P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

The housekeeper placed an eggcup before Hattie, then arranged plates of orange wedges and biscuits within easy reach.

“Thank you, Sara.” Though food held no appeal, she managed a smile. Since Charles’s death, Sara had made it her personal duty to look after Hattie and Charlotte.

The stout housekeeper frowned. “You’d best eat—it’s past your normal breakfast time, and you’re looking mighty peaked.”

“It’s just a slight headache. Perhaps you could bring me some of that new powder Eleanor smuggled in from Canada?”

Sara shook her head. “No, ma’am! My friend Alice who works for the Canbys? I set store by what she says, and she told me the smugglers sometimes substitute a much more dangerous drug, or even talcum powder. Why, just this last week, Mrs. Canby sickened from a bad batch. I’ll brew you a cup of willow bark tea, instead.”

“Very well,” Hattie sighed, resigning herself to the bitter taste of the concoction.

The housekeeper stood, arms folded and gazing pointedly at Hattie’s breakfast, leaving only after Hattie picked up her knife.

She sliced off the top of the boiled egg, salting it. But she found she couldn’t stand the smell of it, so she moved it aside and added a small teaspoonful of the black currant jam they’d put up last fall to one of Sara’s fluffy baking powder biscuits. Hattie clearly remembered the outing into the foothills of the Olympic Mountains to gather the precious wild berries—it had been one of the last times Charles had seemed relaxed in her company.

After only one small bite, however, she pushed back from the table, too restless to remain seated. Walking around the table to the matching oak sideboard, she retrieved a tray of small crystal vases and the basket of sweet peas she’d gathered from the garden before breakfast. She arranged the fragrant sprigs among the vases, then set a bouquet by each place setting, hoping the routine task would soothe her frazzled nerves.

Out in the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed nine times, its pendulous ticking unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence. In the back of the house, Hattie could hear Sara talking softly to Tabitha, instructing her to take a tray of tea up to Charlotte. It all seemed so normal, and yet Hattie felt as if everything had changed in some way she had yet to understand.

The events of the night of the fire still plagued her. Had the fire been started as Eleanor had reported? Hattie couldn’t bring herself to believe it. And even if the fire had originated in a house of ill repute, it could’ve been started there with the intent of misleading the authorities. Placing the blame on the prostitutes ran counter to what she’d seen with her own eyes. And many illegal activities were carried out daily on the waterfront, any of which could’ve provided a motive for arson.

But why had Eleanor felt the need to publicly chastise her? Perhaps her mention of corruption had threatened Eleanor in some way. Or maybe Eleanor’s pride had been damaged, and she’d simply wanted a public venue in which to retaliate.

Hattie stopped to consider, then shook her head. Though Eleanor was overly rigid and moralistic, she’d never been petty. No, it seemed far more likely that she had a stronger motive, and that she knew more about the activities on the waterfront than she let on.

As Hattie placed the last of the vases on the table, the image of Frank Lewis’s expression of pity resurfaced. She hugged herself, turning to stare out the dining room window at the dew-laden garden, still untouched by the morning sun.

Though she’d been deeply offended by Lewis’s accusations, he had raised questions in her mind about Charles—about his business and how he had treated people. And those questions were all jumbled together with her memories of her struggle to make their marriage work, of her resultant confusion when nothing she did seemed to get through to him.

Had she known Charles at all? Had she thirsted so much for adventure, as her mother had suggested, that she’d been blind to the kind of person he was? She could only hope she hadn’t been that naïve or self-absorbed, but how could she be certain?

She’d found it puzzling that once they’d recited their vows, Charles had become distant and cold, the antithesis of the handsome, charming man who had courted her so determinedly in Boston. Yet it didn’t necessarily follow that acting aloof or abrupt with her meant he would’ve done what Mona Starr and Frank Lewis claimed. And she could hardly take Lewis’s word as gospel—he’d written the “Red Letters” column that had incited the crew on board Charles’s ship to mutiny.

She worried her lower lip as she mentally reviewed the events of two nights ago. What she needed was proof. She needed to know what kind of man she’d fallen in love with—whether Charles had been honorable, whether she was right to blame herself for having failed in their marriage. She wouldn’t be capable of moving on until she had answers, and that meant taking a closer look at Charles’s activities and business dealings, however distasteful she found the task to be.

She turned from the window to pace the length of the elegantly appointed room. This restlessness within her—her constant chafing against the restrictions of the mourning period and her overwhelming sense of being stifled—simply wouldn’t ease. Was she merely being reckless, as it now appeared she’d been the night of the fire? Or were the questions that swirled through her mind, keeping her sleepless, legitimate?

The front door slammed, jolting her from her thoughts, and Sara entered the dining room carrying a huge package. “For you and the girls, Mrs. Longren,” she said, placing it on the oak sideboard.

Curious, Hattie examined the parcel, which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon. She opened the accompanying white linen envelope and withdrew a card. To replace the dresses you ruined , the scrawled message said, accompanied by Mona’s bold signature at the bottom of the card.

Hattie placed it on the sideboard and unwrapped the package. Bolts of fabric tumbled into her arms—black mousseline de soie silk, blue India silk, forest-green French cashmere—all of the finest quality. Stunned, Hattie set them down and reached out a hand to the back of the closest chair to steady herself. The gift was extravagant … and yet thoughtful. Mona had included the mousseline de soie in deference to her mourning period, the more vibrant colors for the girls.

Charlotte chose that moment to sweep into the room, a carefree vision in her cheerful lemon-yellow muslin gown, her elaborately styled cascade of blond ringlets no doubt the result of Tabitha’s painstaking efforts. The poor girl was probably slumped over the kitchen table, exhausted and useless to Sara for the foreseeable future, Hattie thought, sighing inwardly.

Spying the fabric, Charlotte shrieked and rushed over to run her hands over the mousseline de soie. “It’s as soft as the most expensive muslin,” she breathed. She lifted the bolt of India silk, which was a perfect match for her eyes, and hugged it to her chest. “Oh, Hattie! These will make such beautiful gowns!”

“We’ll have to send Mona a note thanking her.”

“We must invite her to tea!”

“I doubt she would come.” When Charlotte looked confused, she explained gently. “She wouldn’t want to jeopardize our reputations by coming to our home.”

“But that’s not fair!”

“No, it’s not, though we can do little about it.” Hattie reached for the cup of tea Sara had brought her, grimacing at its taste.

Voices floated in from the front hall, and Sara entered, followed by Police Chief Greeley, who hadn’t waited to be formally announced. Tall and imposing in his black wool suit, he bowed from the waist. “Ladies.”