Words Spoken True (11 page)

“There could be truth to that.” A smile played around Adriane’s lips as she raised her eyes back to Grace’s face.

“You would have learned without me, just not so quickly or so well.” Grace laughed a little as she fetched the teapot from the small stove to refill their cups.

The kitchen was tiny with hardly room for the one cabinet, the stove, and the wobbly table and chairs. Yet it was in this very room that Adriane had first glimpsed the vastness of the world as she learned the most amazing things from an even more amazing teacher. Freedom had sat beside her at this small table and made her believe she could do anything she wanted. Now she yearned to recapture that exhilarating feeling, but she feared it was gone forever.

They drank their tea in silence for a moment before Grace finally said, “You are going to have to tell me about it, Adriane. And I fear the fact that you do not want to bodes ill.”

“Not at all.” Adriane pulled forth one of her practiced smiles. “Stanley and I are to be married on September 15th, I think it is. It’s to be quite the event. Lucilla has her woman, Nora, already at work on my dress. She guarantees I’ll look beautiful.” Adriane puffed her hair and struck a pose.

“You’re beautiful right now in your everyday working dress.”

“You only think that because you love me.” Adriane looked down at her plain brown dress.

“If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Garrett.”

Adriane kept her eyes away from Grace’s. “I doubt he’d agree,” she said before quickly hurrying on to talk of Stan. “Anyway, as you know, Stan has been escorting me to socials and various events for some time now. It was just a natural progression of events for us to decide to marry.”

“A convenience.” Grace studied her cup, fingering the handle a moment before asking, “Is that what you’re saying?”

“You could say that, I suppose.” Adriane glanced at Grace and quickly away. “I have to consider my future now that Father is marrying. He and Lucilla plan to marry in October, you know, but Lucilla seems more excited about my wedding than her own. She insists I need an armoire full of new dresses, and not only does she have poor Nora working double time, but she somehow convinced Father to part with the money for all the fabric.”

Grace ignored Adriane’s prattle about dresses. “What kind of future do you expect to have with Stanley Jimson?”

While Grace’s voice stayed calm, almost gentle, Adriane began to feel as if she were a girl again trying to pass one of Grace’s tests of her knowledge of history or art. She wanted to ignore this question, pretend she had not heard it, but Grace would demand an answer. Finally Adriane forced herself to say, “A very secure one, I’m sure.” The word “secure” tore through her, and for a moment she thought she might cry.

“Security is a very nice thing to have.” Grace’s eyes traveled around the small kitchen. “That’s what I always feel when I come home to this dear little house. Secure and safe. It was all my Aaron left me when he died, you know.”

“I know.” Adriane had heard every story Grace could tell about her beloved husband, Aaron Compton, a dozen times, but she hoped now that Grace would want to tell her some of them again. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep smiling while they spoke of her upcoming marriage to Stanley.

But Grace’s tests had never been easy, and Adriane realized this one would not be either as Grace went on. “Still, I couldn’t stay here forever making my silly hats, not doing anything meaningful, and you won’t be able to either.”

“It’s certainly true I don’t want to make hats.” Adriane forced out a laugh in an attempt to lighten the moment.

Grace didn’t smile as she pinned Adriane with her bright eyes. “Do you love him, Adriane?”

Adriane looked away from Grace down at her cup, as if she expected to find an answer for her friend in the tea leaves floating on the bottom. After a moment, she moistened her lips and said, “Father says romance has little to do with real marriages. That it is just the stuff of silly women’s novels.”

“Does he indeed?” Grace didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her words. “He’s certainly one to comment on what makes a happy marriage with his fine record.”

“Grace, please don’t start on Father. You know he only married Henrietta so that I would have a mother to care for me.”

“And we know how wonderfully that turned out, don’t we?” Grace didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she commanded, “Look at me and stop pretending, Adriane.”

Adriane obeyed the teacher’s voice. Her practiced smile slid off her face. “I may not be happy now about it all, Grace, but I will learn to be happy.”

“Oh, Adriane, think.” Grace poked her own temple with a finger before she stood up and began circling the tiny kitchen as she lectured Adriane. “You cannot marry this man. I don’t know why you think you should. I’m sure security has little to do with it, and in any case you’d have precious little mental security in that family. Money is not important, has never been important. You may not want to make hats. I don’t want to make hats, but making hats is how I survive.”

Adriane smiled. “You know I can’t sew and that the few times I’ve tried my fingers were all thumbs. Even if I did attempt to make hats, no one would buy them. And I can’t teach music. You never even tried to teach me to play because you said my aptitudes lay elsewhere.”

“And they did. They do.” Grace paused in front of Adriane to look down at her. “You cannot marry Stanley Jimson.” She spoke the words one at a time and very distinctly.

Adriane stared up at her old teacher and friend and steeled herself to her arguments. Grace wasn’t telling her anything Adriane had not already told herself time after time late at night when sleep eluded her, but morning had always brought the truth. “I must,” Adriane said.

“You must not.” Grace stressed her words by banging her hands down in the air. “It would be better for you to become an honest prostitute than to prostitute yourself for social position.”

Adriane had long ago stopped being shocked by the things Grace said. Now she only smiled a little as she said, “You know I cannot become a prostitute.”

“Of course you can’t.” Grace waved her hand dismissing the idea. “I only said that to make you think.”

“I have thought, Grace. And I am going to marry Stanley Jimson in September. I have no choice.”

“No choice?” The words seemed to almost choke Grace. She took a deep breath before she went on in a softer voice. “There’s always a choice, Adriane. One only has to search for it.”

“Not this time, Grace.”

Grace sat back down and looked at Adriane for a long moment before she spoke again. “Your father has made this choice for you, hasn’t he?”

“He approves of the match.” Adriane picked her words carefully. “He and Stanley’s father have become very close.”

“Coleman Jimson is a scoundrel,” Grace said flatly.

“You think all rich people are scoundrels,” Adriane said with another smile. “Especially slaveholding rich people.”

“As they are. Scoundrels, miscreants, immoral men with no consideration for anything but their own comfort and wealth.”

“Few in this town would agree with you. The Jimsons are very respected, as you know, and Mr. Jimson is running for the state senate in August.”

“God help us all.” Grace rolled her eyes as she threw her hands up in the air. Then she reached across the table to grasp Adriane’s hands. “I’m just going to be here a few weeks to make as many hats as I can and then once they’re sold, I’ll be going back north.” Her eyes burned into Adriane’s. “Come with me. There’s always a need for people who can write well in the cause. You won’t have much, but you won’t starve.”

Tears pushed into Adriane’s eyes as she squeezed Grace’s hands. “Please try to understand, Grace. Father did not desert me when I was born and my mother died. He protected me from Henrietta as much as he could. He’s taken care of me all these years. I must do what he wishes now.”

“He should not wish this upon you.” Grace’s grip on Adrianne’s hand tightened.

“He thinks I can be happy with Stan.”

“And what do you think?”

“Stan has promised to allow me to continue to write. As long as I can do that, I can endure anything.”

“Marriage should not be something to endure but a reason for joy.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Grace?” She pulled her hands free from Grace and sat back. “Don’t you think I’d choose joy and love if I could?”

“I’m not yet convinced that you cannot.”

When Adriane started to say something, Grace waved aside her words and went on. “But I am unfortunately convinced that you believe you cannot. I will pray for you every day, my dear girl. You must pray too. That there will be another way. Promise me that.”

“I am praying. But the only answer I know is to marry Stan.”

“That is not your answer. Keep praying and watching for a better way.” Grace took hold of Adriane’s hands again and gripped them as though she’d never turn loose. “And don’t forget that you always have a place with me if you should need it.”

B
lake Garrett stared at the newspaper articles about the murders spread out across the top of his desk. It had been over two months since Kathleen’s murder, but Blake had the uneasy feeling the river slasher would strike again and soon. Chief Trabue’s claim that the murderer had surely been scared off by the show of strength on the part of the police force was nothing but empty rhetoric.

As Blake’s eyes fell on the chief’s direct quote in a story on the
Tribune
’s front page, he tried not to let thoughts of Adriane disturb his concentration, but he had just as well attempt to stop breathing. She tiptoed around the edge of his mind all day, every day, ready to explode out into his thoughts at the slightest invitation, and the sight of the
Tribune
masthead was more than invitation enough.

It had been a week since he’d pulled her out from under the rearing horses and met her friend Grace Compton. He’d asked around and found out that while all the society ladies wanted one of Grace’s hats, Grace herself was pitied, scorned, or laughed at in turn, according to who was speaking about her.

The older women recalled how Grace’s family had lost their fortune when Grace was young, but that Grace had had her chances and squandered them by marrying the wrong man. A few of the younger women remembered her fondly as a music teacher. Others collapsed into peals of laughter as they mocked how Miss Grace would spin in a little circle around them at the piano and briskly clap out the time of the melodies.

Blake had planned to ask Adriane about the little woman the next opportunity he had, but Adriane had made sure they had no opportunity to talk the two times he’d seen her since. The last time at a gathering at Mrs. Wigginham’s, he’d planned to lie in wait for her and do whatever necessary to force another conversation, even if it turned into one of their duels. But Adriane, with young Jimson at her side, had quickly circled through the guests before making her exit. They had not skipped Blake. Adriane smiled and greeted him pleasantly enough while sliding her eyes quickly across his face.

Jimson hadn’t bothered to smile at all as he tightened his hold on Adriane’s arm as though he feared she might slip away. Blake wanted to tell him he had reason to fear, for each time Blake saw Adriane with Stanley Jimson, his resolve to do anything necessary to keep their wedding from ever taking place became stronger. Anything.

Still, Blake saw no reason to do something foolhardy this early in the game. There was yet time for circumstances to change. There might even be time to get Adriane to fall in love with him. At the foolish thought, Blake smiled a little and reminded himself he couldn’t even get her to talk to him unless he pulled her out from in front of runaway horses. No matter how he might follow and watch her, such opportunities to rescue her were not apt to often present themselves.

With a sigh, he forced his attention back to the news articles in front of him as he made a list of the murder victims’ names, ages, and dates of their deaths.

Megan Doyle, 18, January 5

Brenda Quinlan, 19, February 15

Kathleen O’Dell, 22, March 21

All Irish, unmarried, and at home in the Irish taverns. All killed by the same man. No one who had seen the bodies could doubt that.

Blake’s eyes caught on Kathleen’s name. She’d always been ready to repeat any bit of gossip or rumor about the murders.

“You’ll remember poor Kathleen when you catch the monster, won’t you, Blake, me lad? It’d be a wonder sure seeing me own name on the front page of a newspaper, especially one as grand as the
Herald
,” she had told him more than once. “Almost as much a wonder as having a handsome lad like you to walk me home.” Then she would flash her eyes at him in invitation.

Blake felt guilty when he couldn’t remember the color of those eyes. He picked up the article in the
Herald
detailing Kathleen’s death. Poor Kathleen. Her name had made more than his paper, but it was a wonder she hadn’t gotten to see. The black words on the papers began running together, and Blake leaned his head in his hands. He had to be missing something.

“Hey, boss,” Joe called to him. “A lady here to see you.”

For one crazy moment Blake’s heart bounded up inside him as he turned, half expecting to see Adriane presenting herself to him for rescue, but instead Grace Compton pushed past Joe to smile at him.

“A woman at any rate, my good sir, and I do hope I’ve not come at a bad time.” Her eyes touched on his cluttered desk.

Blake scrambled to his feet to properly receive her. “No, of course not, madam. Please do have a chair, such as it is.” He moved a pile of papers and dusted off the seat of the chair with his forearm before he presented it for Grace’s use.

“Don’t put yourself to any bother, Mr. Garrett. I assure you I have sat on worse.” She smiled as she sat down, settled her skirts, and allowed her lace shawl to drop off her shoulders. The little woman looked even smaller than Blake remembered as she perched primly in the straight wooden chair and looked over her shoulder at the press in the room behind them. In her lap she carefully held a small package.

“Newspaper offices are such grand places,” she said before Blake could ask the nature of her visit. “I’ve thought so ever since I first visited the
Tribune
offices years ago. I’d dealt with words all my life as a reader, you know, and then a teacher, but I’d never imagined the excitement of churning them out on newsprint.”

“A lot of it is merely hard work.”

“A lot of nearly everything is merely hard work.” Grace’s eyes came back to rest on Blake’s face. “But to give life the proper meaning, we must make sure it’s work that has a purpose.”

“I intend for the
Herald
to be a service to the community.”

“I have no doubt of that, Mr. Garrett.” Again a smile lit up her small, angular face.

“How may I be of service to you this morning, Mrs. Compton?”

“Well, sir, I’ve never been one to wait too long on anyone, so when you didn’t show up on my doorstep for your promised bread and cheese, I brought it to you.” She held out the package. “Actually not bread and cheese, but a few tea cakes. While they cannot compare to Mr. Silverman’s confections down the street, I do promise they won’t break a tooth.”

With a laugh, Blake took the package, tore it open, and pulled out one of the cookies. “Won’t you join me?” He held the package out toward her.

“Oh no, I ate quite more than my share while baking them.”

He chewed slowly, knowing the cookies were not free. He’d read the woman’s pieces in the
Tribune
. Well written, to the point, but totally out of step with the accepted thinking in the city. Most of the city’s finer citizens felt owning slaves a divine right and did not welcome an abolitionist view even in a short letter buried on the back page. As for the rights of women, no one anywhere was giving that cause much credence.

That aside, Blake liked the little woman in front of him and the way she was studying him as intently as he was studying her without showing the least bit of unease. Even more important, he had a feeling she might prove a powerful ally in his fight to keep Adriane out of Stanley Jimson’s clutches. As he swallowed the last of the tea cake, he decided he’d publish whatever she gave him. A few angry readers would be a small price to pay for such an ally.

“That was delicious, Mrs. Compton.” He smiled and leaned across his desk toward her as he asked, “How can I repay your kindness?”

She laughed as she pulled a folded paper out of her reticule. “I thought it would take at least two tea cakes.” She quickly popped up from her chair to hand the article across his desk and then remained standing as he skimmed through it. “It’s not too inflammatory. Just a bit of a treatise in regard to the evils of slavery with the focus on how that institution has bogged down the South.” She came around the desk to peer over his shoulder and point out a couple of lines. “Here we have the convincing argument that all men were guaranteed freedom by our great Constitution.”

“Did you write it, Mrs. Compton?”

“No, no. The author is Mr. Harrison Fremont of the Philadelphia organization for the freedom of the slaves. He’s a very talented lawyer and a trusted friend of the downtrodden.” She reached into her reticule yet again. “I have a letter here stating his desire to have this published in your worthy paper.”

Blake looked at the second letter. “Very well. It will appear in the
Herald
tomorrow if space permits. The next day if space runs short.”

Grace Compton’s face lit up. “Thank you, sir. I could tell you were a forward-thinking gentleman when I first laid eyes on you. Do I dare hope you might have some abolitionist leanings?”

“You might hope so, but it’s not a fight I wish to take on in this city at this time. I prefer to pick fights I might have a chance of winning.” Blake laid the two letters on his desk.

Grace’s eyes followed. Then she quickly stepped closer to peer down at the articles spread across his desk. “These are the stories of those dreadful murders Adriane told me about.” Without asking permission, she picked up his list of the victims and the dates of their deaths. “The same killer?” she asked.

“There’s little doubt of that.”

“Any connections between the girls?”

“Nothing notable other than being poor and Irish.”

“And young.” Grace peered up at him. “Pretty?”

“So their friends say. I only knew Kathleen. She was pleasant enough.” Blake hesitated before he went on. “How can I say this without offending you?”

“My sensibilities are not that easily offended, Mr. Garrett. What you’re trying to say is that poor Kathleen was not adverse to sharing her favors for a price.” Grace raised her eyebrows at him. “True of them all?”

“Perhaps, although Megan’s friends are reluctant to say so.”

“I read in the
Tribune
that Chief Trabue says we no longer have reason to worry.” Grace’s eyes swept over his desk. “Obviously you do not agree.”

“No. I fear the murderer is out there, biding his time and waiting for the proper opportunity to strike again.”

“And what is that opportunity, Mr. Garrett?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be rereading these articles for the hundredth time.”

“Of course not. And at any rate, it’s hard to guess what is in the future.” Grace stared down at the paper in her hand for a long moment. “What you must determine is what opportunity presented itself on these other dates. You need to not only study the papers on the days the bodies were discovered but the news on the days preceding as well. What was going on in the city on those days? Was it storming? Was the moon full? What?”

“It’s not the moon. I checked that,” Blake said.

“It’s doubtful it would be that easy.” Grace placed the paper back on his desk. “Besides, there may not be a pattern, or even if there is, one only the wretched person who did the crimes could possibly determine. Our best hope and prayer is that Chief Trabue is right, and the murderer has been scared away.”

“We can hope so,” Blake said.

“If it can be figured out, you’ll be able to do it.” Grace lightly touched his shoulder before she began gathering her shawl closer about her. Then she smiled and pointed to the article she’d brought in to him. “Your kindness in helping our just and honorable cause will not go unnoticed in the North.”

“Or in the South, I daresay.” Blake stood up. “I’ll see you to the door, madam.”

“Would you be so kind?” she said with another smile. “I don’t want to disturb your work, but as a matter of fact, I do have another favor of a more personal nature I would ask of you, and I wonder if you might not walk out into the sunshine with me for a moment. I’ve always favored a bit of a constitutional to clear the cobwebs out of one’s mind, and perhaps it will help you to think more clearly about these dreadful murders.”

Outside on the street, Grace kept her eyes straight ahead with a small frown wrinkling her brow as she spoke. “I never had children, Mr. Garrett. My husband and I did not worry over that unduly in the first years of our marriage as we put all our efforts into gaining him some recognition for his paintings. My Aaron was a very talented artist. The two of us were much in love and thought the Lord would bless us with children in his own good time. But then war fever swept the city as the reports came in from Texas of the Mexicans invading. Aaron was not a soldier, but he had a brother in Texas and he felt compelled to volunteer to fight.” She peered up at him. “Did you serve in the Mexican War, sir, or were you too young for that conflict?”