The Widow's Secret (14 page)

M
oments later, Jocelyn was hastily buttoning a narrow pin-striped shirtwaist over her chemise when Katya appeared in the doorway. She thrust out her note, her eyes solemn.

I do not want you in danger. I do not want Mr. MacKenzie in danger. I do not know what to do. But I pray.

The simple words scattered like a shotgun blast the flock of ravens picking at her soul. For years Jocelyn had fought the habit of self-denigration, born from years of marriage to a man who could never love her. At last, she faced the dismal likelihood that Chadwick himself had been involved with the counterfeiting network. Perhaps the money he had bequeathed to her was as bogus as the marriage.

There was little she could do, other than try to find the truth—and protect the innocent.

“Dear Katya.” She sighed, then wrapped a comforting arm about the girl's waist. “I'm sorry. I never should have brought you to New York. This is not fair to you. You're right, my initial plan was silly. I've been thinking, and I've come up with something you can do that will be far more helpful to me, but also keeps you from danger.” Surely the prayers of
this pure-hearted girl would fly straight to the Lord's ear. Surely He would protect Katya, as well as Micah, a devout believer struggling to rid the country of evildoers.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Prepare my bed-chamber as you normally do, lay out my nightgown and bed robe. Then prepare a hot bath—very hot! Add my gardenia bath oil, so that the scent fills the air. If I come racing up the stairs, and shortly thereafter someone knocks on the door, you can say truthfully that I'm taking a bath. Because, as soon as I shed these clothes, I'll jump into the tub. The gardenia odor adds credibility. That means,” she added with a half smile, “the person is more likely to assume I really have been taking a bath instead of roaming the house, because even though they don't see me, they can smell my favorite scent.”

Katya still looked doubtful. Struggling against desperation, Jocelyn finished, “I don't know how long I'll be gone. If I know you've done what I ask, I can better concentrate, which means I might find the proof we need a lot faster.”

Reluctantly, Katya nodded, then without so much as a two-word scribble, she headed for the bathroom.

Even to Jocelyn the plan sounded illogical, ill-conceived, ill-timed. Well, if she'd had more than an hour to prepare, she could have devised a better one.

If her heart didn't ache, if her mind weren't so conflicted, if her spirit didn't cringe…

If she had never met Chadwick Bingham at White Sulphur Springs she wouldn't be in this wretched imbroglio at all.

But then she would never have met Micah.
Never known what it felt like to have a man embrace her with so much passion his body trembled. Never known how faith could help a person find her way through devastating loss. Never experienced the incandescent joy of hearing him tell her he loved her, of seeing it in his face.

God? Are you listening? I'm willing to believe in You again, because of Katya, but mostly because of Micah. Please be listening. I love him. I never thought I could love anyone, or that a man like Micah could love a woman like me. Don't take this away from us. Please.

When she realized she'd once again tumbled back through the years, into beggary, her hands closed into tight fists. She dropped down onto the padded bench, then with a low groan wrapped her arms around herself in a symbolic effort to halt the whirlwind sucking her into its deadly maw. She had no right to pray such a prayer. No right to expect dispensation from the natural law of consequences.

The Almighty was
Yahweh,
the great
I Am.
God of the present and the future. But not the past.

Jocelyn remembered with bitter clarity the last time she had sought comfort, and hope, from the Bible. It was the night following Chadwick's funeral, and, come morning, Jocelyn was informed without a shred of compassion that she would be dragged forcibly from the home she and Chadwick had shared if she wasn't out before breakfast. Heartsick and wretched, she opened the small leather-bound Bible her mother had given her, the first time she had opened it in over three years, and turned to the Book of Romans, Chapter 8, its verses bursting with promise.
Neither death, nor life…nor things present, nor things to come…shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ….

She remembered how she pored over the words a score of times. How with each reading, another layer of chill coated her soul like hoarfrost because in all those verses, not once did the apostle Paul mention the past.
God would not change the past.
Through grace, He apparently chose to forget it altogether, so that it wasn't necessary for Him to change it.

Jocelyn, weak, flawed, helpless mortal that she was, could not forget. For the five and a half years of her marriage, she had guarded a corrosive secret, been subjected to public ridicule. For the next five years she had tried to run away, only to discover the futility of trying to hide from one's past.

What kind of future could she offer a man for whom integrity was a way of life?

 

After a time, she became aware that she was curled up inside her closet like a frightened child, instead of a grown woman who had spent a decade spitting in the eye of public opinion.
Coward,
she reproached herself without heat. The enervating episodes, usually triggered by awareness of her own helplessness, came upon her less frequently. She had finally learned they would pass, taking the frightened child with them as her natural stubbornness reasserted itself.

Standing, she inhaled deeply, then finished dressing in a single petticoat beneath a plain gored walking skirt, with its higher hem at the ankle. Instead of shoes or boots, however, she shoved her feet into a pair of evening slippers whose soft soles were more conducive for sneaking about.

After waving to Katya, she eased the bedroom door closed and hurried down the hallway to the wide staircase. Moments later, silent as a feather duster, she turned the ornate handle of the door to Aunt Portia's third-floor office and stepped over the threshold.

Fifteen guilt-riddled minutes later she left the office empty-handed, her nose still twitching from the heavy rose scent that clung in the air, a persistent reminder of her aunt. She had searched the writing desk, tables with drawers, even fluttered the pages of two editions of
Harper's New Monthly
magazine tossed carelessly on a side table. Cracking the safe was out of the question. Portia Brock was shrewd
enough not to leave incriminating evidence lying about for someone like her duplicitous niece-in-law to find.

Besides, though her aunt might be guilty of the sin of narcissism, Jocelyn had never truly suspected Portia Brock of being a criminal.

She fared no better on the main level in the library, nor Uncle Brock's surprisingly messy study, nor the family parlor, nor even in the obsessively neat butler's pantry. Twice she was afraid that despite his rumbling snores, Palmer had spotted her from his post in the main hall's vestibule.

Over three-quarters of an hour had passed.

Dry-mouthed but determined, Jocelyn reluctantly headed back upstairs to the family bedrooms, with some vague idea of searching for another escritoire, hopefully one with incriminating correspondence inside one of its drawers.

However, she was losing the war with her conscience as well as her courage. After all her bluster, all her pronouncements about civic responsibility, she was forced to admit that she did not possess a stern enough constitution to be an undercover operative. On the other hand, perhaps Micah, and the entire Secret Service, were mistaken about the Brocks.

Don't forget Benny Foggarty.

Mouth set, Jocelyn opened the door to Rupert Bingham's suite and marched inside.

Several fruitless moments later, she was a handful of paces from the door when it opened, and the valet froze in startled surprise.

Jocelyn's mind went sheet blank. “I—I wanted to leave Mr. Bingham a personal note,” she stammered at last. “I know he's leaving first thing in the morning. He's been so kind to me…but I discovered I'd accidentally left the note in my bedroom. I was about to return to my room to fetch it.”

“Certainly, madam,” he replied courteously. Gray-haired
and glum as an old hound, the valet showed not even a flicker of curiosity after the first instant. Of course, Jocelyn had learned within a week of her marriage to Chadwick that servants were considered movable pieces of furniture, without voice or feelings. “You may leave it in the secretary.” He pointed an arthritic finger in its direction. “Mr. Bingham never locks it. I'll inform him upon his return, so he won't overlook your note.”

“Thank you, Ames.”

Without batting an eye, the valet proceeded into the room, and went about his duties.

She couldn't do this—her nerves were practically clawing her insides to shreds. If another servant appeared in the oppressive gloom of this silent mansion Jocelyn might disgrace herself by shrieking like a steam kettle.

Micah was depending on her.

If no evidence could be found, he would be forced to take more drastic measures because he would not give up. If she hadn't learned anything else over these past months, she had come to know—and admire—Micah's unswerving dedication to his profession.

I won't let you down, Micah,
she promised him silently, garnering strength from somewhere deep inside her soul, from the dried-up stalks of faith in God, and in herself, a faith she barely remembered. She loved Micah enough not only to leave him, but to complete her part in his mission, regardless of her screeching nerves.

It was almost midnight. Another search constituted a significant risk, but as she passed by her two cousins' suites, resolve slowed her step. On the surface, Julius possessed neither the temperament nor the intellectual capacity required for criminal activity. He collected postage stamps from foreign countries, for heaven's sake.

Virgil, on the other hand…

Jocelyn thrust open the door to Virgil's three-room suite and lunged inside. Dizzily, she swept a wavering glance about the darkened room, then pressed the button which turned on a large floor lamp nearby. In its light, her gaze caught upon a beautiful box of inlaid wood, polished to a bright sheen, sitting on top of a massive chest of drawers. In a woman's boudoir, she would assume it was a jewelry or music box, perhaps even a glove box; in a man's room, however, the shape more resembled…a cash box. An expensive, ornate version of the metal container Jocelyn had seen once in Mr. Hepplewhite's store.

She marched across the room to the chest of drawers, turned on another floor lamp and dashed across to turn off the lamp by the door.

The box was locked. Nearby a small enamel tray was filled with what might be found in a gentleman's pockets—a few coins, a silver toothpick, a receipt from a tobacconist's…several matches. A small brass key.

Incredibly, the key fit the lock to the box.

A surreal numbness drifted over Jocelyn. Like a sleepwalker, she opened the box and peered inside at two neat stacks of crisp bills. One stack of fives, the other tens. She watched her hands rifle through each stack, heard herself softly counting. Watched herself lift out a bill to examine the color of the ink, the texture of the paper. She held the bill up to the light to inspect the lines, as Micah had taught her to do.

The sheer
wickedness
outraged her: no attempt at all had been made to conceal the evidence of his perfidy. She wondered if in fact the box and key had been left out deliberately, because Virgil
expected
her to snoop through his possessions. If so, her position as the reconciled widow was more compromised than Micah's role as her suitor.

Her position no longer mattered.

Though every second increased her danger, she forced herself to focus on what Micah needed her to do. The amount of currency in the box—$500—did not faze her at all. Chadwick had carried almost that much cash to his and Jocelyn's frequent social events; he tossed whatever they didn't spend into an empty cigar box. For her first Christmas as his wife, the Binghams presented Jocelyn with a velvet drawstring bag stuffed full of $250 in bills and a hundred in $10 gold pieces—an entire year's wages for one of their servants.

So much money…

Had all of it been counterfeit, like her marriage?

Humiliation prickled her skin, followed swiftly by rage, roaring through her like fire exploding from a volcano. Each movement deliberate, she selected two bills from the middle of each stack, folded them several times and stuffed them inside her left slipper. Then she closed the lid, relocked the box and returned the key to the precise position in the enamel tray where she had found it. After turning off the light, she calmly walked from the room.

When she reached the stairs she streaked up them as though pursued by a pack of wolves, and burst into her suite with scarcely enough breath to call Katya's name. Dizzy, she pressed her fist over her heart. The heavy scent of gardenia clogged her nose and terror grabbed her throat when Katya failed to appear.
She was too late. Someone, perhaps Benny Foggarty himself, had been lying in wait, he'd snatched Katya and tossed her out the window….

She was halfway across to the windows when Katya appeared in the doorway to her bedroom. Her face was scrubbed, still damp, her hair in a half-finished braid. She mopped her face with the towel draped around her neck as
she approached, quick concern deepening in the dark brown eyes when Jocelyn grabbed her hand.

“I thought…” No. She must not allow her own fears to spill onto Katya. Somehow she managed to smile, released Katya's damp hand, then beckoned for her to follow Jocelyn all the way into the privacy of Jocelyn's closet. “I found the evidence Micah has been searching for. But…” She paused, feeling wretchedly alone, her strength too puny against the weight of everything she needed to do. “I've made so many mistakes,” she whispered, then shoved away the guilt. “Katya, I must see that this evidence reaches Micah's hands, immediately, because there might not be another opportunity for us to slip away.” Without being followed, or forcibly detained.