A March to Remember (12 page)

“Shut that stupid dog up or I will,” Senator Smith said, pushing Mrs. Smith out of the way to get to his son. “If this gets into the papers—”

“Don't worry, it will,” Harper said, interrupting Senator Smith. He accepted the handkerchief Sir Arthur offered and held it to his cheek.

“We will speak of this later, Harper,” Senator Smith said. “But you . . .” He glared at his son. “If you cost me the election, I'll . . .” He was too enraged to finish. “Get in the wagon.” Chester opened his mouth to object but thought better of it. Without another word, he climbed sullenly to the back of the excursion wagon.

“I must apologize for my son, Sir Arthur,” Mrs. Smith said, her perpetual smile fading. She avoided looking at the journalist. “I do hope your visit to the camp wasn't marred by this.”

“I am offended that my friend was treated so poorly, yes, but that is no reflection on you, dear lady. After you.” Mrs. Smith, carrying her agitated puppy, climbed into the carriage next to her son. Spencer growled quietly until her stroking of his fur calmed him.

“Simeon?” Sir Arthur said, gesturing toward the excursion wagon. Chester glared at the journalist, daring him to join us. “There is room.”

“Thank you, but I'm staying here tonight,” the journalist said. “Want to be there when they march out tomorrow. So I'll say good evening to you ladies.” He tipped his brown crusher and attempted a smile. Instead he winced at the pain of it. “Sir Arthur.”

“Looking forward to your account then, Harper,” Sir Arthur said.

“Which reminds me.” Harper pulled a folded part of a broadsheet newspaper from his vest pocket. “I brought this for you.” He handed it to me.

I unfolded the newsprint, a copy of the
Evening Star
so recently printed, ink came off on my gloves. It read:

I stopped reading and handed it Walter, who had been trying to read over my shoulder.

Oh, no!
Mr. Harper wasn't supposed to mention me, let alone Sir Arthur. I glanced over at Sir Arthur, having last words with Harper before we left.
What will he think when he sees this?

Walter handed the article back. “That's the last time I'd trust him.” I agreed.

But before I could confront him, Simeon Harper sauntered away as the rest of us piled into the wagon without speaking or looking at Chester, who with arms folded tightly against his chest stared unblinking toward the camp. I followed his gaze to where Senator Abbott and Jasper Neely were still talking. Simeon Harper soon joined them. Whether he knew he was at the root of what had happened or not, Senator Abbott, upon noticing that our wagon was moving, smiled broadly and waved.

“He's the devil,” Chester muttered under his breath. Although I didn't know whom he meant, the journalist or the politician, I knew which one I'd choose.

“Shush now,” Mrs. Smith said, as if speaking to her dog. “You're not such an angel yourself.”

As we pulled away, I noticed Madam Fox and Carl Browne join the little group. And then, to my surprise, Billy, the man who had upset Daniel Clayworth, strolled over to the group and was greeted heartily by Carl Browne.

Who is this Billy? I wondered. Champion of fallen women, expert swimmer, marcher in Coxey's Army, someone to upset Congressman Clayworth, owner of threadbare clothes and an expensive watch. Dare I ask Sarah or Daniel to learn more?

As the driver swatted the horses and the excursion wagon pulled away, I watched the discussion in the small, friendly group grow animated. Despite the confrontations, the accusations, the cursing, and the declarations I had heard today, I'd bet (and I'm not a betting person) a month's wages that we were missing the most significant conversation of the day.

C
HAPTER
13

“S
ir, may I have a word?”

The return trip from Brightwood Riding Park had been solemn and silent. No one had spoken for the entire trip back. When we arrived, Chester and Senator Smith disembarked from the excursion wagon and went into the house without saying a single word. Claude Morris, unsure what protocol to follow, tipped his hat and then scurried in behind his employer. Mrs. Smith and Sir Arthur, equally embarrassed by their discourtesy, properly bid Walter, Sarah, and Daniel Clayworth good night. I longed for Walter to kiss me good night, but without Sir Arthur's knowledge of our engagement, I knew it was inappropriate. As it was, when Walter kissed my hand, Sir Arthur's eyebrows raised. Was that disapproval or surprise I saw in his eyes? Sir Arthur, Mrs. Smith, and I had watched as Walter and the Clayworths climbed into the Victoria they had waiting and drove away before heading into the house. I had to speak to Sir Arthur about Walter and me. So again I took the opportunity to ask.

“Not tonight, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. “We'll discuss the index you copied today in the morning.”

“Of course,” I said. But not of course. In the excitement of the day, I hadn't told Sir Arthur I'd been unable to copy the index for him. I hadn't told him the Treasury had been closed. I hadn't even told him about the accident I had witnessed. I hadn't shown him the newspaper article mentioning both of us.

What's wrong with me? I wondered. The thought of being so distracted and unprofessional bothered me. Granted, getting engaged one day and witnessing a drowning two days later was far from routine.

“Buck up, Davish. You have a job to do,” I chided myself out loud as I climbed the stairs to my room. I would explain everything to Sir Arthur in the morning.

“What's that, you say?”

I turned to see Claude Morris coming up the stairs behind me. Mrs. Smith was kind enough to give me a second-floor room. The only drawback was its relatively close proximity to Claude Morris's room. He always seemed to manage to be coming or going at the same time as me.

“Nothing, Mr. Morris. I was simply reminding myself of something.”

“Talking to yourself, Miss Davish? You'd better not let Sir Arthur catch you doing that. Sure sign of a deranged mind.”

I'd met patients in the State Lunatic Asylum last year in St. Joe. Many of them had muttered to themselves. I had forgotten to tell Sir Arthur about the Treasury, but I certainly wasn't deranged.

“As always, your advice is unnecessary, Mr. Morris,” I said, trying to be polite but not truly succeeding.

“Going to the march tomorrow?” His change in topic was a pleasant surprise.

“Yes, I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Me neither. The senator is promised to be among those who will turn Coxey away. It should be quite the moment, and there's sure to be a great number of reporters and photographers there to capture it.”

As always, Claude Morris wasn't thinking of himself or his own amusement. He was thinking about how the march would improve Senator Smith's chances of being reelected in November.

“Yes, quite the moment. Maybe they'll even let Coxey speak,” I said, as we approached my door.

“Not a chance.” Claude chuckled condescendingly. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd patted my head. “Good night, Miss Davish.”

“Mr. Morris.”

I waited for him to reach his door before I opened mine and slipped in. With no work to do, I prepared for bed early. But I wasn't to get an early night. Every attempt to close my eyes brought images of this morning's accident. I'd been able to put it out of my mind at Coxey's camp, but now in the quiet and dark of my room, I could think of nothing else.

Why did that man leave the woman to her death? After an hour of struggling over this question, I rose, grabbed the notebook and pencil from my bag hanging on the chair, and made a quick list.

 

 

The last statement came to me unbidden. Could he have caused the crash intentionally, purposefully inciting the horse to buck and rear? But how could he have known they would be thrown from the carriage? Or that she would drown in the pond? Did he know that she couldn't swim? No, I saw the entire crash and couldn't believe it was orchestrated. Most likely, number four was closest to the truth. It was well known and acceptable that men visited women of her kind. What wasn't acceptable was being found with a dead woman of her kind after you are thrown from a carriage into a carp pond yards away from the Washington Monument in the early-morning hours.

So who was he? He was too well dressed to be an unemployed marcher from Coxey's Army coming into the city for a night of debauchery, unless he was Coxey himself. The likelihood of that was next to nil, considering this city was filled with many other possible candidates of well-dressed politicians, lawyers, bankers, and government officials, any of which could be the powerful man Annie mentioned at the ladies' furnishing store. And what about the pearl buttons? They too indicated someone with extra money to spend. Yet I hadn't seen the like of them on any man all day.

I might never learn who he was. But what about the woman? I knew her name was Annie Wilcox and that she worked for Madam Fox. But why was she in that carriage with that particular man? I couldn't imagine any woman choosing to sell herself for money. Perhaps she hoped to escape her fate, even for a few hours. Perhaps, as she herself believed, her companion this morning promised to take her away from that life.

I tried to banish the images I had of her being flung from the trap and smashing into the water, and then of her lying dead on the shore covered with algae. Instead I concentrated on the first time I'd seen her, sunning herself on the balcony. She'd been reading, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and petting her cat. And she wasn't much younger than me.

She could have been me,
I thought.

A shudder ran through my whole body as I envisioned myself in her place, an orphan with no other family to support me, lounging in my undergarments outside for all to see. If not for my father buying my typewriter before he died, thus providing me with a means to make a living,
that truly could've been me
.

Unable to shake off this haunting thought, I pulled a dressing gown around me and headed downstairs to the library. If only I had the index to copy. Work always kept the dark thoughts at bay. Tonight the best I could hope for was a distracting novel.

“What kind of idiot are you?” I heard Senator Smith say as I approached the library.

“How was I to know that Abbott would be there?” Chester replied.

“I'm not talking about Abbott. I'm talking about Harper,” his father said.

“I'm not worried about Harper.”

“That's why you're an idiot. Harper is a dangerous man.” Had the senator seen the article? Did he too suspect Chester?

“Then why did you invite him to dinner? Why were you friendly with him at the camp?” Chester sneered.

“This is why you should never go into politics, my boy. Never.”

“You didn't answer my question, Father.”

“You wouldn't need the answer if you understood politics. Besides, he's a friend of Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur is a powerful ally and contributor. It would do me no good to alienate him by snubbing his friend, no matter how much I loathe the man. So what does Harper know?”

“Harper doesn't know anything, Father. How could he?”

The journalist had threatened to investigate something he'd heard from Senator Abbott that related to Chester. There had also been several comments about Chester's reappearance in Washington endangering the senator's chances in the next election. And of course, like me, Simeon Harper had seen Chester at Lottie Fox's establishment. So what had the son done that could tarnish the father?

“He said he was investigating something you'd be interested in. You don't think he's learned something?”

“I'll look into it,” Chester conceded with a sigh. “I'll take care of it.”

“See that you do.”

What did that mean? I remembered other threats I'd overheard in the past. Could Chester be planning to harm Simeon Harper before he could learn more?

That's enough of that, Davish!
I chided myself silently. I was yet again letting my imagination rule my head instead of my reason.

“By the way, why did you come back? I told you to stay away until after the election.”

“For the march, of course.”

I turned at the sound of the parlor door closing deliberately slowly. If I hadn't been near I would never have heard it.

Now that was not my imagination
.

I dashed across the hall to the parlor door and put my ear to it. I heard nothing through the thick oak pocket door. I grabbed the handle and slowly slid it open.
Creeeeeeak.
I winced at the noise but for no reason. No one was in sight. Someone else had overheard the conversation in the library and didn't want to be discovered eavesdropping. But who?

“Well, I'm off to bed,” Chester said. “Good night, Father.”

Before Chester could discover me in the hall, I slipped inside the parlor and slid the door closed behind me. The pocket doors between the parlor and the drawing room were wide-open. Both rooms were empty. Whoever had been in there was gone. To avoid running into Chester in the main hall, I crossed the parlor into the drawing room, bumping into a side table in the dark. The sweet fragrance of lilacs and lavender filled the air as a vase on the table teetered for an interminable moment until I could steady it. I took a deep breath, appreciating the floral scents as well as calming my nerves, before treading more cautiously across the drawing room toward the faint flickering light shining beneath the small door at the back of the room. I groped for the doorknob and, upon opening the door, found myself in a dimly lit hall near the servants' stairs. I'd followed the same route the unknown person must have taken.

But they would be undeterred by the dark, being more familiar with the house than I was. I'd never catch up. But did I want to? The more I considered my situation, the more I realized I was the one acting suspiciously. I needed to get back to my room.

Leery of meeting anyone, I ascended the back stairs, one step at a time, holding my breath to listen for signs of someone else's breathing or footsteps that would warn me of their presence. When I'd heard nothing for several steps, I climbed the stairs as fast as I could, arriving almost at my bedroom door. As I opened my door, the creaking of a floorboard made me turn. Shadows, from the streetlamp shining through the windowpanes at the end of the hall, streamed across the floor. A flicker of darkness crossed the shadows and then was gone. I waited a few moments, but all was silent except the distant ticking of a clock. I let out a sigh as I closed my bedroom door behind me.

“Stop being so jumpy, Davish,” I admonished myself as I climbed into bed and pulled the coverlet up to my chin. “And you forgot to get a book.”

Despite my brave words, I only halfheartedly lamented not being able to get a book; no amount of reading was going to help me to sleep tonight.