The Dressmaker's Dowry

by Meredith Jaeger

  Hunter’s eyes shone with tears. The anger left his face and his hands hung by his sides. “I need some time to process this. My dad thinks we should get a divorce.”

  I shook with sobs, burying my face in my hands. Walter had hated me since the beginning, just like most of my high school class. I’d become a pariah, lost every single one of my friends. I’d begged my mom to let me drop out, but she’d forced me to keep going, staying up late with me to help me finish my homework. My parents already had so little, and then I’d drained their savings with my legal bills. I worked so hard to expunge the crime from my record and to get a good job so I could make it up to them. Then they died one after the other. Now I was losing Hunter too.

  “I guess I’m being punished for what I’ve done,” I said, choking on my sobs. “Of course you want a divorce.”

  “No,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “You’re punishing yourself. And you’re twisting my words. So why don’t you be honest with me about something else. Is this why you’re not ready to have kids?”

  I nodded, tears trickling down my face. I longed to throw my arms around my husband’s neck and to breathe in the piney scent of his skin. I needed Hunter to tell me everything would be okay, like he always did. But it wouldn’t. Not this time.

  I tugged my emerald ring from my finger and held the family heirloom out to him. “You should take this back.”

  “Sarah,” Hunter said, his eyes widening. “What are you doing? You’re not thinking straight. Seriously, you need to calm down.”

  “Just take it,” I said.

  Hunter’s fingers closed around the ring. “So this is what you want?”

  His words sucked the air out of my lungs. What if I was making the biggest mistake of my life? I loved him, so much. But the damage was done.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I watched my husband’s face collapse, the lie piercing me like shards of glass. Now that Hunter knew the truth, it wouldn’t take him long to realize he deserved someone better. Because who could love a murderer? Like ripping off a scab, I’d inflicted the pain on myself.

  “I’ll be at my parents’ house,” Hunter said, his eyes shining with tears. “You’ve made it pretty clear you don’t want me here anymore.”

  I watched stupefied while Hunter threw his clothing into a bag, and then slammed the door to our apartment behind him. But as soon as I heard his car pull away from the curb, a wail escaped my throat. I hugged Redford and buried my face in his fur. The cat rubbed his head against my chin, purring.

  Setting Redford down, I looked around for my purse, and then found it sitting on the kitchen table. Unscrewing the cap on my Klonopin bottle, I popped two pills in my mouth and downed them with a glass of water. Then I waited for the hazy fog to envelop me so I could dissolve into it, disappearing forever, like Hanna and Margaret.

  Chapter 22

  Sarah, Present Day

  My palms began to sweat as I held Gwyneth’s house key in my hand. Even though everything important in my life had come crashing down around me, I had committed to turning in my master’s thesis on time. My throat tightened. I needed one more piece of evidence to confidently write my article.

  When I pushed open the heavy door, the parquet floors gleamed in the sunlight, polished to a high gloss by Rosa. If I saw her, I’d tell her I was looking for family photos, which wasn’t exactly a lie. With a picture of the Havensworth carriage driver, I could find his name and see if he had a criminal record.

  I shut the door behind me, and my footsteps echoed in the large hall. The grand staircase leading to the bedrooms on the second floor looked like the one from the movie Titanic. Once upon a time, women in beautiful gowns probably used this wooden handrail. My chest ached, thinking Hunter was the last person to touch it.

  Had he slept well last night, or had he stayed up late, thinking about me? I tried to shake my sadness as I climbed the stairs. What the hell had I done? Walking down the hall, I stopped and then peeked into Hunter’s childhood bedroom. It didn’t have any of the normal memorabilia of most guys his age—sports trophies or posters of nineties bands.

  Gwyneth had gotten rid of everything, reupholstered the furniture in peach, and redecorated with expensive floral wallpaper imported from France. If the redesign had hurt Hunter’s feelings, he hadn’t said anything. That was his mom’s way, to hide what she found unsightly, burying the past under layers of paint.

  My lip quivered, looking at Hunter’s gym bag splayed open on the ground. A few T-shirts and pairs of boxer briefs spilled out. I stepped inside and picked up the pillow on his bed. It smelled like his hair pomade. Setting it down, I burst into tears.

  But I hadn’t come here to smell my husband’s things and cry. Gwyneth would probably keep the photo albums downstairs in one of the living room cabinets. After shutting the door, I walked down the hall.

  I was taking the spiral staircase this time. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Servants had probably been forced to stay out of sight while invited guests had the pleasure of making a grand entrance in their beaded gowns. A thrill ran through me as I pushed open the wooden door leading inside. A dark, dizzying passageway wound downward like something out of a dream.

  From what I could see, nothing was rotting or broken. Aside from being slightly cramped and spooky, the narrow staircase seemed structurally sound. My footsteps creaked as I descended the steps. Walter and Gwyneth would be at the country club for another hour or so, and I still had time to avoid them. Telling my in-laws about my separation from Hunter was too painful to think about. It would make everything real—and I wasn’t sure I wanted that.

  When my heel hit the next step, the sound echoed. Huh? Climbing up to the previous stair, I tapped the plank with my toe. The wood thumped flatly. Crouching low, I inspected the step that had made the noise, rapping my knuckles on the wood. The sound was distinctly hollow.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned my palms upward, pressing against the lip of the stair with my fingertips. With a creak, it swung open. I gasped, then coughed, sucking in a puff of dust. I looked into the dark hollow. It was shallow, only about six inches deep—a hidden compartment under the stair. Well, I’d be damned. Had this been what Gwyneth didn’t want me to find?

  At first the hole appeared empty. But when I reached my hand inside, I discovered that the edges of the compartment went farther back than I’d thought. Tucked against the far corner was the square edge of a book. I picked it up, pulling it out and blowing the debris off its cover. The leather-bound book looked nearly as old as the house itself. Gently I cracked the spine, reading the first page.

  Diary of Georgina Havensworth Chapman, 1876.

  Sitting down on a step, I carefully flipped through the pages, afraid to damage an amazing piece of history. My breathing grew shallow as I read Georgina’s descriptions of lavish society dinners and balls, of carriage rides with her husband, and Georgina’s fears that her son Marcus was not a good boy.

  I shook my head. This diary would make a wonderful addition to any San Francisco history museum—and Gwyneth loved contributing to the arts. She was a member of San Francisco’s preservation society! So why had she taken such pains to keep it hidden?

  Turning the page, I read the next entry, curious to see if Georgina’s young son had cursed at his governess during their math lesson. “Oh my God,” I whispered, bringing a hand to my mouth.

  January 12, 1876

  Today the oddest occurrence took place. Just before supper, Lucas arrived at the door with a family of immigrants from Prussia. One was a lovely dark-haired girl about my age named Miss Hannelore Schaeffer, and the other three were her younger siblings, Martin, Hans, and Katja. At first I didn’t know what to make of them. Father surely had quite the fright when Lucas introduced Miss Schaeffer as his “friend.”

  The impropriety of it! He believed her to be unmarried with three children, and thought Lucas had brought her to the house to be employed as a servant. But the dear girl had lost her own parents and
found herself in need of a place to sleep. To act as any good Christian would, I suggested to Father that he allow the family to stay. Lucas appeared quite keen on the girl, whom he had come to know at a shop in town.

  Despite her lowborn station in life, she is bright and well spoken. I do enjoy her company and I have lent her several of my old dresses. Life here has been rather dull lately and I am quite excited to have a friend to converse with, though I cannot call her a friend yet, for I hardly know the girl. But I should like to know her better, and the young children are lovely and shall make good playmates for Marcus and Annabelle.

  The look on Mother’s face at supper when Hanna mentioned her father’s trade as a blacksmith! Truly, it was priceless. For weeks I have listened to nothing other than dull talk between Charles and Father of financial things, such as fighting over in-shares. How refreshing to hear tales of a woman’s life outside the home!

  Gertrude remarked that Hanna had never seen a copper bath with indoor plumbing. Imagine! I suspect dreadful circumstances have befallen poor Hanna, for she appears as though she has not eaten in weeks, and she is forever looking about as if someone is watching. What could she be running from? Dear diary, it is late now, and I must be off to bed.

  Georgina

  “Are you kidding me?” I cried out in the empty stairwell. My surroundings became hazy, like the outside world had faded away. Had Hanna stayed in one of the very guest bedrooms I’d slept in with Hunter? She’d been in this house! Setting down the diary, I rubbed my arms, which prickled goose bumps.

  Picking up the diary, I turned the page, reading Georgina’s words as if she had written a bestseller I couldn’t put down.

  January 13, 1876,

  Today I extended an invitation to Miss Schaeffer to join Mother and me in the drawing room. I had hoped for lively conversation, as Hanna is employed as a seamstress. An unmarried girl’s life is surely far from dull. How gay it must be to work in a shop! But the poor dear had a fainting spell and took to her chamber.

  In the afternoon, Lucas accompanied Hanna on a carriage ride into town, so that the fresh air could restore her health. She returned quite rosy cheeked. From the way those two looked upon one another, I suspect the beginnings of a courtship. Papa would have the vapors, and Mother a fit, but I like to think myself a modern woman. Love does not discriminate, and Lucas may court whomever he pleases!

  Hanna is so taken by the fabric of my dresses and the workings of a bustle and hoopskirt, I’m afraid she’s never worn fine things. I often tire of the mindless chatter of Miss Delia Heathcoate and Miss Juliet Livingston. They only wish to gossip, complain of their mundane lives, and speak ill of other people.

  Oh! I am called to assist the children with their lessons. I shall write more when time allows.

  As I turned the page, Hanna’s world unfolded before my eyes. How out of place she must have felt at formal dinner with the Havensworths, just like I did. The uncanny parallel between our lives brought a shiver from the crown of my head down to my toes. Had I always been meant to find her?

  On the next entry, big round water droplets smeared the ink. The words feathered out, like Georgina had been crying.

  January 13, 1876—continued

  Tonight has been awful. I know not where to begin. My dear brother, Lucas, was to announce his betrothal to Hanna at supper. He had purchased the most gorgeous ring—a three-carat emerald flanked by twelve diamonds and set in rose gold.

  My mouth went dry. I didn’t need to look at my bare finger to know that the ring was mine. And it had belonged to Hanna.

  Of course it came as a shock that their courtship progressed so quickly, yet such whirlwind romances are not unheard of. Father is firmly opposed to the notion of marrying below one’s class, and Lucas quite rightly possessed the strong conviction to defy him. It is for these reasons I believe my dear brother truly loved the girl. And that is why my tears fall freely upon the page.

  Just before supper, I heard a commotion upstairs, like a herd of cattle thundering down the servant’s staircase. Mother, Father, Charles, and I sat with Lucas in the drawing room, awaiting his announcement. Robert could not be found—he is such a strange, brooding man, and I know not what plagues my cousin’s conscience.

  When the door slammed shut with such force, Lucas and I stood to attention. I ventured outside into the garden, finding Hanna, her hair askew and her face streaked with tears. After all the kindness I had shown, she had hopped into our very own carriage, with Clive at the reins, for an unannounced and early departure!

  With the most pained expression, Hanna reached into her bodice and produced the emerald ring. Giving it to me, she said, “Forgive me. But I cannot marry him.” I stood there aghast. My parents may not have approved of the union, but to leave my poor Lucas in such a state is unconscionable. Lucas ran to the porch just as the carriage pulled away. My brother’s heart is shattered, and his spirit crushed.

  What’s more, Robert has a broken nose from a fall down the stairs, and has produced the family silver, which Hanna intended to steal. Apparently, she hoarded it in her chamber beneath the bedclothes. And to think I had believed her to be a nice girl. Perhaps she is naught more than a common thief making a fool of Lucas.

  Calling a second carriage to the house, Robert sent a rather fearful scar-faced man to search for Miss Schaeffer. I have never seen this driver before in my life, nor do I wish to again. He gives me the willies, yet Robert assures me the man is trustworthy. What’s more, his carriage bore a terrible stench, like death!

  Thankfully, the scar-faced man did not return. Sadly, Lucas did not attend supper, so deep was his sorrow. At dinner, Robert announced the morbid news that an Irish shopgirl had been found dead in the water at California Street Wharf. How horrid indeed!

  All in all it has been a very dark day. In spite of the revelation that Hanna was not who she appeared to be, I fear Lucas will never love again. He pines for her now, crying softly in his bedchamber.

  Regrettably,

  Georgina

  I set the diary in my lap, not knowing whether minutes or hours had passed. Then I sucked in my breath. Clive! He was the Havensworths’ carriage driver, possibly Margaret’s killer. But something did not sit right. Georgina had described an Irish shopgirl found dead in the water, a girl sounding suspiciously like Margaret.

  Fumbling for my phone, I brought up the snapshot I’d taken of the newspaper article reporting Margaret’s death. Zooming in to look at the date, I read “January 14, 1876”—a day after Georgina’s diary entry.

  Rubbing my temples, I tried to concentrate. In the late 1800s, the wharves were notorious for crime and gangs—the Sydney Ducks, shady characters of San Francisco’s underworld. These were not the type of people Robert Havensworth would associate with. Plus, Georgina had said he’d never left the house.

  So how would he have heard the news?

  I tapped my lips. If Hanna had loved Lucas and wanted a better life for herself and her siblings, why wouldn’t she have waited for Lucas to announce their engagement? Even if his parents had rejected her because of class differences, why would she have run away without saying good-bye—not giving Lucas the ring in person, but giving it to Georgina instead? Hanna hadn’t even taken the silver when she fled.

  It all felt very rushed, very frantic. The sound of people running down the stairs, the silver in her bedroom, Robert’s broken nose . . . nothing added up.

  Sighing, I set the diary down on the step. Hanna wouldn’t have gotten into a carriage with a murderer. She was smarter than that. Besides, if Clive was concealing Margaret’s body, getting ready to dispose of it, the stench would have alerted Hanna right away. I gasped, my eyes zipping to Georgina’s handwriting.

  Calling a second carriage to the house, Robert sent a rather fearful scar-faced man to search for Miss Schaeffer. I have never seen this driver before, nor do I wish to again. He gives me the willies, yet Robert assures me the man is trustworthy. What’s more, his carriage bore a terrible
stench, like death!

  Wait a minute. How would Robert have known that the murder victim was Irish and a shopgirl a day before Margaret’s death was announced in the paper? And he’d called a suspicious guy, whose carriage smelled like death. Given the time Lucas had spent courting Hanna and the fact men and women in Victorian times were rarely alone together until they married, Robert had probably met Margaret.

  I covered my mouth. It wasn’t Clive who had killed Margaret. It was Robert Havensworth. Hanna hadn’t left Lucas because she hadn’t loved him. She’d left him because she’d wanted to protect him from the truth. What if Robert Havensworth had taken an interest in Margaret, gotten this scar-faced man to kidnap her, and then later asked him to dispose of her body?

  The Havensworths were murderers.

  My phone pinged, startling me so badly that I jumped. Swiping the screen, I found a text message from Nick.

  Hey chica. I searched that IP address for you. The emails from Anonymous are coming from an address in Pacific Heights. 2713 Pacific Avenue.

  I dropped my cell phone, watching it clatter down the stairs all the way to the landing. The emails had come from inside this house. My eyes pricked with tears. James hadn’t ruined my marriage, Walter Havensworth had. Of course Walter wanted to hide the fact that his wealthy ancestor had murdered a poor young Irish immigrant. As a board member of the Irish National Gallery, Walter couldn’t risk losing face with his cronies by appearing to be a giant hypocrite.

  I stood up, ready to grab my fallen cell phone, when the front door slammed. A single set of footsteps crossed the foyer. Sucking in my breath, I knocked over the diary. It fell with a thud into the dusty compartment beneath the stairs, its pages splayed open. I quietly shut the lid, hoping to retrieve the diary later. The footsteps came closer.

  Tiptoeing up the servants’ staircase, I made my way back to the second floor. Without thinking, I darted down the hallway toward Hunter’s bedroom, my breath hot and shallow. Opening the door to his room, I stepped inside and shut it behind me. Why hadn’t I run downstairs instead? Walter wasn’t going to hurt me, was he?