The House of Closed Doors (42 page)

W
e did not set out for Prairie Haven for another two days. Mrs. Lombardi was in a state of collapse, and I insisted that she consult my mother’s doctor. Martin and Bet joined me in urging her to rest, eat, and prepare for the journey. There was also the matter of cleaning her clothes, which Bet did with great efficiency while I sewed a brace of new shirts to replace the badly soiled one she was wearing.

So it was not until October the twenty-fourth that we set off in Martin’s gig, choosing to try the Poor Farm for news before we continued to the Lombardis’ house. The weather was excellent, as it often is in October, and I enjoyed rolling along the roads‌—‌nicely softened by the rain‌—‌with the fresh breeze in my face. Sarah, who had gotten over her initial shyness with Mrs. Lombardi, played peek-a-boo with her and then fell asleep, a heavy, warm weight on my shoulder.

It was almost a year since I had first taken this route in cold and discomfort. Then I had been a disgraced girl; now I returned as a well-dressed, independent woman. And amid all of our grief, I was looking forward to seeing Tess, who had been much on my mind. Now I could keep my promise to her. I smiled as we approached the tall gate.

Martin’s vigorous pull on the bell was answered by Donny, who recognized me instantly and beamed with joy as he swung the gate open.

“Donny, it’s good to see you!” Mrs. Lombardi, whose cheerful nature had reasserted itself despite her despair, leaned forward to wave at the boy.

The effect was startling. Donny stopped, stared, screamed, and ran full-tilt for the Men’s House.

B
y the time the gig rolled up to the alighting-place between the two houses, a crowd had gathered. The object of their attention was Mrs. Lombardi, although several of them squealed with delight and waved at me and Sarah.

At the forefront of the crowd were Mr. Schoeffel and a still-fearful Donny. Like the others, Mr. Schoeffel was staring hard at Mrs. Lombardi. Martin handed us down from the gig, and Mr. Schoeffel stepped forward and took Mrs. Lombardi’s hand.

“It is really you.”

“Yes. I am sorry I omitted to inform you that I was unharmed.” Mrs. Lombardi’s expression was contrite. “I had not thought‌—‌but of course you must have been most concerned. Mr. Schoeffel, has there been any news‌—‌any word at all‌—‌of my husband and children? I have returned here with the faint hope that they may have sent word, although I have steeled myself to the notion that they are no more.”

I had never seen the stolid Mr. Schoeffel look so nonplussed. He opened his mouth several times as if to speak, but each time he shut it again and continued to stare at us.

A tug on my arm made me look round, and I found myself being hugged hard by a joyful Tess. Her term of laundry duty had evidently ended; she was neatly dressed, and her fine, shining hair was impeccable in its small bun.

“Why is Mrs. Lombardi here?” she hissed, teetering on tiptoe in an attempt to say the words directly into my ear.

“Why should she not be?” I looked over at Martin, who was standing apart from the group. An expression of dawning comprehension stole over his face, mingled with one of horror. “Nell‌—‌” he began.

“Why did she need a carriage?” was Tess’s next question. “Ghosts do not need carriages.”

That remark caught Mrs. Lombardi’s ear, and she turned to face my friend. “I am no ghost, Tess,” she said gently. At the same time Martin said “Nell!” again, more loudly.

“Of course you are,” said Tess. “We buried you last week. I cried a lot,” she added, turning to me.

T
he ensuing chaos lasted about ten minutes. A phial of smelling salts produced by a female orderly soon revived Mrs. Lombardi, whose knees buckled upon hearing that the chief mourners at her funeral had been her husband and children. Joy followed, of course, and Martin scooped Sarah out of my arms so that Mrs. Lombardi and I could indulge in an orgy of hugging, tears, and shouts of rapture.

I did not witness the family’s reunion, having surprised myself by becoming faint and dizzy in my turn. Anxiety, lack of sleep, and a baby who was nursing enthusiastically several times a day had taken their toll on me, and I was still waving my arms about to ward off the approach of the smelling salts when Martin, having ascertained I was not really ill, ungallantly deserted me to drive Mrs. Lombardi to her home. He told me later that Pastor Lombardi had forgotten he was a man of God and felled Martin with a punch when he had tried to break the news as gently as he could. It had taken him ten minutes to convince the poor man that his wife was alive, but the ensuing reunion was‌—‌he said‌—‌worth the wait. I wished I had seen it.

“A
nd you never did tell Mrs. Lombardi about Hiram,” said Martin as the gig rolled smoothly out of the gate the next morning.

“No, it did not exactly seem appropriate, given the circumstances. Besides, the matter of Tess seemed much more important.” I cast a yearning look behind me. “Martin, do you think Mrs. Lombardi will be able to secure Tess’s release from the Farm?”

“You can rest assured that she will try her hardest, Nell. She told me that she and her family will not leave for Kansas until the matter is settled.” He laughed, throwing back his head to catch the October sunshine. “I would like to see Reverend Grueber’s face when he learns that Pastor Lombardi is not a widower after all. He officiated at the funeral, you know, and was quite adamant that the pastor and his children should come to Kansas to ‘begin life again.’ Well, they will, and in much happier circumstances than they expected.”

“I still cannot understand why Mrs. Lombardi is so ready to leave the Poor Farm.” I turned Sarah round so that she got a better view of the fields and trees rolling by us. “She has an important position there, and she does her job well. Do you think Mr. Schoeffel would treat her so badly once he is superintendent? I cannot help but think she is losing ground by consenting to be merely her husband’s helpmeet.”

“So you would not pick up sticks and follow a husband to the ends of the earth?” Martin’s tone was light, but there was an edge in his voice.

“Certainly not. Besides, I may never marry. To give up all of one’s independence, to be chained to a man even if he abuses you,” I looked at Martin out of the corners of my eyes, “or turns out to be a murderer‌—‌and even if he is a good man like Mr. Lombardi, to feel obliged to follow his whims‌—‌no, that is not for me.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” asked Martin steadily, “that she may be following him out of love? That they may be a partnership of equals and have arrived at their decision by discussion and mutual consent?”

I shook my head. “Partnerships happen in the realm of business, not in love. I would like to see the man who would treat me like a friend and not someone to dominate.”

Martin said nothing more but drew my free arm through his and squeezed it with his elbow. Tired from a long night trying to become reaccustomed to the nighttime noises of the Farm, I did not try to pull it away but sat lightly linked to Martin as we rolled along in a silence broken only by Sarah’s soft babbling.

FIFTY-SEVEN

I
t was some weeks before I began to see my future more clearly. Amid the joy of welcoming Tess to my home and settling her into my childhood bedroom‌—‌I could not bring myself to use my mother’s room or the dressing room in which Hiram had so often slept‌—‌and the slow shock of adjusting to my new circumstances, I had little leisure for creative thought. But now I was beginning to see a way forward.

When Martin came on his daily visit to my parlor, I presented him with the option I had been pondering for several days.

After a few minutes Martin looked up at me from his perusal of Mrs. Lombardi’s letter, a quizzical expression on his face. “She wants you to bury yourself in Kansas?”

“It’s a practical suggestion.” I bent down to retrieve, for the hundredth time, the stuffed dolly I had made Sarah. “Respectable work and a quiet place to raise Sarah.”

“At a seminary? For heaven’s sake, Nell, piety is not exactly your strong point.”

“They do not need another Bible-reading student, Martin. They need a seamstress. And Mrs. Lombardi says that the housekeeper,” I twitched the sheets of paper toward me to read the name again, “Mrs. Drummond, will be quite easy to live with. Did you not see that part of the letter?”

“I must admit,” Martin turned the thin pages with care, “my attention was arrested by the thrilling story of the supposed dead body of Mrs. Lombardi. Imagine being presented with your wife’s brooch and watch, and then being shown their presumed owner‌—‌the charred stump of what might once have been a woman.” He shuddered. “I saw that morgue, Nell. And smelt it.” His beaky nose did its best to wrinkle. “Of course, it might not have smelled so bad just a day after the fire.”

“It is no wonder that they searched no further,” I said. “It is a coincidence worthy of one of Bet’s dime novels. Do you think that the‌—‌the burned person was a looter?”

“Who knows?” said Martin. “In the panic and confusion of that night, anything could have happened. I feel mightily sorry for Schoeffel, though. Unraveling the legal mess caused by an erroneous declaration of death‌—‌and having the body of a stranger on his hands to boot‌—‌must be causing him some headaches.”

I darted toward Sarah’s dolly, which she had flung with such force that she had nearly toppled the always-precarious occasional table. I felt quite cheered by the prospect of being unencumbered by furniture.

“Why feel sorry for Mr. Schoeffel?” I asked. “He is the superintendent now‌—‌he can get someone else to do his dirty work. I agree that he is a good man, Martin. I just do not think he has Mrs. Lombardi’s heart for the feebleminded. I am so glad that Tess has come to live with me.”

Martin deftly hoisted Sarah up into a sitting position, making faces at her that caused her to squeal with laughter. “And you are now burdened with the care of a feebleminded woman as well as a baby. Truly, Nell, a husband would have been less work.”

“A husband would make seven more babies on me in as many years,” I laughed at Martin’s face as he watched the doll warily. Sarah, deprived of her plaything, screeched loudly, and I hastily returned the doll to her grasp. “A husband would expect me to run his house and darn his socks and, and, well, sit at dinner and be nice to his business cronies. A friend is better than a husband.”

Martin’s shoulders shook with laughter, his face buried in his hands. When he had calmed down, he rose and dropped a light kiss on my hair. “You still have a great deal of growing up to do, Nellie Lillington. No, I do not think you are ready for a husband.” He mussed Sarah’s red curls and left the room, holding the door for Bet, who was entering with the tea tray.

“Are you not staying, then, Mr. Rutherford?”

“No, Bet, I have a store to attend to, and Miss Nell has entertained me quite enough for one afternoon.”

As he closed the door behind him, Bet looked over at me. “Has he asked you to marry him yet?” she hissed in a stage whisper.

“It’s none of your business, Bet Bratt, but no, he has not.”

In truth, I had almost expected Martin to propose marriage. After all, he called at least once every day despite the cares of his business. I did not
want
to marry Martin, but I was a little puzzled and, to be honest, a little piqued at his silence. I would have enjoyed graciously turning him down.