Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (25 page)

I pray this letter finds you well and happy. I have been remiss about writing to both you and Beth, my dear friends.

I will always be sorry Thea could not visit you while she was living in New York City, for then she could have brought me more news from you. But, of course, we did not know where you were at the time.

Margaret Bridger’s cousins, the Trents, have been most generous, sending gifts to the children from wherever their travels take them. They are planning another visit to our farm next spring, and we are looking forward to it now. I believe I will like Allison Trent a great deal.

My quilts continue to sell beyond my wildest expectations, and thanks to the money these sales have brought us, we now are the proud owners of two beautiful Thoroughbred yearlings. Although Dirk insists they will be no more than saddle horses for us, I think the future holds something else in store for them. There is a chance Dirk is actually beginning to believe it, too.

Karl is working for Dirk on the dairy, and it seems he has found his true calling. There is great enthusiasm in his voice when he discusses his ideas for the future with Dirk. Thea has changed and seems much happier now, especially as she watches her new home being built on the piece of land Dirk gave to them.

As for the rest of my sisters, Kirsten falls desperately in love with someone new every month. Astrid is nearly as bad. Thea says they are both empty-headed and much too flirtatious for their own good. This coming from Thea made us all laugh. Except for Pappa. He did not laugh. I think because he fears it is true.

Gunda recently surprised us with her good news. She is engaged to marry Valdemar Dolk. His parents own the general store in Uppsala, and it was his brother who drowned last March. Valdemar has decided to study medicine rather than go into the family business. The couple plan to marry and then move to Boston where they will stay until he is ready to begin a practice of his own. Then they will return to Uppsala. Dr. Swenson is counting the days until his retirement.

We thank God daily for his grace and mercy, for the lovingkindness he has shown toward us. I have seen the love for our Savior growing in my husband’s heart, and I rejoice over what that has wrought in our love for one another. Only God himself could have brought all this to pass.

There is one more miracle for which I praise God, and I shall try to express my gratitude in my newest quilt, one that I shall not finish until next February. For until then I shall not know if our child will be a son or a daughter.

But God knows, just as he knows every stitch, every thread in the patterns of our lives.

Fondly yours,

Inga Bridger

The door to the master’s study swung shut behind Mary, causing her to gasp in surprise. But it was Winston Kenrick’s soft chuckle that made her whirl about and her pulse quicken in dread.

“I wondered how soon you would get to cleaning this room, Mary.”

“If ’tis a bad time, Master Kenrick, I could be coming back later. When you’re not so busy and all.”

He smiled, but the look was more feral than comforting. “I wouldn’t think of causing you the trouble. Come in and be about your business.”

Mary tried to disregard the ominous feeling in her chest. In the months she had worked for the Kenricks, nothing untoward had happened to her. Yet it seemed the master was always watching her. It seemed he was around every corner, in every room, waiting, observing, smiling. The truth be told, she didn’t like him much.

“I’ll be trying not to disturb you, sir,” she said as she set down her bucket of soapy wash water. She pulled the feather duster from her waistband and walked to the bookcase where she set to work, ignoring the man behind her.

The master chuckled again. “But don’t you know, my dear girl? You always disturb me. You can’t help it.”

“I’m thinking I don’t know what you mean,” she replied without looking at him. But she was more than sure she
did
know.

Winston moved closer. “How is that little boy of yours, Mary Malone?”

Her heart nearly stopped. Her hand stilled, the feather duster resting on the spine of a book. “Me boy?” she whispered. She’d never told anyone in the Kenrick household about Keary. How did Master Kenrick know?

“It must be difficult, raising an infant on your own. What is he? Almost a year old now?”

She remained stubbornly silent.

“I could make it easier for you, Mary.”

“I’m having no complaints as things are now.”

His hands alighted on her shoulders. Slowly, he turned her to face him.

Winston Kenrick was a handsome man in his midforties. His hair was silver gray, but rather than making him look old, it added to his distinguished appearance. He had enormous power and influence among the wealthy members of New York society. He watched Mary now with eyes that said he knew exactly how to use his power and influence to get what he wanted.

“My dear girl, you have no idea what I’m offering.”

Mary’s infamous temper flared. “But I’m thinking I do know, sir, and I’ll be having you know I’ve got no interest in
the likes o’ you. Not for any amount of your charm or your money.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t play the innocent with me.”

“Oh, I’ll not be pretending innocence, sir. You already know I’m not married and I have me a son, so there’d be no use to it. But I learned me lesson well with Seamus Maguire, I did. I’ve been betrayed, but I’ll not be used. Not by you nor any other man.”

She tried to push him away, but his grip on her arms tightened.

Winston grinned. “I think I can change your mind.” He kissed her.

For a moment, she didn’t fight him, too stunned to move. But then he chuckled low in his throat, pleased with himself and with what he was doing.

Her anger flared hotter. She bit his lip. Hard.

He howled as he stepped back from her. Mary used the opportunity to slip away, dashing to the opposite side of the master’s enormous cherry wood desk. Winston, in turn, positioned himself between her and the door.

He touched his lip with his fingertips, then looked at them, as if checking for blood. “You Irish witch,” he said softly. The words would have seemed less terrifying if he’d shouted them.

“Just let me go, Master Kenrick. I’ll collect me pay and be gone from here.”

“Are you aware that the authorities could deport you because you lied to get into the country? You told them you were married. They could send you back to Ireland.” He paused a heartbeat, then added, “Without your son.”

“They’d never do that.” Fear made her mouth dry, her tongue thick. “They’d never do that.”

“Do you dare take that chance?”

She shook her head, whether in disbelief or in answer to his question, she didn’t know. “I can’t betray Mrs. Kenrick nor meself in such a way.”

He moved toward the door. “I have very powerful friends. Police officers. Judges. I can make certain you never see your son again. Never. Is that what you want?” With a click, he turned the key, locking the door. Then he faced her again. “Be careful what you decide, my dear. Be very careful. Your son’s future is entirely up to you.”

Keary. Me darlin’ Keary.

Winston moved to the center of the room, then crooked his finger at her. With heart pounding, she came around from behind the desk. She told herself that, no matter what happened, she’d lived through worse and survived.

“That’s a good girl.”

Winston stepped toward her.

Mary stepped backward.

He grinned, enjoying the game.

She bumped against the desk, stopping her retreat.

Winston laughed aloud. “Playing it coy, Miss Malone?”

“Don’t do this, sir. Just let me go, and I’ll be no more trouble to you.”

“You’re no trouble to me now.”

For Keary
, she reminded herself. To protect Keary she could bear anything.

Winston reached for her. Panic surged, and she instinctively tried to push his hands away.

“No!” she cried.

Irritation flashed in his eyes, and with unexpected swiftness, he rent the fabric of her blouse. “Let’s be done with this silliness.”

“Leave me be!”

He pressed her against the desk. She tried to brace herself, hoping for enough leverage to shove him away. Then her right hand closed around something large, cool, and hard on the desktop.

“You’ll not be doing this to me!” she cried.

Mary swung her arm with all her might. The second after she hit Winston on the side of his head with the object in her hand, she saw a look of disbelief in his eyes. He stumbled backward a few steps, teetered drunkenly, and crumpled to the floor, lying in an awkward position on the Oriental rug.

Breathing hard, Mary took a step toward her employer. She nudged him with the toe of her shoe, but he didn’t move. He made no sound. Then she saw the red stain spreading near his head across the elegant fibers of the carpet.

“Faith and begorra!” she whispered, her eyes widening. “Have I killed him, then?”

The answer lay before her, still and unmoving.

She would swing for this, see if she wouldn’t. And then what would become of her wee Keary? She would have to get her son and run away before the master’s body was found. She had little time to think about where she would go. She simply knew she must go quickly.

She felt light-headed and out of breath as she hurried across the room. It wasn’t until she reached for the key that she realized she still held the weapon she had used against Winston Kenrick. She looked at the ornate box. It was real silver, she’d wager, and valuable. It was better if she took it with her. The police might think the house had been burglarized. Maybe they wouldn’t notice the absence of one of the housemaids if they were looking for a thief instead.

Turning the key, Mary unlocked the study door, then turned the knob. She trembled as she looked out into the hallway. If one of the other servants were to see her…

The hall was empty. Now if she could get out of the house without being seen.

She remembered her bodice was torn down the front and knew she couldn’t go running through the streets of New York, down Madison Avenue itself, looking like this. People would know she was guilty of something. They would summon the police and have her arrested. All would be lost.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her.

Use your head, Mary, me darlin’ girl
, her da’s voice whispered in her head.
One hapless act may undo you, but one timely one will put all to right. Think, now.

Mary forced herself to be calm and work things through in her mind. She knew Mrs. Norris, the cook, kept a spare apron hanging near the rear kitchen door. If Mary put it on, it would hide her ripped bodice. And her hat…She needed her hat. She needed to look like any other servant girl, out running errands for her mistress.

She glanced over her shoulder at the body of Winston Kenrick, and a shiver ran through her. He’d been an evil man, he had, but she would always be sorry she’d killed him. Because of it, she was certain she’d never know a moment’s peace for the rest of her miserable life.

Blanche Loraine was going home to die. She’d seen all the fancy doctors her considerable wealth could afford—which meant, in her humble opinion, far too many of the educated idiots. She’d listened to their collective advice. And now she was going back to Idaho to spend what time she had left with the people she knew best. Not that she expected any of them to mourn her passing.

Her lap dog, Nugget, whimpered for attention.

“I know, boy,” Blanche said as she stroked his silky coat. “I’m not looking forward to the trip either. But won’t we be glad to get outta New York City.”

Nugget licked her gloved hand.

A sudden coughing jag gripped Blanche. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief and tried to subdue the wretched hacking that seemed ready to rip her lungs right out of her body. Even as she fought for control, she noticed the couple opposite her get up from the seat and move to another part of the passenger car. She thought of a few choice—and most unladylike—things the strangers could do. Of course, Blanche Loraine was no lady and had never pretended to be.

As she folded the handkerchief, she noticed the red stains on the white cloth.

“Miss Loraine,” one of the doctors had said to her yesterday, “you should not undertake such an arduous journey at this time.”

Idiot,
she remembered thinking. He’d just finished telling her that her condition wasn’t likely to improve. So exactly when was it she was supposed to travel home?

“Excuse me, mum. Would you be allowing us to sit here?”

Drawn from her musings, Blanche looked up at the prettiest face she’d seen in all her born days. And in her line of work, Blanche had more than a passing knowledge of what made a woman beautiful. “Of course,” she said, waving toward the seat opposite her. “Sit yourself right down.”

The young woman—in her late twenties, Blanche guessed—set her small child on the indicated seat, then, standing on tiptoe, managed to shove her satchels onto the rack overhead. As she sat beside the toddler, she adjusted her straw hat, which had been knocked slightly askew during her efforts with the luggage. Her ink-black hair was thick and curly, and long wisps
had escaped her hairpins to coil at her nape. She had a heartshaped face with a milky complexion that was absolutely flawless. Her eyes were dark brown, fringed in thick black lashes, and there was the look of a trapped animal in those eyes that intrigued Blanche.

“You going far?” she asked.

The young mother shook her head, shrugged, then quickly looked out the window, as if wanting to avoid the question.

“My name is Blanche Loraine.”

After a long moment, she met Blanche’s gaze again. “Mary Emeline Malone.” Her eyes grew round, and she pressed her lips together tightly.

She’s in trouble and didn’t mean to tell me her name. But what kind of trouble?
Aloud, she said, “Well, Mary, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who is this little man you’ve got with you?”