The House of Closed Doors (39 page)

Mr. Buchman made the usual remarks of condolence, and I replied just as conventionally. He did not seem terribly disturbed by Hiram’s death, even though he was doubtless sorry to lose a good client. We talked a little about the unseasonably warm weather and the unpleasant hot wind that was whipping up the dust on the streets, and then finally Mr. Buchman seemed prepared to get down to business.

“I suppose you have come to talk to me about my stepfather’s will,” I remarked.

Mr. Buchman cleared his throat and laced his hands over one knee. “That is partly the reason. You are aware, of course, that since your lamented mother predeceased Mr. Jackson, her property passed to him under her will, and so you inherit directly from your stepfather rather than from her, your stepfather having no other legitimate heirs.” Was it my imagination, or did he lay some slight stress on the word “legitimate”?

“Yes, my friends have explained that to me.” Indeed, I had discussed the matter with Martin.

“Unfortunately …” Mr. Buchman’s face worked as he tried to frame his sentence, “Unfortunately, your stepfather died indebted to a large amount.”

I thought of Hiram’s store and all its appurtenances and felt my brow furrow in puzzlement. “How could that be? I always thought that my stepfather’s business was successful.”

“Indeed it was, and it continues to be so. Your stepfather was drawing on the monies produced by his store to fund his political activities, and, ah, for other necessities. The business itself‌—‌the goodwill and the real estate‌—‌has long been the property of a Chicago investor.”

I felt quite cold. “How is that possible?” I whispered.

“That store flourishes, Mrs., ah, Govender,”‌—‌the way Mr. Buchman pronounced my presumed name was an indication of his lack of belief in it‌—‌”in an excellent way for a modest business. But it has never produced quite enough money for the kind of lifestyle Mr. Jackson enjoyed. His political life, his, ah, entertaining, his many travels… he had been exceeding his income for some years when he married your mother. I am not at all sure how much she knew, because she quite cheerfully signed over her right to manage her own money to him.”

Oh, Mama,
I thought.
You never did like to think about money.
We had always, when I was a child, had just enough to get by comfortably and even save a tiny amount for my dowry‌—‌I spared a thought to what might have become of that. By living quietly, the two of us would always have had enough.

“There were also, ah, other considerations.” Mr. Buchman fidgeted with a small key, which presumably fitted the lock in the box that lay by his feet. “You are aware, I am sure, that your stepfather visited North Carolina at least once a year?”

I nodded, thinking of all the times I had been glad he was in North Carolina and not in Victory.

“He had a small financial interest there that was unknown to his creditors and would return to Victory supplied with cash that he could use to maintain himself in apparent ease. He also, about five years ago, contracted, ah, obligations in that state.”

“Obligations?” I had no idea what the man was talking about.

“There was a child …” My head swam, and I know I went pale because Mr. Buchman interrupted himself. “Are you quite well, Mrs., ah, Govender?”

I took several deep breaths. “Yes. Please continue.”

“A liaison that Mr. Jackson contracted in the town of Fayetteville right at the end of the War‌—‌just about the time when he set up the business arrangement that was to prove so useful to him‌—‌resulted in the birth of a male child. He is living and healthy. And the mother was blackmailing your stepfather with the threat of revealing his existence to the world at large.”

For five years! No wonder Hiram had been so quick to eliminate Jo. He probably feared a repeat of the same strategy, feeble-minded though the poor thing was. At least,
I reflected wryly,
the woman in Fayetteville was strong enough to stand up to him.

I kept my voice neutral. “And of course my stepfather paid the money.”

“Always. He never missed a payment. He was deathly afraid of the secret coming to light. You see,” Mr. Buchman again searched for words somewhere on the ceiling and eventually looked down at his feet as he finished the sentence, “the mother is a woman of color.”

“Ah.” I understood perfectly. An illegitimate child was bad enough, but people often shrugged their shoulders when a man sowed his oats outside his own field. Some social taboos, though, were not to be broken in our corner of the world; the knowledge of such a child would have meant political death to Hiram in Victory, where colored people were a despised, gawked-at rarity.

“There is a picture,” Mr. Buchman continued, “which of course is now your property, as are the letters of blackmail. Naturally I have already written to inform the woman that Mr. Jackson is deceased and that there are no persons left with any interest in protecting his good name. I put it that way,” he continued apologetically, “so that she would not seek to maintain the enterprise at your expense. If she is a sensible woman, as I think she is, she will be content with what she has gained so far, which is a considerable amount.”

“I will see the picture.” My curiosity had the better of me. “But I do not want to see the letters. If it is possible, I would like you to continue to store my stepfather’s papers at your premises.”

“Of course.” Mr. Buchman lifted the metal box onto his knees, and deftly unlocked it. His hand slid under some of the papers to what was obviously a well-remembered location, and he drew out a daguerreotype and handed it to me.

“The boy looks white.” I saw a handsome young fellow of four or five years old with a sweet smile and a mop of tight blond curls. He was dressed very neatly in the usual frills worn by very young boys in good families. The woman standing behind him, one slim hand resting on his shoulder, could have been his servant; she was dark-skinned indeed but did not look like a Negress. I thought that Indian and maybe some European blood was mixed into her veins. She was smartly dressed, diminutive, and graceful looking. Quite like my own mother in all but color.

“Yes.” The man of business nodded vigorously. “Nature often plays such tricks when there is mixed blood, but it cannot be denied that he is the offspring of the two of them.”

I looked harder. Yes, there was a definite resemblance. Mother and son had the same shape of face and the same regal bearing‌—‌but that was Hiram’s chin on the lad, and the eyes that looked at the photographer were disconcertingly pale.

Mr. Buchman took the daguerrotype out of my unprotesting fingers. “Quite damning, is it not? Well, the woman did very well out of your stepfather and contributed substantially to the parlous financial position in which he died.”

“I am destitute then?” I had recovered from the shock and lifted my head high. I could survive without Hiram’s money.

“No, no, not by any means. I have telegraphed to a trusted colleague in North Carolina to investigate Mr. Jackson’s affairs there, and I am already speaking to his creditors on a most discreet basis. I believe that we will be able to salvage a modest, but not negligible, sum. You must leave this in my hands, and I will serve you well. But I’m afraid this house will have to be sold.”

“I understand.” As Mr. Buchman rose to leave, with many muttered words of sympathy and regret, another question struck me. “What is the boy’s name?”

“Louis Jackson.”

FIFTY-THREE

“A
nother child!” I paced up and down the parlor just as if I had been Hiram, my arms lifted to the heavens. “Another child! What was wrong with that man?”

“A low resistance to temptation, I would surmise.” Martin was sitting watching me, his arms crossed. “His first wife had, after all, been dead for some time.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I stopped pacing, frowning at Martin in confusion.

“Then I won’t enlighten you.” One corner of Martin’s mouth twisted down, and then he smiled. “Nell, I declare that you are more concerned that Hiram fathered another child than you are about your own financial situation.”

I shrugged. “I do not need Hiram’s money.”

Martin leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “You have lived at a certain level of comfort all your life. Even at the Poor Farm”‌—‌he held up one hand to cut off my interruption‌—‌”you were sheltered and fed. You have absolutely no idea what it is like to have nowhere to live and no food. And you have a small child. You must give some serious thought to your future.”

“You mean you wouldn’t take us in? As a dear friend, of course.” I batted my eyelashes in Martin’s direction.

I was gratified to see that Martin blushed dark pink, making his blond eyebrows stand out wonderfully. “Of course I would take you in. I have already told you I would ma‌—‌”

I laughed. “I am not serious, Martin. Don’t forget that just days ago I was ready to depart with merely a purse of coins. In fact, I still intend to work for my living. I am quite convinced that by applying my mind to the situation, I can avoid touching whatever capital Mr. Buchman can salvage from the damage Hiram has done.”

Martin dropped his head into his hands and shook it vigorously. “Independence,” he groaned. “You are certainly Red Jack’s daughter. Could you not simply do what other women do and graciously accept your station in life?”

I ignored him. “I sent Mrs. Lombardi a note to tell her that my departure was delayed. I did not tell her
why
my departure was delayed‌—‌better that she hear the news from me along with the rest of the truth about Hiram. If I leave for Chicago on the eleventh, that will still give me several days with her, and before that I will have a little more time to ascertain the state of my finances.”

Martin said nothing, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair in mock despair. I smiled as I watched his playacting. With the traumatic events of the last few days behind us, we both seemed to be attempting to bring the old lightheartedness back to our relationship.
Much better that way,
I thought.

“Anyway, back to the matter of the child Hiram sired‌—‌”

“What of it?” asked Martin. “You are surely not going to pay a visit to the family.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Only‌—‌now that the payments from my stepfather have ceased, do you think the woman will make trouble?”

“How can she? She is in North Carolina and is unlikely to come north to blackmail
you
. And in any event, you will be long gone. I propose that you forget all about Hiram’s little by-blow.”

“I will never forget the name,” I mused. “Louis Jackson. The poor innocent little thing; it is no more
his
fault than Sarah is responsible for the circumstances of her birth.”

“Ah.” Martin’s face brightened. “You are consumed with fellow-feeling for the innocents in the case! How very altruistic of you, Miss Eleanor.”

I aimed a kick at his ankle, which he neatly dodged with a short laugh. In truth, I was consumed by curiosity more than anything else. But Martin was right: I would never see the woman and her son, who must suffer the fate of those shoved to the margins of society by the sins of the flesh.