Authors: Cordelia Frances Biddle
Conjurer (41 page)
“Very good of you, Miss Beale. But it's not to our more recent markers that I refer, rather to those entrusted to us by history: the founders of our nation and so forth. I need not explain what an honor it is to serve on the governing body of a parish that played such a vital role in the birth of America.” While he delivers this discourse, Taitt's glance roves up into the trees, which are almost wholly denuded and from which dangles an odd assortment of storm-tossed ornaments. A wheeled barrow hangs from a horse chestnut; a broom clings to a holly; a rope still bearing newly laundered table linens wraps around a crabapple; and finally the strangest addition: a lady's open parasol attached to the uppermost limb of a sycamore as if the tree were holding the handle because it desired protection from the sun.
“My wife has one like that,” he remarks with what sounds like genuine astonishment. “Ivory, the handle is, with a nice bit of jade for ornamentation. Fancy there being another so similar.” He frowns, but the expression rapidly transforms itself into sophisticated ennui. “If I'd known there were two, I might have argued over the price. Indeed, I might not have purchased it at all.” Then he leaves off discussing jade-studded parasols and returns to his companion, gracing her with another flawless smile.
“As I was just saying, children do make a wonderful addition to a home, do they not? It's unfortunate your father didn't live to see his own house so happily encumbered. Such a tragedy, his untimely death. And the awful circumstances, too. How you must grieve for him.”
Not one part of this speech seems sincere, but Martha's response is curtailed as Taitt's confident words roll forward:
“And what will become of his financial concerns now that he's no longer there to guide them?”
“I'm managing them, Mr. Taitt.”
“You, Miss Beale? Surely you jest.”
“Indeed, I do not.” Despite an effort at civility, Martha is becoming increasingly vexed. “I admit I have no great love of numbers, and that my father's genius for foreign specie and his manipulation of bills of exchange on Germany and Ireland is still a new notion to meâ”
“If it were not for that detestable Andrew Jackson, and his deregulation of the banking systemâ!” Taitt exclaims in a jovial shout, but Martha intervenes. The harangue is one she's heard too often.
“Yes, I know. If President Jackson had left the Bank of United States alone, the nation would not have been thrust into this crippling depression.” The tone is more stringent than she intended, but her companion merely chortles at her discomfort.
“These are not subjects most ladies feel equipped to discuss, Miss Beale.”
“I am not most ladies, sir. My father's demise may have forced me to embark upon studies that are normally the purview of men, but I'm determined to master them. Indeed, I've just informed a senior clerk that I wish to purchase some type of factory or manufacturing endeavorâ”
“A factory! Oh, goodness me! And do you intend to work the ledger books, with your fine silk sleeves all covered in spotty ink guardsâ?”
“And employ people at decent wages,” she continues in the same peremptory vein, “rather than keep them in semi-bondage.”
“The master who embarks upon that foolhardy scheme will go bankrupt in jig time, Miss Beale.” Taitt laughs again, an ample, condescending sound.
“So I was told” is the chilly reply. “But why should that be? And if the owner's profits are less than desired, what does it matter as long as there's employment? Or parents aren't forced to work for starving wages? Or consign their children to the mills and match factories?”
“Ah, my, my, my⦠You're as impassioned as my dear wife, Miss Beale. And, I venture to say, nearly as dramatic. But come, I see I've offended you. That was not my intent. There should always be kindly souls to weep over the plight of the suffering.”
Martha turns to face him, her eyes so full of stubbornness and wounded pride that the color has turned a flat and stormy gray. She opens her mouth to speak but is saved from uttering words she might regret by the arrival of a second man.
“MarâMiss Beale. I did not think to find you here.” Thomas Kelman tips his hat, then nearly drops it on the ground. “You are only recently returned to the city, I understand ⦔ The words trail away, leaving him to gaze hopelessly into her face. The stern stare that held young Findal Stokes in thrall is nowhere in evidence, while Martha also undergoes a metamorphosis.
“Yes. Two days past,” she murmurs, then adds a more vigorous “Mr. Taitt, may I present Mr. Kelman. ThomâMr. Kelman was of great service to me when my father died.” Now Martha's cheeks are on fire, for she nearly committed the unpardonable sin of calling Thomas by his first nameâwhich she
has
done, although never in company.
“Anyone would wish to be of service to you, Miss Beale” is Kelman's heartfelt answer. Then both fall silent. Taitt maintains his superior pose, studying the man and the woman before him as though probing their souls.
“I know you by reputation, Kelman. But I didn't realize how effortlessly you could tame this argumentative lady. She and I were discussing financial matters and so forth, and her desire to aid the poor and needyâ”
“Miss Beale has expressed such opinions to me,” Kelman states before again lapsing into silence.
“You're a fortunate man to be in her confidence, sir,” Taitt says with another shrewd smile. “I wish you'd explain how you work these miracles with opinionated ladies, as I'm greatly in need of curbing my wife's lively wit. She was accustomed to a very different model before we wed.” With that he bows. “Promise me you'll come visit my Becky one day soon, Miss Beale. She's sorely in need of a companion as iconoclastic as you. Who knows, you might become friends if you knew one another better.” Then he saunters away, a man without a care in the world, although he does pause to glance at the lost parasol before continuing on his path.
Martha and Kelman watch him leave, but their awkwardness only increases, and Martha finds herself fanning her face as if the afternoon's heat rather than confusion were causing her discomfort.
“We should find you some shade, MarâMiss Beale,” Kelman says. “The sun is still high, and your costume is heavy.”
“I would rather have you walk me home.” She blanches at both the boldness of this request and that of her tone. “Or perhaps you have other business to attend to?”
“I would be glad to accompany you. Of course I would.”
So begins the journey, although both avoid all physical contact with one another. If they were passing acquaintances, Kelman would offer his arm and Martha would accept the gesture; instead, they walk apart.
“Little Ella is well?” he asks after a moment.
“She is, thank you.”
“And Cai?”
“He's exceedingly fit, too, although neither wanted to forsake the countryside and return to town. They ⦠they enjoyed your sporadic visits to us, as I did also ⦔
“Your house is a refuge. I don't wonder at their sorrow at leaving. I would feel the same.”
“You've become a great favorite with the children” is Martha's whispery reply.
“And they with me.”
Words again fail them, although their footsteps roll automatically forward. What sights they see or whom they pass, neither could describe.
“I do hope your infrequent calls upon us weren't the result of your work with the police, Mr. Kelman. And that your labors haven't proven overly arduous.”
“Not arduous. But disheartening, as is so often the case.”
Hearing the despondency in his tone, she cannot help but spin toward him. “Oh, Thomas, I apologize! I should not have broached a painful subject.”
He smiles gently down. “I'm glad to speak with you. I'm always happy to have your opinion and comments, but I'm sorry to say that the suicide of an unknown woman is all too common in our city.”
“A suicide! How awful. And this is what you have been investigating?”
“It seems my skills are unnecessary. A newly delivered mother cast herself and her infant into the Schuylkill two days ago. A boy from Blockley House witnessed the incident and returned in order to report it. The baby was retrieved; the mother had placed him in a wicker-ware basket. She hasn't been found. Unfortunately, the boy was alone, and his retelling of the story is imprecise.”
By now, Martha has stopped entirely. “That was the very day I returned to the city.”
“Yes. I considered calling upon you, butâ”
“I saw a blond woman wading in the river with a basket that I took to be full of laundry. But there wasn't only one boy on the cliffs above the river; there were many. And they seemed to know her.”
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my wonderful editor, Marcia Markland, and her equally perceptive assistant, Diana Szu. Their enthusiasm and energy in bringing
The Conjurer
to life has been an inspiration and a joy.
About the Author
Cordelia Frances Biddle is the author of the Martha Beale Mystery series. A member of one of Philadelphia's oldest families, she uses many of her actual ancestors as characters in her historical mysteries. She also cowrote the Nero Blanc Crossword Mystery series with her husband, Steve Zettler, with whom she lives in Philadelphia.Her website is
www.cordeliafrancesbiddle.com
.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Cordelia Frances Biddle
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-4804-9064-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
THE MARTHA BEALE MYSTERIES
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
