The Dressmaker's Dowry

by Meredith Jaeger

  Before I could make a move, the doorknob twisted. Taking a step backward, I looked at the window. The bedroom was two stories up, with no way to get out, and I didn’t have my phone to call the police.

  The door swung open, and I tried to scream. But the sound never escaped my mouth. Hunter stood before me wearing a pair of shorts, golf shoes, and a sweaty polo shirt. “Sarah,” he said, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m—I’m—” I stammered, staring at my husband. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be at work?”

  Hunter stepped toward me, holding both my shoulders. The kindness in his eyes enveloped me, along with the familiar piney scent of his cologne. My muscles went rigid as I prepared myself for the worst. No matter how much I wanted Hunter to forgive me, I didn’t know if he could.

  “I took a long lunch to go golfing,” Hunter said, his hazel eyes locked on mine. “I needed to clear my head. And I want to talk to you about last night.” He sighed. “I said my dad wants us to get a divorce, not that I want one. I don’t give a damn what my dad thinks.” Hunter touched his nose to mine. “I realized how I might have made you feel attacked, and how you lashed out at me because of it. I’m so sorry about how I spoke to you. I should have been more understanding.”

  My muscles began to relax one by one. My husband’s words washed over me like warm water. We stayed there for a moment, hugging each other close.

  “I’m an idiot,” I said, a tear trickling down my cheek. “I didn’t mean what I said when I gave you back the ring. I don’t ever want you to leave me. I’m so sorry that you had to find out about my past from your father. I was ashamed. I’ve never been able to forgive myself, and I didn’t think you’d look at me the same way again.”

  Hunter stroked my cheek, his eyes sad. “You’re too hard on yourself, you know that? Listen to me. I forgive you. Do you hear me, Sarah? I forgive you. You need to forgive yourself too.”

  My lip trembled, and tears slipped over my cheeks. Hunter wiped them away with his thumb. “Tell me the truth,” he said quietly. “Is the reason you don’t want kids because you don’t think you deserve them?”

  I nodded. Hunter slid his hands down, holding me tightly by the waist. “I want you to know that I love you no matter what. Your past is in your past. I only care about our future. Personally, I think you’d make a great mom.”

  “You don’t hate me?”

  He smiled, indenting his dimple. “Of course I don’t hate you.”

  I leaned against Hunter’s strong chest. “Does that mean you’re willing to work through this?” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Because I want to. I’m so sorry for not being open with you earlier about my accident. I didn’t feel like I could be.”

  “Hey,” Hunter said, murmuring into my hair. “I don’t ever want to lose you, Kiddo. I want you to feel like you can talk to me about anything, even if it scares you, even if my dad gives us a hard time. That’s what I’m here for. No more secrets, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I said, tracing the familiar curve of my husband’s jaw. “When I married you, I felt like I had a family again. You are my family.”

  “And you’re my family too. You’re my whole universe.”

  Hunter tilted his head, his lips so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I whispered.

  Hunter’s nose brushed against mine. “Not until I give you this.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a closed fist, and then opened his palm.

  My eyes welled with tears. “You brought that with you to the golf course?”

  Hunter nodded. “I’ve been carrying it in my pocket all day, hoping I’d have the chance to give it back to you.”

  The large emerald surrounded by a halo of diamonds sparkled in the sunlight. Never had the Havensworth family heirloom looked so beautiful.

  “Will you take this ring,” Hunter asked, “and me to be your husband? I know I’m not always the easiest guy to be around, but I love you with all my heart.”

  “I love you too,” I said, my voice breaking. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

  Sliding the ring onto my finger, Hunter looked at me with the same expression I’d seen on our wedding day, letting me know he’d always be there for me, accepting me flaws and all. Closing my eyes, I kissed him.

  Could I forgive myself, like he had asked me to?

  Hunter didn’t think I was a monster. He thought I was a good person who’d had very bad luck. And for the first time in my life, I began to believe it too. As we kissed each other, the air filled with the scent of lavender. I had the strangest sensation that Hanna was smiling at me, knowing her ring had found its rightful place.

  Epilogue

  Trees blurred past as Hunter turned his BMW off Highway 49 and onto a long dirt road. I rolled down my window, breathing in the crisp mountain air. It smelled like pine needles and campfire smoke, so different from the city fog. Quaint clapboard buildings stood next to barns with faded paint. Passing through the mining town in the Sierra Nevada foothills felt like traveling back in time to the nineteenth century.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked, squeezing Hunter’s hand.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “A little bit. Are you?”

  “Yeah. But it’s a good kind of nervous.”

  Shifting gears, Hunter pulled the steering wheel to the right, driving us into a residential neighborhood. My stomach had been doing flips for the past hundred miles, but I hadn’t taken my Klonopin. Now when I felt my anxiety coming on, I reached for Hunter’s hand or my therapist’s phone number. Today, I’d pinned my bangs back into my ponytail, showing my forehead for the first time in years. My scar exposed me for what I was—not a cold-blooded killer, but a human being who’d made a mistake.

  “I think we turn right here,” I said, pointing to a farm building, its sheet metal corroded with rust. “He said right at the fork.”

  Horses flicked their tails and watched us with curious eyes as Hunter’s tires crunched along the gravel. Swaying in the breeze, tall golden oats lined both sides of the road. A flock of birds formed a V in the sky. Smiling, I watched them soar higher and higher. Today I felt just as free, making my own way in the world.

  Jen had reported James, and he’d resigned from his post as editor in chief. It turns out he’d been harassing a few of the interns as well, and Jen had given them the courage to come forward with their stories.

  As for my master’s thesis, I’d passed my final exam with flying colors. Mariko had encouraged me to submit it to local magazines, and “The Lost Dressmakers of the Barbary Coast” had been the San Francisco Chronicle’s most-read article to date. With Bill McClaren’s follow-up call, I’d gotten the employment paperwork necessary to clear Kieran McClaren of Margaret’s murder. Kieran had been in Alameda on the night of her disappearance, working at the shipyard.

  I didn’t name Robert as the killer. To the public, the story of Margaret O’Brien and Hannelore Schaeffer remained an unsolved mystery. But at the very least, I’d shed light on their lives and the conditions of working-class women during the Victorian era. No matter how many tech companies set up shop in the city, San Francisco would never lose its soul. I’d devoted myself to the forgotten history of its unrecognized heroes. My next article focused on the first labor organization led by African Americans.

  I felt confident working as a freelance journalist with my master’s degree under my belt. I had a flexible schedule, which allowed me to help Hunter with his start-up, and I was very lucky to write the stories I felt passionate about.

  “I’m proud of you, Kiddo,” Hunter said, turning to me.

  “Thank you, Sweetie.”

  “Forget those Kardashians,” Hunter said, chuckling. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who broke the Internet. How many hits does your article have now?”

  “Don’t know,” I said, grinning. “A lot.”

  “Mom and Dad a
re meeting with a lawyer today,” Hunter said, “about filing the paperwork. I’m glad you finally got them on board.”

  Sticking my arm out the window to feel the breeze, I smiled. “Well, considering how your dad tried to blackmail me into keeping the truth about Robert Havensworth a secret, I’d say it’s a pretty fair trade.”

  Hunter’s brows drew together. “I’m still so angry with him. No matter what his intentions were, it was wrong. Especially him following you around.”

  I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  Hunter hadn’t spoken to his father for over two months. I’d shown him the emails from “Anonymous” and Nick’s text confirming the IP address. Later, Walter had apologized to me in private, explaining how he cared only about his son’s well-being and had Hunter’s best interests in mind. Honestly, his apology felt insincere, but I decided to forgive him on one condition.

  Walter was now the proud president of a nonprofit where art education was free to any student with the drive to pursue it. Lucas had founded Havensworth Art Academy for Hanna, as an act of his undying devotion. What began as an NPO had been restored to what Lucas intended it to be: a school for all people, no matter their background.

  While Hunter’s car bumped along the road, I thought back on the pages of Georgina’s diary, which had taught me so much. Though Lucas eventually married Juliet Livingston, he never forgot Hannelore Schaeffer, the woman he truly loved. Every day, he gazed upon Hanna’s painting in his study. According to Georgina, it was his most prized possession, worth more to him than every Monet in the house.

  “Hey, do I turn right here?” Hunter asked, peering at the faded sign.

  “Yep, this is the street,” I said, my thoughts shifting back to the present. I bit my lip. “I’m so excited.”

  “Easy there, Tiger,” Hunter said, steering the car slowly. “You don’t want to scare the poor guy. He was pretty cool to invite us up here.”

  “That’s the house,” I said, pointing out the window at a Victorian cottage, fish-scale shingles painted a sunny yellow. “Pull over.”

  Hunter turned off the car, and I smiled. All of my research had brought me to this tiny mountain town, where Hanna’s story continued. Opening the door, I took a deep breath. Birds chirped in the trees and the sun warmed my shoulders. Purple shadows dappled the ground, pine needles crunching beneath my feet. I could see why Hanna had chosen this place to start over. The rocking chair on the front porch looked like a comfortable spot to sit with a glass of iced tea.

  I followed Hunter up the creaky porch steps. Lavender bloomed in the yard, the sweet scent filling the air. Everywhere I looked seemed to burst with color. In the exhibit of gold rush artifacts, where I’d found Hanna’s plate fragment, initially I’d overlooked something important. At the site of Tomkinson’s livery and stable, there’d also been a ledger from the boardinghouse above.

  Hannelore Schaeffer was not listed among the names of guests who’d stayed there. But Hanna Mueller was. And on a hunch, I had Googled her. An Internet search revealed census results for Hanna Mueller, a widow in Sutter Creek, California. In addition to her “children” Martin, Hans, and Katja, she had another child, a son named Luke, born October 17, 1876.

  Hunter rapped his knuckles on the screen door. The knob turned and it swung open. With his height and tanned skin, the man standing in the doorway could have passed for Hunter’s brother. They even had the same wavy dark hair.

  “Mike Bauer?” Hunter asked, sticking out his hand.

  “That’s me,” Mike said, giving Hunter a hearty handshake and then gripping my palm in his. “And you must be Sarah. Come on in.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Really, I appreciate this so much.”

  Mike waved us inside. “We’re family, after all. Right?”

  Hunter laughed. “Yeah, man, we are.”

  I’d begged Mike not to hang up on me when I’d called to tell him that he and my husband shared the same great-great-great-grandfather, Lucas Havensworth. Mike had listened, and then he’d invited me to the home where Hannelore Schaeffer had spent the remainder of her life. I’d been so excited when I’d gotten off the phone with Mike that I’d danced around the kitchen.

  Stepping inside the sun-drenched living room, I gazed at pictures in silver frames, which sat on the mantel of an old brick fireplace. Oil paintings of landscapes and portraits of men, women, and children hung from the walls. Ticking in the corner, a large grandfather clock stood watch, at least a century old.

  I stepped closer, admiring a painting of the riverbank at dawn, the water sparkling in the sunlight. In another, an old barn stood next to hay bales round as bread rolls. My eyes settled on the next, where a woman with chestnut hair and blue-gray eyes stared off into the distance. A slight smile rested on her lips.

  Mike nodded. “My grandma’s grandma painted those. That one is a self-portrait.”

  “It’s Hanna,” I murmured.

  Seeing Hanna as a grown woman, long after she’d left San Francisco and the Barbary Coast behind, I felt emotional. “She’s beautiful.”

  Walking over to the mantel, I picked up a framed sepia photograph. A dimpled towheaded boy stood in front of a woman with dark hair and a long dress. Hanna. She looked straight at the camera, a fierce determination in her eyes. With her hands on the boy’s shoulders, she looked prepared to protect him with her life.

  Setting the picture down, I looked at the next photo. Two young women stood arm in arm against the railing of a wooden bridge. Behind them, boys cast fishing poles into the water, and schooners bobbed in the distance. The girl with long curly hair threw her head back in laughter, while the other girl, with two braids pinned up, smiled shyly. I touched the glass, my throat tightening. I didn’t have to ask to know this was a picture of Hanna and Margaret.

  Turning my gaze to the rocking chair, which sat empty by the window, I wondered how many times Hanna had waited there, thinking of Margaret and Lucas, the loved ones she’d lost.

  “Cool furniture,” Hunter said. “Are these antiques?” He trailed his fingers along a wooden end table. “Man, people had such an appreciation for craftsmanship back then.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “My brother wants to sell this place, but I don’t mind taking care of the old house. I like keeping it the way it is.”

  I turned to Mike. “That’s what I would do too.”

  “So,” Mike asked, looking at us. “Can I get you anything? Lemonade, beer?”

  “I’ll take a beer,” Hunter said.

  “I’ll have a lemonade,” I answered. “Thanks.”

  I’d gone off the pill. My therapist helped me see that even though Connor died, his death didn’t mean I didn’t deserve kids of my own. Hunter and I made love differently now, giddy with the possibility of what might happen. I knew he’d make a wonderful father—I’d always known it. Hunter smiled at me, squeezing my hand.

  Mike disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with two bottles of Sierra Nevada and a glass of lemonade. We sat down together at a long table in the living room.

  “I’d love to hear your stories about Hanna,” I said, scooting my chair closer. “After all this research, I feel like I know her. But I only know a small part of her life.”

  Mike swigged his beer, and then set it down to rest on a coaster. “My grandma always told me that her Oma, Hanna, was a resourceful pioneer woman. Hanna Mueller came here as a widow and opened her own shop in Sutter Creek.”

  I pictured Hanna forging her independence far away from the gritty streets of San Francisco, and how much bravery that must have taken. It must have been hard for her to let go of her old life, her friendships, and her love for Lucas.

  I chewed my lip. “She wasn’t actually a widow, though. I think she told the townspeople that because it was easier. Did she ever marry?”

  Mike nodded. “She married a Swiss immigrant named Peter Bauer. They built this house together and lived here until old age.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, clasping
my hands.

  Domestic life offered love in small moments. It wasn’t passionate or fiery, but it was real. Raising a family together, running a store, building a home—those things forged a strong bond between two people. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if the fireworks Hanna shared with Lucas smoldered like embers in her heart.

  “The business they opened kept growing. Our family still owns it. Bauer’s Hardware, right over on Main Street in town.”

  Hunter raised his beer glass. “We passed it when we drove in. That’s so cool. We’ll have to check it out on the way back. And I bet there were lots of customers back then, because of the miners.”

  Mike smiled. “Yeah, there were. Hanna and Peter did well for themselves. They had a happy life, kids, and grandkids.” His eyes brightened, looking at me. “Speaking of which, I found some stuff you might be interested in. Hang on a sec.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching Mike get up from the table.

  After Mike disappeared into the other room, I let my eyes roam the interior of Hanna’s home, drinking in every detail: the blue-painted plates, the lace curtains, the beautiful hand-carved chairs made from sturdy oak. Maybe Hanna’s husband, Peter, had built them. I wanted to touch everything, to feel closer to her.

  Mike reemerged with a shoebox in his hands. Blowing dust off the lid, he set it down on the table. “When I was cleaning out the back bedroom, I found this box of stuff that’s so old I think it must’ve belonged to Hanna. I thought you might be interested.”

  “May I?” I asked, reaching for the box.

  “Of course,” he said. “Open it up.”

  Hunter leaned forward on his elbows as I lifted the lid. Setting it down, I peered inside. My breath hitched when I saw the small treasures—a smooth stone, a pinecone, a green marble. Lifting a blue jay feather, I twisted it between my fingers. Maybe Hanna’s son had brought it to her after playing outside beneath the pine trees.