Helen looks down. “Sometimes residents trade items of value for things they want that they’re not supposed to have.” Her voice is a half whisper.
“Like … tobacco? Or alcohol?”
Helen nods.
“Or getting help to leave?”
Helen looks back up at Lily. “It’s … it’s possible.”
Lily turns this over—that would explain why Thea’s scent abruptly started along the path by the cemetery. She must have convinced someone—Helen?—to help her leave the cottage without raising an alarm, and then given them her shoes. And maybe other valuable objects.
Or, in the hour or so that passed before Lily was brought to this room, the shoes and any valuables had been removed? That doesn’t make sense. The absence of shoes, of at least one precious item—Lily glances at the roommate’s daguerreotype—raises more questions than it answers.
Lily gives Helen a questioning look.
Helen looks taken aback. “Oh no, ma’am, it wasn’t me, I swear! I wouldn’t help her escape in any case. It is too dangerous, especially for someone like her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was so forgetful. And too trusting.”
“I see. Did she have any possessions besides her shoes that might be missing from this box? Any jewelry for example?”
“She had a brooch that she liked to wear on her lapel. And a fine silk scarf—she said it was from Paris!—that she would wind over her head sometimes, like a turban.”
Neither of these items is in the box. Perhaps they’d been thieved since her death. Or perhaps Thea had bartered dearly to get her escape.
“The items aren’t in here. Is there anything else of value that should be in here?”
Helen looks away, gives her head a shake, and Lily reckons from the blush rising up Helen’s neck that she’s lying. Yet this girl doesn’t seem like the sort who would take items of value from patients. So perhaps she’s covering for someone else who would take them?
“She was well thought of by her next of kin,” Lily says lightly. Not an entire lie—Hildy seems to have an admiring memory of her, or of how she made her feel at least. “I’m sure if there are things that have been put aside for her, her family would love to have them.”
“Oh! I’m so glad her son loved her. Miss Kincaide talked of him often, though he never visited. A shame.” An apologetic look crosses Helen’s face at what must seem, to her, a harsh judgment. She rushes on. “Sometimes family have a hard time with visiting their loved ones here, at least at first, even if it is the best place for them.”
“Ah, her son,” Lily says. “I’m having trouble remembering his name?” A bit of a white lie—Hildy’s mother swore she didn’t know Thea’s son, and the landlady where Thea had lived stated he never gave it to her, or an address where he could be found.
“Neil Leitel,” Helen says. “Dr. Neil Leitel. Miss Kincaide was right proud—always said ‘Dr.’ when referring to him! Said he was very important, very busy, but he’d come soon to visit.”
“He was a physician?” Lily keeps her voice light, though she is fuming at the son—this Dr. Neil Leitel—caring so little for his mother.
“No—a professor. Of philosophy, Miss Kincaide said. At Ohio University.”
CHAPTER 24
HILDY
Monday, September 27—4:00 p.m.
Hildy is sorrowful to see the school day near its end. Little Becky had a breakthrough with her multiplication tables and is bouncing with delight. Jameson is practicing his cursive letters, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. As Hildy flitted from desk to desk, her energy has only increased since the beginning of the day.
As much as she’d enjoyed working with adults, with the children she’d found a joy like she’d never known. To be sure, there had been challenging moments—Alistair had gotten into a fight with another boy at lunch break, and one of the girls is distraught at Frankie’s absence. Even so, solutions came naturally to Hildy—giving the boys the task of washing out lunch pails for the other students, explaining that Frankie had a touch of flu but should be back soon. Something sparked within Hildy, as if it had long lay dormant and needed a chance to break free. But now it is time for the children to leave for home.
Alone in the schoolhouse, Hildy sits for the first time since lunch break at her—no, Olive’s—desk. Last Thursday, Olive had hurriedly left behind gloves and lesson plans. On Friday, Hildy had followed the lesson plans, but over the weekend, she’d found herself considering new approaches. This morning, Hildy had put the plans in the desk drawer alongside the gloves and, with a surprising, wild impulse, decided to follow her own instinct for teaching—one-on-one attention as much as possible; showing, rather than lecturing.
Effective, but exhausting, yet only now does tiredness overcome her, as if seeping out from every pore. This exhaustion, though—it’s a satisfying bone weariness born of good labor. Different from being plain tired after a long day working as jail mistress for Lily—not that she minded. She likes being useful, working hard. Bur this work calls to her. Is that how it is for Lily? For despite her deep sorrow over Daniel, Lily’s face often lights up as she conducts her duties as sheriff. Does Lily know how her satisfaction with her work shows in her expression?
Hildy is already eager to come back the next day, her mind racing ahead to how she can help each child. She already has their names, and many of their quirks, memorized.
Tomorrow, sure. Maybe the next day. Soon enough, Olive will have to come back. Definitely after the vote to integrate the union, whichever way it goes. For after that, Clarence has promised to leave. Olive will stay until a new, proper teacher can be found. Then she’ll likely go to Clarence. They’ll be together, and Olive will teach elsewhere.
Hildy’s joy collapses, and she slumps forward. What is the point of allowing herself such elation? Stolen moments. That’s all today’s teaching had been. Just like her time with Tom.
The door squeaks open, and Tom—as if beckoned by her thought—enters.
His face is drawn up with fear, and her heart drops. He is not here for her.
“We were hoping Olive was here,” Tom says.
“She’s up with Marvena and Frankie.” Frankie had taken ill that morning, unable to keep down her breakfast. Flu, Marvena had said, but more likely, the child had a nervous stomach, from all the comings and goings at Marvena’s cramped cabin, the tension exuding from Olive, and Marvena’s barely contained annoyance. In Frankie, Hildy sees something of the child she had been—too tender for this harsh world.
Tom shakes his head. “Frankie took a bad turn—”
Hildy stands quickly, exclaiming, “Oh!” For a moment, Tom’s face softens, gratitude at Hildy caring so for his niece, but then he swallows hard.
“It’s a fever Marvena couldn’t get to break, so she brought Frankie down to Nana’s. After a while, Marvena went back up to her cabin to check on Olive.” Tom swallows again. “Olive’s gone. Marvena came back down, sent Jurgis to check with—” He stops, afraid to say Clarence’s name, in case someone passes by, overhears. “I offered to go, but she sent me here.”
The air in the small schoolhouse stiffens, draws the walls closer. Ah. Marvena had thought she was doing a kindness, giving them a chance to come to some reckoning—or if not that, given Olive’s disappearance, at least a shared moment to soften the hurt between them.
Tom won’t meet Hildy’s eyes, stares down at his hat clutched between his hands. Damn his pride! Why couldn’t he have given her time to ease the news to Mother, to Merle?
It hits her. Tom didn’t want to give her time, because he doesn’t believe she would ever choose him.
Hildy’s heart sags.
He might be right.
It’s easy to be brave here—away from Mother’s pressure, from the expectations of a lifetime to marry well and become a fine town woman. A lady of the Woman’s Club.
Hildy clears her throat, and yet her voice
still sounds ragged, harsh. “Olive isn’t here. She hasn’t come here at all today.”
Tom wearily rubs his hands over his dusty face. He hasn’t had time to go home, wash up. A flash of earlier fantasies sparks Hildy’s thoughts—her awaiting him with supper, relief that another day in the coal mines, though hard, has been uneventful.
Tom steps toward Hildy, and of its own accord, her heart quickens. She forces herself to remain still, rigid. It’s over, it’s over. We’re not brave—not like Olive and Clarence.
Yet … perhaps he’ll reach for her? Touch her, a graze of fingertips on her cheek?
He stops short of coming close enough and says, barely above a mumble, “Marvena says we’re gonna need to track Olive. Need something of hers.”
Hildy stares at him for a long second. Track. Marvena and Lily had tracked poor Thea, using the rags from her feet.
She opens the desk drawer and points at Olive’s gloves.
* * *
“And this is a picture of Buckingham Palace,” Hildy says.
Frankie, sitting in Hildy’s lap at the Sacovech house, points at the palace on the front of the postcard. “And that’s where the princess lives?”
Hildy smiles, kisses the top of Frankie’s head. “Yes, that’s where the princess lives!”
They’ve gone through the postcards at least five times. Hildy had left Kinship without coat or hat, but she’d brought the postcards with her, overcome by a sense of protectiveness, imagining Mother searching her room for clues to her departure, finding the postcards, and ripping them up with satisfied glee. During her duties at the school, simple awareness of the postcards in her pocketbook had brought Hildy strength and comfort.
Hildy had wanted to go with Tom, Marvena, and Jurgis to track Olive, but Tom had been firm. She was to go to Nana’s. Help with Frankie and Alistair.
At first, Hildy had sulked over Nana’s supper of potato pierogies and a poke salad. Again, she had been judged and found lacking. Too soft, too weak to go with the other adults, just as Lily hadn’t wanted her along to track Thea.
Nana’s good cooking had improved her spirits, though she saw how tired Nana was from taking care of Frankie, who only sipped bone broth for her supper, and how Alistair too, who’d been so rambunctious at school, was sulking at being left behind.
Near the end of supper, Alistair caught Hildy studying him, and he scowled. Hildy half-grinned at him, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue. Alistair had giggled, and then Frankie too, while Nana sighed as if in dismay at such shenanigans, though a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. After supper, while Frankie napped in the front room, Alistair and Hildy helped Nana can a batch of late-harvest tomatoes.
Then Nana made peppermint tea for all of them. “Life is hard,” Nana had said. “Have tea.”
Now, a few hours later, Nana sits in her rocking chair, crocheting a length of lace. The tiny house is humid and stuffy with the arch smell of tomatoes. Nana gives Hildy a long look. Why are you filling the child’s head with such fancifulness?
Yet looking at the faded pictures on the front of the postcards awed Frankie. The child couldn’t read cursive yet, and even if she could, Thea’s taut, slanted handwriting would prove a challenge. So Hildy had made up stories to go with the pictures.
Alistair looks up from a well-worn old copy of All-Weekly Story—Hildy’s father used to get the magazine, and Hildy had taken several to Tom to inspire his reading. Mother certainly wouldn’t miss them. Alistair says, “No such thing as princesses and castles!”
Hildy holds back a smile. This, from the boy raptly rereading the exploits of John Carter in A Princess of Mars, a soldier who’d somehow ended up on Mars and become immortal.
“Yes there are!” Frankie says. “Here!” She points to the picture of Buckingham Palace again. She looks up at Hildy. “Aren’t there?”
Hildy nods. “There are.”
Frankie stares up at her. “Do you think I could sing there someday? For a princess?”
Such a wild dream. As wild as going to another planet.
Hildy turns over the postcard, stares at Thea’s script, rubs her thumb lightly over the stamp. Then she ruffles the top of Frankie’s head. It doesn’t feel as hot as earlier. With Nana’s tender care, the little girl’s fever has broken. “Of course.”
Nana stops crocheting for a moment, gives Hildy a long look. “Sometimes, what we want is right here, in front of us. Just takes a little courage, is all. Mayhap, a little forgiveness.”
Hildy frowns. Forgiveness? Tom, the stubborn ass, has yet to tell her he is sorry!
Nana smiles, shakes her head, returns to her crocheting.
“Tell me the story again, about the princess!” Frankie says.
Alistair groans.
“Well, once there was a princess who lived in a palace, but she didn’t want to wait for a prince to take her on adventures. So she decided to go find her own adventures! One day—”
The door swings open. Tom. Only Tom. Alistair jumps up, runs to his dad. Tom looks past Alistair, even as the boy throws his arms around his father’s waist. Hildy’s eyes lock on Tom’s—and she reads his gaze, immediately and without doubt. Come. Please.
Hildy gently lowers Frankie from her lap. She wants to tell her that everything is going to be fine, but she can’t bring herself to say this. Such a hard and bruising world. Things rarely are fine—or stay that way for long. As Frankie’s eyes well up, Hildy hands her the precious postcard, all the way from London. “Can you take care of this for me?”
Frankie nods, eyes widening.
“Good. When I see you again, tell me a story you made up from the picture. All right?”
* * *
They don’t have to drive far, but the mule towpath is so narrow and rutted that Hildy’s automobile bounces on its frame as branches lash the sides. Hildy drives as swiftly as she dares. Not too hard. Breaking down on this route meant for mule carts heaped with coal wouldn’t do any good.
“You’re doing fine, Hildy, fine.”
Tom’s voice, tender and admiring, sifts through the darkness of the automobile over to her. A caress. Here, in this dire situation, hurtling through the night, anxiety making her heart thud, she finally hears the Tom she’s so missed.
And yet a hardness encases her. Tom—the others—need her. But when she’d needed him to give her time, help her through, all she’d gotten was brusque pride.
Hildy presses her automobile to go a smidge faster.
Well, damn if she is going to let her emotions give her pause now. Olive needs help. Tom had explained at the start of the drive: Marvena bartered to borrow Sadie; with the glove, they’d tracked Olive. Found her—bloody, beaten, broken. Beyond what Nana can tend to, Tom had said, if’n it were safe to bring her back to Rossville. But it ain’t.
“There!” Tom points.
Hildy sees only darkness and branches before her, but she slows her automobile. Before she can fully stop, Tom opens the door, jumps out, takes off running. Hildy sets the parking brake, follows after him, and then she sees the coal-oil lantern.
Marvena and Jurgis hunched over another form.
Hildy rushes over and drops to her knees next to Olive.
Oh God. Her face—one cheek knife slashed, eyes beaten to swelling and cracking. Locks of hair, snatched from her scalp. Her arm, twisted and broken behind her. Her lips, puffy and split.
Hildy’s stomach turns; hot tears overflow her eyes. Oh God. What animal, what monster—for surely no human could do this—had beset poor Olive?
Then Hildy spots the note, pinned to Olive’s dirty, ripped dress, like a child’s name tag for school: A warning for all—Bronwyn County Chapter WKKK.
Not an animal, then. Human. No, monsters. In human form.
Hildy blinks back her tears, sees with a rush of relief that Olive is breathing. Still alive.
“She was able to talk when we found her.” Marvena’s voice, strumming low and tight, and Hildy knows that if the monster who’d
done this were before them Marvena would not be like Lily, asking questions, trying to suss out the why, why? She’d simply shoot the monster dead. And Hildy, in this moment, would cheer her on. “Fool woman, went to wait for Clarence, hanging back in the woods behind the boardinghouse. Then they got her. Three women. In their cowardly hoods and capes—” Marvena stops, strangling on her words, and Hildy realizes that Marvena too is crying.
“Margaret suspected,” Hildy says, “but how did they know for sure—”
“It’s my fault. Found Lily in Kinship at some fancy women’s meeting—”
“The Kinship Woman’s Club,” Hildy says, remembering that she was supposed to have been at that meeting. “Oh God. The meeting was at Margaret’s house.”
Olive moans, tries to speak, attempts to lift her broken arm, to sit up, but falls back.
“Easy, easy.” Jurgis shivers. His coat is spread over her as a blanket.
Hildy leans over Olive. “Did you get a glimpse? Was Margaret Dyer one of the ones—”
“Hood … fell.…” Olive nods. Agony pulses her face.
“Dyer—that was the farmhouse where we found the hood,” Marvena says.
Hildy looks up at Marvena. “Anyone see you at the Dyers’ house, in Kinship?”
“I found Lily in the kitchen. There was a stringy-haired woman, a boy, working back there, but Lily and me, we went to her house before I told her anything.” Marvena hesitates. Her face pulses, stricken, and her hand goes to her mouth. “Oh God…”
“What?” Tom snaps.
“Lily kept glancing behind us on the walk back,” Marvena says, a half whisper. “Said she thought she saw a boy, but then she laughed it off, said her imagination had gotten the best of her when we’d been out tracking—but, mayhap…” She stops, unable to finish the terrible thought.
Hildy realizes what Marvena’s trying to express: Lily had been working so hard lately, was so tired. Maybe she had imagined a boy. Or maybe she had caught a glimpse of Junior, following them, overhearing through the back door, reporting back to Missy, who would have reported back to Margaret.
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