P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“Alice,” Eleanor interrupted firmly, glowering at her husband. “Please show Mrs. Longren into the parlor, where she can await the arrival of our other guests.”

Canby shot Hattie a rueful glance but remained silent. Hattie gave him a small smile of apology before turning away. Evidently her own contretemps with Eleanor were indicative of the manner in which she also treated her family members.

Hattie was shown into a lushly furnished parlor graced with a high ceiling decorated by stencils and elaborate murals. Because she was the first to arrive, she had a moment alone to collect her thoughts. She’d probably committed some small slight of etiquette, showing up exactly on time, but her nerves hadn’t given her a choice. She wanted the hours until she could slip away gone , the evening over . Concentrating on breathing deeply and evenly, she took in her surroundings.

Tall windows adorned with allegorical corner carvings of lions, doves, and ferns looked onto formal gardens. Groupings of velvet-upholstered, baroque-style furniture crowded the room, and on the farthest wall stood the largest music organ she’d ever seen in a private home. No doubt Eleanor had her own personal organist who played hymns each Sunday for the family.

Unable to remain still, Hattie paced around the ornate room, noting it contained no fireplace. Eleanor’s pronouncement to the world, Hattie suspected, that she could afford central heating and therefore no longer saw the need for wood fires. Stopping at a window, Hattie gazed out, trying to calm the pounding of her heart, which sounded unnaturally loud to her own ears. It wouldn’t do to faint, she silently chastised herself.

“Alexander commissioned the house’s interior finish work by his ships’ carpenters, as you know.” The deep voice came from behind her, chilling her.

She swallowed and turned from her view of Eleanor’s immaculate gardens. Michael Seavey stood inside the door of the parlor, elegant in his charcoal gray dress jacket and kid gloves, his pale eyes watching her the way a powerful cat watches its prey.

Think of Charlotte , she reminded herself, only of Charlotte . All that mattered was that he not learn of her plan for later that evening.

“It’s said that the design of the supporting structure for the hall staircase remains a secret even to this day,” he added, smiling slightly. “And Eleanor does love her secrets.”

“Stay away from me.” Hattie kept her voice low.

He strode across the room to stand before her, his demeanor too familiar by half. She held her ground. The gesture did not appear to be lost on him. He smiled. “I do greatly admire your spirit, my dear.”

She took a deliberate step backward, allowing him to see the revulsion she felt. An indefinable emotion flickered in his eyes, gone in an instant, then his expression turned neutral. He made a production of removing his gloves and lighting a cigar.

“I’m told we are to be entertained by the great Scott Joplin this evening,” he said lightly, obviously enjoying the acrid fragrance of the smoke.

“I doubt I’ll find Joplin’s music relaxing.”

“On that we agree.” He looked amused, clearly choosing to misinterpret her remark. “The jarring melodies that enthrall Antonín Dvořák elude me. Rumor is that the composer might use their essence in his New World symphony, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes, though I’m surprised you took note. I don’t see you as a man of refinement.”

If her affront bothered him, he didn’t show it. He puffed on the cigar, then sighed. “I feel the need to impress upon you once again that I can help you, Hattie, if only you’ll allow me.”

“In return for the surrender of everything I hold dear, no doubt,” she replied bitterly.

He leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. “Say the word, and Charlotte is returned to you, unharmed.”

She remained silent. In the hallway, more guests had arrived, and she could hear Greeley’s booming voice, causing her stomach to knot even harder.

“Men have base instincts, Hattie,” Seavey murmured. “Ones that Charles may have chosen to shield you from during your brief marriage. And my men … well.” He spread his hands. “I can’t predict, nor can I control how long they will wait before acting upon those … instincts.”

“You bastard.”

He stepped closer, so close she feared she’d gag. “I’ve proposed a lucrative business alliance, one that will make you a rich woman overnight. And I can guarantee you’d enjoy my touch.”

“I don’t want your money. Or your hands on me.”

“Yes, I’ve come to that lamentable conclusion.” He straightened away from her. “You have the rest of the evening to decide. After that, it’s out of my control.”

She kept her tone cold, though fine tremors ran the length of her spine. “Do not approach me again, Mr. Seavey, or conventions be damned—I will scream this house down. And I will tell everyone what you’ve done to Charlotte. Do you understand?”

He sighed, inclining his head. “More than you do, my dear.”

* * *

SHE thought dinner would never end.

As poor luck would have it, she’d been seated across from Seavey, which gave him an excellent vantage point from which to observe her barely disguised terror. Mayor Payton, jovial to the point that she wanted to scream, had been seated next to her. When she’d seen the name cards placed among the glittering lead crystal and china on the dinner table, determining the seating arrangement as Eleanor decreed, it had been all Hattie could do not to snatch them up and rearrange them.

She could be thankful for one small bit of serendipity, though—Chief Greeley had been seated to Eleanor’s right at the far end of the table, well away from her. To that end, he was forced to limit his treatment of her to icy, rage-filled stares. Hattie had no doubt that had she been forced to remain in close quarters with him for the duration of the six-course meal, they’d have come to blows.

As it was, she was forced to endure Payton’s inane chatter and Seavey’s cat-and-mouse barbs, all the while willing herself not to throw up the rich food. The butler oversaw the serving of each course—Quilcene oysters on the half shell, mock turtle soup, filet of beef in morel mushroom sauce, escarole salad, salmon in dill sauce.

At last, waiters removed the tablecloth, providing finger bowls before the serving of dessert. Hattie dipped trembling hands in the lemon-scented water, wiping her fingers on a paper doily. She’d made it this far; surely she could survive floating island with fresh raspberry ice.

At Eleanor’s signal, they rose en masse to retire to the music room for the evening’s entertainment. Hattie made certain she positioned herself close to the doors leading onto the patio, opened to allow a small amount of fresh air into the room, which was a crush of warm bodies sated on heavy food and strong spirits.

As discreetly as possible, she checked the time on her pocket watch. A few moments before midnight.

Scott Joplin appeared beside the grand piano, formally dressed in a black suit and vest, snowy white shirt, and silk tie, bowing to the adoring crowd. Seating himself, he paused for a moment, eyes closed and hands suspended over the ivory keys, then launched into his ragtime songs.

After one last glance around the room to ensure Seavey and Greeley stood some distance away, Hattie quietly slipped out the French doors, escaping into the night.

Chapter 15

JORDAN swore, slamming Hattie’s diary shut and tossing it onto the bed. It simply stopped , and at the worst possible moment. Of course, it probably ended in that place because Hattie had been murdered shortly thereafter, but to Jordan’s way of thinking, that was no excuse. She refused to be left hanging. It wasn’t as if she could just snuggle down and drop off to sleep without knowing whether Hattie and Mona had succeeded in freeing Charlotte.