To Love and Cherish (9 page)

Mrs. Mifflin looked up at her husband. “Melinda is concerned about some of her friends who remain on the island throughout the year. Perhaps you could telegraph and make certain there haven't been any injuries.”

He nodded. “But a visit to the telegraph office can wait until morning. I'm ready for supper.” He patted his stomach. “Besides, any damage is already done, and whether I inquire now or tomorrow won't make much difference.”

Melinda bit her lip. How could the man be so indifferent to those who might be injured or in need of aid, people charged with keeping his property maintained and safe during the summer months? She tried to recall if she'd ever observed her parents act with such coldness toward those of a lower class. If they had, she couldn't remember, and for that she was thankful.

“Come along, Dorothea. Let's see what the cook has prepared for us. I'm famished.”

Outside the door, Melinda turned in the opposite direction and went down the back stairway into the kitchen. Though she was permitted to use the front stairs, the staff ate in the kitchen, and she wanted to speak to Sally.

Once the meal had been served to Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin, the servants gathered around their own table. After Matthew said a quick prayer, Sally passed a bowl of creamed potatoes. “You got your share of notice today, didn't ya, Melinda?”

Melinda bristled. Sally was never pleased when one of the other servants received attention, and right now Melinda had little patience for the woman's jealousy. “It wasn't my desire to be noticed. I was ordered to play the piano, just like you're ordered to prepare meals.”

“Maybe so, but you did your best to play tunes that would gain ya the most attention. All them trills and such. You didn't fool me. You were hoping those ladies would take notice.”

Melinda wanted to explain that what she'd been playing weren't “tunes” but concertos, but then she'd sound as pompous as Mrs. Mifflin. “I didn't choose the pieces. They were selected by Mrs. Mifflin. If you'd like to ask her, she'll confirm what I've told you.”

“Bah!” Sally waved the serving spoon. “Ain't worth my time to ask.”

Melinda waited until the roast beef and potatoes had been passed around the table. “I'd like to speak to you privately after we finish supper, Sally.” She kept her voice low so that the others wouldn't hear her request.

Sally looked up from her plate. “If you got something to say, you can say it in front of all of us. I got nothing to hide from anyone sittin' round this table.”

Melinda hesitated. She didn't want to embarrass the woman.

Sally leaned in her direction. “Go ahead! Say what you got to say and be done with it.”

“Mrs. Mifflin tells me you've repeated information you gathered from reading my personal mail. I knew you'd told her I was receiving letters from Evan, but I didn't realize you'd continued reading them and passing along the contents.” She frowned at the maid. “In our previous conversation, I was quite clear when I said you should never again open and read my mail.”

A chorus of gasps followed the disclosure, and Sally waved the other servants to silence. “Ain't what you think. I didn't want to do it, but the missus made me. She said she wanted to know what was going on between you and Evan. Said she didn't want to lose you as her lady's maid.”

“She also mentioned that you gave her the information in exchange for extra money.”

Sally's fork clattered onto the china plate. “Is that what she told you? That I've been reading your letters so she'd give me extra money?”

Melinda tipped her head and arched her brows. “That's what she said. And what do you say?”

“I took money from her. But even if she hadn't offered money, I would have done what she told me. I need my job, and if she says to steam open and read your letters, then that's what I had to do.” Sally glared at the other servants. “Don't act like you'd do any different. If you was threatened with losing your job, you'd do the same thing—you just don't want to admit it to Melinda.”

“I'd like to think I would do the right thing, Sally, but sometimes we don't know until we're confronted with a situation.” The other servants resumed eating their meal. Given a choice of reporting on another servant or earning a living, they would choose to continue working, too. There was no denying that in this instance Mrs. Mifflin was far more to blame than Sally.

“Well, I'm hoping you'll forgive me. And I hope Evan and those other folks weren't injured in the storm.” She shoved a forkful of potatoes into her mouth.

“You know about the hurricane?”

Sally swallowed the mouthful of potatoes. “I know the mister is going to send a telegraph in the morning.” She grinned and waved her fork to include the other servants seated at the table.

Melinda forced a feeble smile. There were no secrets in this household—not even one.

The next morning concentration proved near impossible for Melinda. As the lunch hour approached, she watched for any sign of Mr. Mifflin. Occasionally he returned home for the noonday meal. Melinda hoped today would be one of those occasions.

“Do sit down, Melinda. Your pacing makes me nervous.” Mrs. Mifflin waved toward the brocade-covered chair. “Why don't you read to me?”

Melinda was well aware that Mrs. Mifflin's question was actually a command. Instead of sitting, Melinda walked toward the library. She glanced over her shoulder as she neared the door. “Did you have a particular book in mind?”

“You choose. I trust your judgment.”

Melinda considered her volume of
Emma.
She'd had little time to read and would enjoy completing the book, but she couldn't very well begin reading in the middle of the story. Then again, perhaps she could, since Mrs. Mifflin usually fell asleep while she read to her. She grinned at the thought but pushed it aside as she studied the bookshelves. Certainly Mrs. Mifflin wouldn't enjoy listening to any of the history volumes that lined her husband's bookshelves. Melinda traced her finger along the spines, hoping to find something that might capture the woman's interest as well as her own. She rested her hand on a volume of poetry as the front door opened. Her heart jumped in her chest when she heard the sound of Mr. Mifflin's voice.

Though she wanted to run the short distance to the parlor, she willed herself to proceed down the hallway at a normal pace. Still clutching the book, she stopped at the parlor doorway. Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin sat on the divan, their heads close together and their voices low.

When neither acknowledged her presence, she extended the book of poetry. “I located a book I think you'll enjoy, Mrs. Mifflin.” She hesitated for a moment. “I apologize. I didn't mean to interrupt your private conversation.” They startled and turned toward her in unison. Neither said a word; they simply stared at her. She tapped the book with the index finger of her left hand. “You told me to retrieve a book from the library.”

It seemed foolish telling Mrs. Mifflin what she already knew, yet it appeared she needed to be nudged from her silence. The woman stared a moment longer. “Oh yes. I did, didn't I? Well, there isn't time for reading at the moment. Cyrus has returned for the noonday meal.”

“So I see.”

Mr. Mifflin stood and tugged on the hem of the too-small vest that didn't quite cover his protruding belly. “Melinda!” He stood and said her name as though she had just appeared. “I told Dorothea that I wanted to speak to you, and here you are.” He made it sound as though she'd dropped from the ceiling.

“You have word about the storm?” Her fingers tightened around the volume of poetry.

“I sent a telegraph early this morning, and already I've had one in return.” He smiled. “The damage on the mainland was somewhat greater than on the islands, though none of the damage is of a magnitude to cause concern. Mr. Nordegren would be on his annual vacation at this time, so I sent an additional telegraph to Harland Fields, since he takes charge during Mr. Nordegren's absence. I told him that if there was anything they needed, he should contact me. He sent word they're accustomed to these storms, and they'll have the water damage cleaned up in no time.” He swung his hands wide. “So you see, there's no reason for continued worry.”

“I'm surprised you received word so soon, but you've set my mind at ease. I thank you for your kindness—both of you.” Melinda pressed the book to her chest and backed up a few steps. “If you'll excuse me, I'll tend to some matters while the two of you enjoy your lunch.”

Mr. Mifflin's normally pale complexion darkened to a ruddy shade. He fumbled in his vest pocket rather than look at Melinda. “Yes, yes. We'll do that. Come along, Dorothea.”

Mrs. Mifflin grasped her husband's arm. She patted Melinda's arm as they passed by. “You see? I told you Cyrus would take care of this. No need for worry.”

Melinda waited in the hall until the couple made their way toward the dining room. Once they were out of sight, she rushed to the kitchen, where the aroma of fish chowder filled the room. Still clutching the book to her chest, she leaned against one of the worktables and exhaled a huge sigh.

Napkin tucked in his collar, Matthew sat at the table awaiting the noonday meal. “Good news, Melinda?”

She grinned and nodded. “Very good news.”

Sally lifted a tureen of the soup and headed toward the dining room. “Well, wait until we're all in here to tell it.”

Once they'd gathered around the table, she repeated Mr. Mifflin's report. All of them celebrated with her, but it was Sally who grasped her arm before she left the room once they'd finished their meal. “I truly am sorry about what I've done, Melinda. I hope you'll forgive me. If a life on that island with Evan is what you want, then I hope your dream will come true.”

Melinda swallowed the lump in her throat, touched by Sally's apology. The woman seldom apologized for anything, especially her bad behavior. “Thank you, Sally. And you are forgiven, but I do hope you won't read any more of my mail.”

The maid winked. “Since the missus was so willing to let the cat out of the bag, I can tell her you've taken to hiding your mail from me.”

“And you'll be able to honestly speak those words, because that's exactly what I'll do.” Melinda winked in return.

The following morning, Melinda tucked the letter she'd written the previous evening into her pocket. She would wait until Matthew prepared to take Mr. Mifflin to work and ask him to post it on his way home. She could trust Matthew—he didn't count steaming letters open as one of his skills.

At the sound of a tap on her door, she glanced toward the clock, fearing she'd misjudged the time. There was a half hour remaining until time for breakfast. She was unaccustomed to anyone knocking on her door, especially so early in the morning. Opening the door a crack, she peeked out. “Sally! What are you doing up here? You should be cooking breakfast.”

“The other two maids are able to stir a pot of oatmeal and scramble eggs.” Not waiting for an invitation, she pushed her way into the room. “I don't want to be seen by the missus. I got something to tell you.” She closed the door behind her and motioned Melinda to the other side of the room.

Her heart hammered and her chest tightened as she followed Sally across the room. This wasn't going to be good news. She could see it in Sally's eyes. “What is it?”

“I heard the mister and missus talking last night. About the storm down in Georgia. The mister lied to you.”

The room swirled and Melinda grabbed hold of Sally's arm. “No! He wouldn't.” Even as she spoke, she knew Mr. Mifflin would—both of them would. She moved to the side of the bed and sat down. “Tell me exactly what they said.”

Sally dropped down beside her and scooted close. “That storm was a hurricane. He said there was lots of damage in Biscayne, but he didn't know for sure about Bridal Veil because all the telegraph wires are down.”

“What?” Melinda twisted around to look Sally in the eyes. “But he said . . .”

Sally bobbed her head. “We both know what he said to you. But the truth is that he couldn't send or receive any telegrams because the wires are all down.” She glanced toward the door. “He told the missus to be sure and keep any newspapers out of the house because there's been a few articles in the newspaper, and there's sure to be more once the telegraphs are back to working.” Sally grasped Melinda's hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “I'm truly sorry, Melinda, but I figure it's better to know the truth than to be thinking everything is fine and dandy when your Evan might be—”

“Did Mr. Mifflin say if there had been any deaths reported?” She squeezed the maid's hand until she grimaced. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, but please tell me the truth.”

“He said one newspaper reported there had been some deaths in Biscayne, but they didn't have reports from all of the coastal islands.” Sally got to her feet. “I'm sure he's all right, Melinda. You need to keep yourself busy while you wait for word. I'm sure Evan will mail you a letter as soon as he's able. He'll know you're worried about him.”

Melinda knew the maid was correct. Evan would write—if he was able. But what if he'd been injured and needed her? They had pledged their love to each other, and it was only right that she go to him. He'd do the same for her . . . she was certain he would. She jumped up from the bed and paced back and forth. “I need to do more than sit here and keep busy, Sally.”

The maid frowned. “Now look what I've done. You're going to fret and stew. I shouldn't have told you.” She glanced toward the clock. “I got to get back downstairs, but promise me you won't tell the missus I was listening at their door.”

Melinda looked up, her mind in a daze. “What?” She shook her head. “No, I won't tell them it was you, Sally. Thank you for telling me.”

Sally tightened her lips into a tight seam. She turned around when she neared the door. “Don't do anything you'll later regret, Melinda. Think things through before you make any plans.”

“Would you tell Mrs. Mifflin I sent word that I'm not feeling well and won't be down until later this morning?”

Sally nodded. “That will be the truth—you're white as a bedsheet.” She peeked out the door before she slipped into the hallway.

Once the door clicked behind her, Melinda tried to gather her thoughts. Though it was difficult to believe Mr. Mifflin would tell her outright lies, she believed Sally had spoken the truth. After all, Mrs. Mifflin had been clear that she thought letter writing and any possible relationship with Evan should cease.

Surely they realized she would eventually hear of the hurricane and know the truth. How did they plan to explain? More fabrications? She imagined Mr. Mifflin explaining away his deception by saying he'd been telegraphed incorrect information or some other such story. Perhaps they thought she would hear from Evan by the time she learned of the hurricane and her worries would have already vanished—and Mrs. Mifflin wouldn't need to fear losing her lady's maid.

Melinda longed to understand why anyone would do such a thing to another. Would Mrs. Mifflin withhold such information from a friend, or was this form of treatment reserved only for servants? Then again, perhaps they withheld the truth whenever it worked to their advantage. Dwelling on what they had done wouldn't help her. Right now she needed a plan.

She would not remain in a house where people lied in order to control her actions. The very thought sickened her.

“I don't know exactly what to do, Lord, but I know I need to learn the truth.”

Several hours had passed when Sally once again tapped on Melinda's door. “The missus wasn't happy. She had an appointment this morning, and Mary had to help her dress and fix her hair. Poor Mary. She couldn't do anything to suit the missus. The girl came back downstairs in tears. I'm supposed to tell you that you need to be up and about by late this afternoon. There's a party of some sort, and you'll be needed.”

The woman's gaze settled on the clothing Melinda had removed from the wardrobe. “Would you ask Matthew to bring up my old trunk from the storage shed out back? I believe that's where he put it when I moved here.”

Sally's mouth gaped open. “You're leavin'?”

“I must. But I need to accomplish a great deal before Mrs. Mifflin returns. I'm going downstairs to make a telephone call. I need to contact my brother.”

“But you can't give up a good job without the prospects of something else. It's not sensible. Evan hasn't even asked you to marry him.”

Melinda said nothing but fixed Sally with a stare. The woman finally seemed to realize that Melinda's mind was made up.

“Matthew's gone. He's taken the missus to her appointment, but I can ask Timothy, the young fella that helps with the gardening, if you'd like.” Sally shook her head. “I don't think you should use that telephone. The missus says the operators repeat every word they hear. Word travels fast, so if you want to keep your conversation private, you best send a note.” She pointed to the desk. “Write a note. Timothy can take it to your brother after he brings your trunk from the shed.”