True to the Law (16 page)

“I’m thinking her sense of obligation had something to do with the brooch you were looking for the night of the fire.”

“That’s true, but you would be wrong to suppose it was only that. Mrs. Mackey was a supporter of many social and cultural projects in Chicago. She helped found the Art Institute and remained on the board of trustees for years. Some of the Mackey factories along the river were destroyed in the fire, and she not only oversaw their reconstruction, she also helped families that had no work during that time. As for the church, she was always an influential parishioner, so it was natural that she would use that influence and a good deal of her own money to see that Olde St. John’s was rebuilt.”

“So she was generous on many fronts.”

“Almost to a fault. Her family did not necessarily support her good works, but she never cared for their opinion, whether they agreed with her or not.”

“Was she also your champion?”

Tru did not answer immediately. “I’ve never thought of her in that light,” she said slowly, thinking it through. “I’m not aware that she ever defended me to others or that she had any reason to. Mostly she made demands on me that she thought I should make on myself. She was more mentor than champion.”

“Did you ever find the brooch?”

“I did. It was wedged in a hymnal. We think it must have fallen off her jacket and landed in the open book. She closed the book without looking, slipped it into the rack behind the pew, and there it remained until I found it.”

“You said
we
think it must have fallen off her jacket. Did you mean you and your father, or did you mean you and Mrs. Mackey?”

“I meant all of us.” Her features cleared as she began to understand the intent of his question. “Oh, you were wondering if I returned the brooch. You might have just asked.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not helpful to ask a thing straight on.”

Tru’s smile was wry. “Indeed, you have a knack for using the backdoor to get what you want.” His grin told her that she was not wrong. “Yes,” she said. “I returned the brooch. I held it in my hand so tightly that night that I couldn’t open my fingers. My father had to pry it out of my palm. He let me return it to Mrs. Mackey myself. It was days after the fire before we saw her. She smelled of lilac water, and I still smelled of smoke. Father stood by, watching, but I gave it to her. I have a memory of her being quite moved. I thought she would take it out of my hand immediately, but she just stared at it for a long time, and then she took me into her arms and held me for what seemed like forever. She cried, but I didn’t. I remember that. Years later, when I was her companion, she told me that she remembered it too.”

Tru swiped at her eyes with her index fingers and gave Cobb a watery, regretful smile. “I’m not prone to tears as a rule.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, it’s all right. The memories are bittersweet, not sad. It’s good to bring them to mind.”

“You cared for her a great deal. I hadn’t realized.”

“I loved her.”

Cobb nodded slowly. “It seems as if she might have felt the same.”

“I think she did. I was probably eleven when I learned of her involvement, but by then I was a better student, less bent on making trouble, and coming to appreciate how difficult it had been for my father to send me away. I couldn’t hold on to my anger when I already knew that I had found my calling. My experience at Mrs. Winston’s started me on my journey to become a teacher.”

Cobb decided then and there that if she was lying to him, she had no peer when it came to spinning a story. What she told him had depth and substance, and it seemed unlikely that she could relate it with this fine a degree of emotion and thoughtfulness if it were not fact.

Andrew Mackey III was wrong about Tru Morrow. If something had been stolen, and while Mackey had been emphatic that it had, Cobb thought the man might want to look to his family to find the culprit. Tru did not have it in her to take what she wasn’t—

“What is it?” asked Tru.

“Hmm?”

“You’re frowning. Your thoughts seemed to have wandered down a very dark path.”

Cobb roused himself from his reverie. “What? No. Not a dark path at all. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About the brooch, actually. It seems as if it forged a connection between you and Mrs. Mackey that was very different from the one she had with your father. More affecting, I would say. Their relationship was essentially business, even if the business was the church, but hers with you was not.”

Tru was slow to answer. “I suppose that’s accurate.”

“Did Mrs. Mackey make you a gift of the brooch before she died?”

“No.”

Someone less experienced at reading signs might have missed Tru’s barely perceptible flinch. Cobb did not.

“Why do you ask?” said Tru.

Cobb noted that she did a credible job of holding his gaze. What she was not able to control was the rising tide of pale pink color that appeared just above the neckline of her nightgown and washed her still features all the way to her scalp. If that were not enough to call her bluff, there was also the lower lip that she pulled in and began to worry between her teeth. The flinch, the color, the worried lip. All subtle indicators that she was prevaricating.

In response to her question, Cobb gave a careless shrug. “It seemed as if it might be something she would do.”

“I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“Why not?”

“It was passed through three generations to her. It survived the French Revolution. I would have told her that it should remain in her family. Truly, it would have been too extravagant a gift.”

Still watching her closely, Cobb said, “So it was not merely a sentimental piece.”

“No. Not merely that. But that was its value to her. If it had not been for the meaning she attached to it, she would not have worn it to Sunday services. Unless one looked closely, it seemed more suited to the ballroom than the sanctuary.”

“Why do you say that?”

Tru’s faint smile appeared. “The brooch’s design was the trinity, but it was not immediately obvious. Once you followed the circular pattern of the rubies and the curves of the gold filigree, it became clear. The rubies, she said, represented the blood of Christ. The gold filigree, the crown of thorns.”

Cobb whistled softly.

Tru nodded again. “I told you. An extravagant gift.”

Cobb sensed she wanted to bring their conversation to a close. He eyed the teapot. “I wouldn’t object to a cup of tea.”

She blinked at him. “Now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” He suspected that it was the influence of Mrs. Winston’s Academy, Tru’s tolerant father, and Charlotte Mackey’s mannered society that had Tru rising from her chair to get a cup instead of braining him with the bottle of whiskey. “Thank you,” he said when she set a cup and saucer in front of him and began to pour. “Honey?”

Tru almost lost her grip on the pot. “Pardon?”

“The honey. May I have some?”

“Oh.” Collecting herself, she pushed the honey jar toward him and topped off his cup. She put the pot down and returned to her seat.

Cobb sipped his tea, only narrowly managing to avoid making a face. “So this brooch you recovered remained in the family?”

“I’m not certain I understand your curiosity.”

Cobb was aware that Tru’s eyes had narrowed and that she was watching him closely. Had he nudged her too hard? Shrugging, he said easily, “Sometimes I don’t understand it myself.”

She regarded him for a while longer. “Well, I can’t help you. I don’t know what her intentions were regarding it. It was not something she discussed with me. As important as it was to her, it was hardly her most valuable asset. You must have at least heard of the Mackeys. The family is well known in matters of business.”

He smiled wryly. “Not
my
business,” he said. “But, yes, now that I am clear that Charlotte Mackey is one of
those
Mackeys, I’m familiar with the name.”

“Then you should be able to put the brooch into perspective. It was not what occupied her thoughts toward the end.”

And there it was again, Cobb observed, the translucent shadow of pink across her features. Her eyes darted momentarily before coming back to him. “Did you enjoy the role of companion?”

“I did.”

He gently moved the conversation to a subject he hoped she would find more palatable. “But it didn’t change your mind about teaching.”

“No. I was discouraged because my views about the work are not widely embraced, but it never occurred to me to give up.” She gave him a slightly crooked smile. “Well, perhaps it crossed my mind, but Mrs. Mackey would not permit it to lodge there. She encouraged me to make application everywhere I could. Sometimes she made an application on my behalf.”

“So she
was
your champion.”

A smiled edged the corners of Tru’s lips. The dimple appeared. “I suppose she was.”

Cobb sipped from his cup. “Wasn’t Mrs. Mackey worried about losing you?”

“No. Just the opposite. She wanted to know that I was settled and prepared to live my life on my own, and on my own terms.” She smiled faintly. “Or perhaps it was her terms. Sometimes I’m not sure. I was as much a nurse to her as a companion. She fought the cancer, and she came very close to seeing out two years. It was when she began suffering that she pressed harder for me to go. She knew that I had nursed my father until he died, and she did not want me to be there at her end. I had to read about her passing in the papers.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“I know I could have stayed. There are still times I wonder if I made the right decision. It was what she wanted, but . . .” Tru’s voice drifted away as her thoughts turned inward.

“It was what she wanted,” said Cobb. “Period.”

Tru’s eyes met his. She nodded faintly. “Yes. Yes it was.”

“That’s better.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “You were dangerously close to feeling sorry for yourself.”

She blinked, and after a moment to think about it, she chuckled. “You’re right. I was. Thank you.”

“Thank you? My sisters would have growled at me.”

“As well they should.”

Cobb did not disagree. He finished his tea and pushed the cup and saucer away. “You were kind to let me in.”

“Foolish, perhaps. Not kind. Go back to the hotel.”

“Cobb,” he said.

“Very well,” she said, coming to her feet as he did. “Go back to the hotel, Cobb.”

He did. But first there was the matter of a kiss.

Chapter Six

It was indecent, Tru decided, just how often she found herself thinking about that kiss. Sometimes, quite unconsciously, she lifted her fingers to her lips and traced the shape of them, and when she discovered what she was doing she pulled her hand away so sharply that an observer might well have believed she had touched fire. Tru half believed it herself.

She tried not to attach any importance to the kiss. It was one kind of trouble to remember it with so much clarity that she could still feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. It was entirely another kind of trouble to place meaning on it that it did not deserve.

It was a good-night kiss. That was the proper perspective. He simply was saying good night. Of course, he could have actually
said
good night.

It was a thank-you kiss. He was saying thank you for taking him in, for the whiskey, for the tea, for the conversation. She could think about it in that light, except that she had never received a thank-you kiss for playing hostess from anyone but her father.

It was a parting kiss. He had been thinking that it would be Saturday evening before he saw her again. Perhaps that had seemed like a long time. It had to Tru. Not just then, not at the moment he was bending his head toward her, but later, after she closed the door behind him and leaned against it and caught her breath. She had certainly thought Saturday evening was a long way off then.

Now it was upon her, and she was still fussing about that kiss. It was the roast that should have occupied her mind, and if she burned it, she decided that she was not accepting full responsibility, at least not in her own mind. She could not very well present a platter of blackened meat to her guests and explain that Cobb Bridger’s kiss was to blame.

The kiss was chaste. Warm. The pressure of his lips on hers was just enough to be felt but could not be mistaken for insistent. The kiss lingered a few beats too long to be called brief, but not so long that it was intrusive. He made no demand, asked for no response. Measure for measure, it was exactly right.

It was a giving kiss.

Tru did not know what she was supposed to think about that.

The sound of water boiling on the stove drew her attention back to dinner preparations. She tossed in the dozen small beets she had washed and gave them a stir before she checked the roast. It was browning nicely, nowhere near to being charred, and the warm aroma was beginning to fill the kitchen in a way that would whet an appetite. She used a long fork to turn the quartered potatoes surrounding the meat so they roasted evenly and then closed the oven door.

Satisfied with the progress of her meal, Tru went upstairs to change her dress. She removed the unflattering brick-colored gown that she had often worn when she worked for Charlotte Mackey. Mrs. Mackey despised it and made a point of telling her every time she saw it, but she also appreciated that it served a purpose even if that was something they rarely talked about. Tru never wore the dress to school or about town. It stayed in the back of her armoire until she was ready to do Saturday chores. She returned it to where it belonged and turned a critical eye on her wardrobe.

She was fortunate to have choices. It had given Mrs. Mackey considerable pleasure to look through pattern books and fashion magazines while she was bed bound, and she liked to exercise her will over others by insisting her dressmaker attend her regularly. Tru was slow to realize that during the last six months of her service the dresses under construction, whether for day, walking, or dinner were all intended for her use. Upon making the discovery, she protested, but none of her arguments mattered. If Mrs. Mackey had anything to say at all, it was to remind Tru that she wouldn’t always want to wear the hideously drab day dress.

And of course, she was right. “Thank you, Aunt Charlotte,” Tru whispered. She removed a tailored gown in celadon green with a crossover bodice. It could have been a busy dress with its ribbon striping in different widths, but the effect was a lovely long line that drew the eye instead of distracting it.

She washed, put on a fresh camisole, twisted her hair into a smooth coil and anchored it with two hammered pewter combs. She rolled on pearl gray stockings that complemented the gray cast of the gown’s fabric. After stepping into the underskirt and smoothing it over her hips, Tru was ready to slip into the dress.

Tru pulled up the skirt, added the bodice, deftly managed the fastenings, and ran her palm down the ribbon trim to press it flat. It was only after she put on her shoes that she turned to face her reflection in the looking glass.

She was not vain, but she was not unaware that she was a handsome woman. Tru liked that word. “Handsome.” And she was not at all bothered to be thought of in such a fashion. She did not possess the dainty sweetness of “pretty” or the delicate features of “beauty.” Except for the rather ephemeral nature of the faint indentation in her chin, and the slip of a dimple at one corner of her mouth, her features were bold. She did not believe her face would ever launch a thousand ships, but it could garner a second glance.

Tru pinched her cheeks, examined her reflection again, and grinned crookedly. “A second glance, indeed. The beets require more attention than your face.”

She grabbed her apron and tied it as she fled the bedroom for the kitchen. The beets were tender by the time she arrived at the stove. She removed them from the water, peeled away the skins, and cut them into thin slices. She mixed sugar, cornstarch, added one-half cup of vinegar, and set the mixture to boil for five minutes.

Jennifer Phillips did not stand on ceremony at the front door. She opened it without knocking and announced her presence by calling over her shoulder to her husband to hurry up.

“He’s talking to Terry McCormick,” Jenny said. “And he’s carrying the tarts. Where do you want me to put my coat? Front door or back?”

Tru glanced back at her friend. “Front’s fine. I’m waiting for the glaze to thicken for the beets. In another minute it will—” She stopped because Jenny was hurrying toward her, removing her coat as she charged.

“Where
is
he?” she whispered.

“I thought you said Jim was talking to Terry.” She looked past Jenny to the front door. “You didn’t close the door.”

“Damnation.” She pivoted, hurried back, closed the door, and hung up her coat. She was slightly out of breath by the time she returned to the kitchen. “I didn’t mean Jim,” she said as if there had been no interruption. “I was talking about
him
.”

“You don’t have to whisper. And you do it poorly anyway. Jim and Terry can probably hear you.” Tru turned back to her work and lifted the bubbling glaze off the stove. She poured it over the beets and set the bowl at the back of the range to keep the beets warm while they rested. “It’s not six o’clock yet,” she told Jenny. “I told him dinner would be at six, so the answer to your question is that I don’t know where he is. He’s not accountable to me for his time the way Jim is to you.”

Jenny took no offense. “I have to make him accountable. That man can find six kinds of things to occupy him between home and the drugstore. And that’s only one way. He just kind of wanders. I give thanks every Sunday that he doesn’t care much for drink because I would surely have lost him to one of the saloons by now.”

“You’re right,” Tru said dryly. “It’s a blessing he has never taken to the bottle.”

Jenny snorted indelicately. “It’s a wonder, is what it is. He tells me regularly that I could drive a lesser man to drink, and he’s right. Of course, I tell him that I wouldn’t have married a lesser man. That’s what passes for sweet talk in our house.”

Chuckling, Tru opened the oven door and checked the roast.

“Smells done,” said Jenny as the heady aroma wafted through the kitchen. “Is the dining table set?”

Tru grabbed a towel to protect her hands so she could lift the roast pan. “I did that earlier.” She set the pan on the kitchen table and spooned some of the hot juices over the meat and potatoes. “It needs a little time to rest, same as the beets, and then it will be ready for Jim to carve.”

“Jim? You’re not going to ask Cobb to do it?”

“I never thought about it. Why would I do that?”

The expression on Jenny’s face indicated that it should be obvious. “Because in these circumstances, he is more than a guest, he is
your
guest, and in my mind, that puts the carving duties in his hands.”

Tru rolled her eyes. “In your mind,” she repeated. “Honestly, Jenny, I don’t always understand your mind. Jim will carve because we know he does it well. I’m not sacrificing my roast to someone who may have no knife skills.”

Jenny caved. “My Jim does do justice to a good roast.” She glanced back at the front door before she pulled out a chair and sat. “You’re sure he’s coming?”

“I hope so. You said he has the tarts.”

“Stop that. You know I’m talking about Cobb.”

“Well, I didn’t, but since you are, no, I don’t know for sure that he’s coming.”

Jenny craned her neck to look through the kitchen archway into the small dining room. She could not see the table in its entirety. “But you set him a place, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Tru said patiently. “I set a place for him.”

“Did he say he would come?”

“Not really, no.”

“What did he say?”

“Should I make gravy?” asked Tru as she studied the roast from another angle.

“That’s what he said?”

“Mmm?” Tru’s eyes shifted to Jenny. “No, you goose. That’s what I’m saying. Should I make gravy? I don’t recollect what he said.”

“Forget the gravy. How can you not remember what he said?”

“Because it wasn’t important. And I didn’t really invite him anyway.”

Jenny’s dark eyebrows shot up. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means I told him that you and Jim were coming to dinner and that you wanted me to invite him. Then I told him dinner was at six.”

Shaking her head, Jenny sat back in her chair. Her sigh was more than audible. It carried all the deep notes of exasperation. “You haven’t the least notion how to go about these things, do you?”

Tru’s head lifted as the front door opened. Jim walked in, Cobb on his heels. She smiled at her friend. “Perhaps not, but let’s see how the evening goes before you decide to take me in hand.”

Jenny swiveled in her chair to take in Tru’s view. She jumped to her feet and whispered to Tru out of the side of her mouth. “Take off your apron. It looks like you slaughtered the cow.”

Tru looked down at herself. It wasn’t blood that stained her apron, but there were smears and smatterings of beet juice all over it. Sighing much more quietly than Jennifer had done, Tru untied the apron and laid it over the back of a chair. She checked her hands for stains before she smoothed her dress. One steadying breath later, she left the kitchen to greet her guests.

“Evening, Tru,” said Jim, giving her a smile almost as broad as his face. “Good of you to ask us to dinner.” He handed her the covered plate of apple tarts and removed his hat. His dark copper hair was flattened just above his temples. He dutifully bowed his head a fraction to allow Jenny to ruffle his hair with her fingertips.

Tru was used to this intimate little ritual between the pair, and she looked at Cobb to gauge his reaction. She couldn’t say that he was fascinated, but he didn’t look away.

Jim waited for Jenny to step back. He lifted his chin in Cobb’s direction. “I met this fellow on the street while I was talking to Terry. I was happy to learn that he was coming here too. Always good to meet new folks, especially when Terry’s full of news about them.”

Jenny pursed her lips at her husband. “I told you Tru invited him.”

Jim hung up his hat. “Did you? I don’t recollect.”

“Seems there’s a lot of folks that are having trouble with their memory,” she said, spearing Tru with a glance. To Cobb, she said, “Let me take your hat and coat.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Phillips.”

“It’s Jenny, like I said last time we spoke. Jennifer, if you’ve a mind to be more formal, but I might not always answer to it.” She held out a hand to take his duster and Stetson. “Jim? What did you mean about Terry being full of news about folks? He’s usually full of something, but being that we’re so close to eating, I’m not saying what that is.”

Cobb made a smooth interjection before Jim Phillips could respond. “Good evening, Miss Morrow. Like Jim, I appreciate the invitation.”

Tru knew she was holding his look, but it felt as though his eyes were grazing her from head to toe. She was ridiculously glad Jenny had reminded her to remove her apron. “You’re welcome, Mr. Bridger. It’s the least I could do for the kindness you showed my class.”

“And if I make it a point to be kind more often?”

“We’ll see,” she said politely. “I would not want you to spoil the children.”

Jenny’s eyes had been darting between Tru and Cobb, but Tru’s last comment sent them heavenward. “Goodness,” she said. “As if sand tarts are an indulgence. They’re the stuff of life.”

“So sayeth the woman who owns the bakery,” said Tru. “Please, Jim, show Mr. Bridger to the dining room. Jenny will help me with the platters.”

They separated with Jenny following Tru into the kitchen. “Didn’t you give him leave to call you Tru?” Jenny whispered behind Tru’s back.