The House of Closed Doors (26 page)

“I have news,” Martin said, having cleared his throat heavily.

“Really?” I turned the corset over in my hands and looked up at him slyly. I rather thought Martin had noticed my tendency to omit the corset and was perhaps a little shocked.

“Your mother and stepfather have heard that you left the Poor Farm.”

“Ah.” I had been waiting for this moment and felt a small, hard lump form in my stomach.

“I happened to call upon them just at the moment when they received Mrs. Lombardi’s telegraph message. Your mother quite forgot that I was supposed to think you were convalescing out East and simply blurted out the whole story, baby and all.”

“My goodness.” I felt a tingling sensation in my hands as the thought worked through me. “Did‌—‌was my stepfather cross with her?”

“I will say one thing for Hiram, he always treats your mother with consideration. He did not shout or remonstrate with her. But he went quite red in the face.” Martin’s own fair face flushed a little at the memory, and he passed his hand over his mouth as if to stifle a laugh. “I pretended the correct degree of astonishment.”

“And‌—‌well, it is not at all funny, Martin‌—‌how did Mama react to the news that I had absconded?”

Martin perched on a chair. It was late in the day, and now that the drapes were closed, I had joined him in his sparsely furnished sitting room. During the day, I kept to the room in which he had established me, which overlooked the garden at the back of the house and the woods beyond.

“She is remarkably calm. She says that she feels in her heart you are safe, and she told me privately that she is glad that you have not had to be separated from your child. And then she looked at me in the oddest way, Nell, and told me that if I should ever come across you, I should give you any money or help that you needed, and she would reimburse me.”

I smiled, tucking the corset into the work basket that had once been Ruth’s. “I hope you did not blush, Martin.”

The pink flush that was so characteristic of Martin brightened his white face. “Fortunately, I was looking out of the window when she said that, and I did not turn around. Your mother is an astonishing woman, Nell. As dainty and delicate as a china doll but with an indomitable spirit.”

“Yes. But I wish she were not so deferential toward my stepfather.” I had not yet told Martin about my suspicions‌—‌my near certainty‌—‌about Hiram and did not know how to begin. I intuitively felt, though, that to take him into my confidence would be to gain a valuable ally.

“She is everything that a proper wife should be,” Martin said and frowned. “Just as my mother never complained when my father called her every crude name in the dictionary and beyond.” His jaw tightened, making his face look even more square than usual, and his gray eyes went dark. I could sense his temper, kept in strict check but always there.

“Martin,” my voice was gentle, “your father was very ill. I saw many instances at the Farm where people acted strangely because they could not help it. Your mother understood that, and so must you. And the poor man has been dead and buried these five years.”

Martin was silent for several minutes, turning the pages of the book of theology that he had carried into the room. He had a passion for difficult subjects; he loved anything intricate that required clear thinking, which was probably why he was so very good with money.

“Your stepfather is furious,” he finally said.

“My stepfather is frequently furious about one thing or another.” I put some reinforcing stitches into the junction of a side seam and tiny armscye. “I believe that is why he loves politics so much; he can work himself up into a passion and still stay within socially acceptable bounds.”

I noticed that, now I was almost back in society, my manner of speaking had reacquired a certain edge that it never had at the Poor Farm. With sweet Tess and the godly Mrs. Lombardi, I had become a kinder person; I was not sure that I liked lapsing back into my former waspish self. I sighed and resolved inwardly to guard my speech.

“Martin.” I lifted my eyes from my sewing and met his storm-gray ones steadily. “I am so very grateful for the shelter you have given me. Let me rest here in peace for a few days, until the news of my departure has died down and my stepfather has stopped looking for me under every stone. I have many things that I would like to discuss with you before I decide on my next move.”

Martin smiled. “My dear Nell, you are welcome to stay for as long as you want. In truth, to have a young woman and a baby around the house is a revelation; I had not realized how delightful it would be to come home to company over the supper-table and a little one to dandle on my knee whenever the fancy takes me. You will quite persuade me to give up my bachelorhood.”

I smiled faintly and lowered my eyes to my sewing again. Martin might not find my presence quite so pleasant when he found out that I suspected my stepfather of “murder most foul” and was preparing to confront him with that knowledge. A most unwomanly plan indeed.

I
let three weeks pass peacefully in the quiet comfort of Martin’s home. He was at his store from eight in the morning until six-thirty at night every day of the week except Sunday, and even on the Sabbath‌—‌he was not religious‌—‌he spent an hour or two working on his papers. So I plied my needle steadily as the days wore on, and Sarah spent a large portion of the day in Tabby’s doting care. The old woman spread three blankets on top of one another in her airy kitchen at the back of the house, and my daughter spent many happy hours there, laughing, rolling around, and playing with the various objects that Tabby found to amuse her.

I was surprised at how well Martin and I got on as adults. He said that it was because I had changed so much, which was perhaps not an entirely complimentary remark. Over the course of several days, I gradually told him the story of the Poor Farm, the discovery of the bodies of Jo and her baby, the death of Blackie, and the madness of Mr. Ostrander. When he heard what Mr. Ostrander had said about my stepfather, Martin’s brows drew together, and he looked so angry that I leaned forward impulsively and put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t think of confronting him for me, Martin. I will find a time and place to do it. To be honest, I am putting off the moment.” As soon as I said this, I knew I was admitting a difficult truth to myself. “I feel that I have a duty to bring justice to Jo and Benjamin, to Blackie, even to poor Mr. Ostrander; yet I am afraid to put myself and Sarah into danger by confronting Hiram. And I am afraid of the effect any shock might have on Mama, and besides I keep hoping‌—‌for her sake‌—‌that Stepfather has some kind of explanation that exonerates him.”

“Such as?” Martin’s expression was incredulous.

“Such as that there is another Hiley Jackson, or‌—‌or‌—‌or‌—‌I don’t know.” I sighed. “I am a coward, Martin. I don’t want it to be true.”

Martin was silent for several minutes, and I listened to the thunder outside. A summer storm was beating hard on the windowpanes, but inside this haven, redolent with the beeswax Tabby used on the furniture, I felt safe and secure.

“I do not think there is another Hiley Jackson, Nell,” he said slowly. “I can tell you something that corroborates Mr. Ostrander’s story.”

THIRTY-THREE

A
crash of thunder shook the house, and I stepped into the hallway to listen for Sarah. There were no sounds from upstairs, so I returned to the sitting room and resumed my place opposite Martin, who was trimming the lamp. Once the light had returned to a steady golden glow, he seated himself and spent a minute collecting his thoughts, his hands interlaced under his chin.

“You know, Nell, that sometimes I attend the political meetings held at your stepfather’s store.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“I don’t make a habit of it, as my ambitions do not lie in the political arena. And yet it can be useful to be there on occasion; the most influential men in Victory make useful commercial allies as well as political ones.”

I nodded, willing him to come to the point.

“About two years ago, one meeting ended early with the decision to adjourn to Murphy’s saloon. There are some hard drinkers in that group, and that evening they were in the majority. So I went along; I am not especially fond of liquor, but the conversation had been interesting, and I hoped for a few words with one of the men.”

Martin shifted in his chair as a gust of wind rattled the window casement. “Your stepfather is also not a drinker, I think.”

“He rarely drinks. Like you, he finds it expedient to do so on occasion.”

“Precisely. That was one of those evenings. Hiram partook of several glasses of bourbon. He became very loud and rather boastful.”

Where on earth was this leading? I leaned forward in my chair, the better to catch Martin’s words above the noise of the rain and thunder.

“He said many things that night, but one thing in particular I remember. He talked about the Prairie Haven Poor Farm and what a benefactor he was to the imbeciles who resided there. One of the other men, who was thoroughly drunk, called them ‘useless dribblers’ and made unpleasant remarks about their mental capacities, their appearance, and so on.”

A year earlier, such a remark would have passed over me. Now I felt my lips tighten as I thought of the women I had come to know.

“So Hiram said,” Martin leaned forward, “that some of the women were quite pretty. I do not want to repeat his exact terms, Nell, as they were most vulgar. But he implied that some of the women were worth taking to bed.” His cheeks darkened slightly, but he held my gaze and spoke without hesitation.

“He said something along these lines: ‘There’s a little girl called Jo who’s like a china doll‌—‌prettiest blue eyes you ever saw. She adores me, and she’d‌—‌’.” He flushed a deeper red and took a deep breath before continuing. “Well, Nell, I don’t want to repeat that part. But he implied that this Jo would welcome him into her arms.”

My disgust must have shown on my face, because Martin reached across the space that separated us and took my hand in his. “I’m sorry, Nell. Hiram did not say anything more specific about Jo, because the conversation took a decidedly vulgar turn and some of the men talked about adjourning to a certain establishment down by the river. I shook a few hands and left, pleading an early start the next day. The truth was, I had become thoroughly tired of the conversation and did not want to be dragged into the proposed activities. I do not consort with the kind of women they planned to visit.”

I was grateful for that, but I did not miss the implication of Martin’s story. It seemed likely that my stepfather had joined in the rest of the evening’s activities. I shuddered.

Martin released my hand and leaned back in his chair. “It is a distasteful story, and I am sorry to have told it. But it undoubtedly suggests that Hiram was the Hiley, or the Ly-lee, that Jo identified as the man she had been with. I am really very sorry, Nell.”

W
e were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the rain. The thunder had headed south and was now just a muted grumbling in the distance.

I had been letting the days slip by in comfort, giving myself time for the excitement of my escape to die down, but I could not put off the confrontation with my stepfather for much longer. I said so to Martin.