau to move closer to him, and the dog obeyed but with some hesitation.

Turner tipped his bowler—sporting a different feather in the rim, if her memory served. Quite the dashing reporter. “When I heard about what happened, I tried to get over sooner, but duties at the
Reporter
kept me confined overlong this evening.” He gestured at her hand, frowning. “Were you in some sort of struggle? Was an assailant involved?”

She lifted her bandaged hand. “No, no, there was no struggle, and no assailant. I cut my hand on a piece of glass. It happened afterward. All very boring.”

“Ahh . . .” He proceeded to pull out a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. “I’m sure you’re still in shock, but I’d like to ask you some brief questions, if that’d be all right.”

“Actually, I—”

“Do you have any idea who might have targeted you in this way, Miss Westbrook? Or why?” He waited, expression expectant, pencil poised.

Elizabeth studied him, and a single niggling thought begged answer—was her own inquisitive nature ever perceived this way by people? She identified with his eagerness for a story, and shared it. But his abrasive manner . . .

“I’m more than open to speaking with you, Mr. Turner. But it’s rather late, and as we’ve both said, I’ve had a very long day. I’m certain you’ll under—”

“I know, and I apologize again for that, Miss Westbrook. But I’m publishing a special edition of the newspaper tomorrow and would like to get your version of what happened. I’ve already spoken with the deputy—the one who supervised the cleaning of your room. He gave me his side of things, but I’d appreciate the chance to get my facts straight before we go to press in the morning.” He gave her a smile that said he knew he was being forward—just like Wendell Goldberg—and that he hoped she would be forgiving.

She didn’t know which bothered her more—the fact that this . . . violation she’d endured would be splashed in black-and-white all over the
Reporter
for everyone in Timber Ridge to read over breakfast, or that she recognized Turner’s pressure tactics as ones she had used herself on occasion.

“This won’t take long, ma’am.”

She acquiesced, familiar with that line too, and laid aside her teacup. She directed him to a bench in the hallway, glad Daniel was nearby and especially glad Turner didn’t know it. “I’d feel more comfortable meeting out here, if you don’t mind.” She left the door ajar.

“Certainly, Miss Westbrook. It still smells a bit strong in there. The deputy told me it was the chemicals you use in your work.”

“Yes, all of the bottles were broken.”

As soon as she’d sat down, she heard a faint thumping coming from inside the room. When she realized what it was, she cleared her throat. Twice. The thumping stopped. Turner didn’t seem to notice.

“If you don’t mind, before we discuss the crime that took place here, I’d like to ask a few questions about this hobby of yours. Give readers a glimpse of the woman behind the camera.”

Elizabeth smiled at the overly dramatic flair in his voice—a clear attempt to ingratiate himself with the interviewee. She’d done that too, and now cringed, remembering. “That will be fine.”

“Oh, and before I forget—you don’t happen to have a photograph of yourself taken alongside your camera, do you? That would be a wonderful accompaniment to go with the—”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.” She smiled to soften the interruption.

“Well, I guess any photograph of you would do, then. Whatever you’d like to give me.”

“Again, Mr. Turner, I’m sorry. But I don’t have any photographs of myself available.”

“None?” He seemed surprised, then gave a small chuckle. “That’s sort of like a cook who doesn’t eat her own food, isn’t it, Miss Westbrook?”

She didn’t care for his tone, or this particular topic. “I’ll be happy to answer a few questions, unless you’d rather—”

“Very well.” He looked slightly disheartened. “Tell me, how did such a . . .
mature
woman like yourself take up the hobby of photography and decide to move out west?”

Mature
woman? The phrase was jarring, like a note sung off-key in full voice. Her thoughts went to Daniel, sequestered in her room, listening to everything they said. No doubt he was enjoying this. It wasn’t the first time she’d been described in that manner, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In fact, she’d heard it stated in far less complimentary terms. She hadn’t been much past the age of eighteen when it first began. For years she’d told herself it didn’t bother her, and most days it truly didn’t—not anymore.

She pasted on a smile, knowing how to guide an interview. She only hoped Turner would take notes on
that.

“My love for photography, Mr. Turner, grew out of my love for science and nature. In the fall of 1861, in New York City, I met a Mr. Mathew Brady when he was photographing the late President Lincoln. I had the good fortune of assisting him in that session, and that’s when I realized that I had a strong affinity for . . .”

Over the next fifteen minutes, no matter what question Turner posed, she responded with information
she
chose to give. Finally, she rose, signaling the interview was concluded.