The Infamous Miss Ilsa

by Laine Ferndale

  Usually, this work made her feel like a character in a detective story. Every scrap of information was a clue, and one day she would find the answer and claim her reward. But tonight, the small print swam in front of her vision, and thoughts about the stupid dance and stupid Mrs. McSheen and stupid, boring Fraser Springs tugged at the edge of her concentration. Even flipping through the fashion plates didn’t soothe her restlessness. She should probably call it a night.

  By the time Ilsa restored the hatbox to its place under the bed, the rest of the girls were returning from their evening adventures, creeping up the stairs, trying so hard to be quiet but hitting every squeaky plank along the way. Creak. They’d giggle. Creak. They’d giggle louder. Shhh, one would tell the other.

  Ilsa had grown up in orphanages, and nothing lulled her to sleep like the sounds of poorly hushed mischief. Yes, Fraser Springs was home. These people were her people. She didn’t have any reason to complain. And yet when she closed her eyes, the contents of the hatbox raced through her mind. The price of buttons, where to buy the best bulk fabric, the cost of storefront rental—her future spread out before her like an arithmetic problem she was so very close to solving.

  Chapter 2

  Theo awoke to a knock on his hotel room door. He sat up, disoriented. When had his bedroom been submerged by a tide of red velvet and waxed fruit? Where was the clock on the wall? It took a moment to realize that he was not at home. He was still in Fraser Springs, and last night’s humiliation had not, after all, been a bad dream.

  His limp was always worse in the morning, so he sat up and massaged his knee, testing its range. The fall weather wasn’t helping either.

  The knocking continued.

  “Coming,” he called.

  He swung his legs around to the side of the bed and reached for his dressing gown and cane. The first few steps seemed to take hours. The knocking increased in insistency.

  “I said I’m coming.”

  The hotel’s porter stood on the other side of the door, hand frozen mid-knock as Theo jerked it open.

  “All right, what is it?” Theo grumbled.

  “Good morning, sir.” the porter said, admirably professional in the face of Theo’s groggy rudeness. “It’s a quarter to nine, sir.”

  “Oh?” Was there anywhere he needed to be?

  “Mrs. Robert McSheen is waiting for you downstairs, sir.”

  Theo paused. The Hat Woman from last night. He didn’t remember making any plans to meet her. “Is she . . . expecting me? At a particular time?”

  The porter’s face was blank. “I don’t have any information on that. Would you like me to go ask her?”

  “No. Tell her I’ll be right down.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Damn, damn, damn, damn. Theo shut the door. Dr. Greyson had specifically told him to take the day off, but apparently the Fraser Springs welcoming committee had other plans. He attended to his appearance as quickly as he could, splashing cold water on his face to wake himself up. He found himself stymied, however, by the choices staring him down from his partially unpacked trunks. What passed for appropriate attire in this town?

  His dark suits might come across as too formal, but a twenty-three-year-old doctor with a limp needed all the professionalism he could muster. He added a plain linen pocket square, then pomaded and slicked back his hair. There. That wasn’t bad, especially not with such short notice.

  Mrs. McSheen was waiting in the centre of the compass mosaic downstairs. She wore another enormous hat that was adorned with wine-red plumes and . . . were those taxidermied sparrows? He suppressed a shudder. Her dress’ acres of purple fabric had some kind of striped pattern in the weave that seemed to flash and shift as she moved. The effect was clearly intended to be mesmerizing but in practice inspired seasickness.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McSheen,” he said. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

  She sniffed. “That’s quite all right. You are not entirely at fault, Dr. Whitacre. I had not arranged a formal time to call, as I assumed that you would rise around seven, as Dr. Greyson does. I forgot that people from Vancouver tend to keep later hours. Not everyone believes in ‘early to bed, early to rise,’ I suppose!”

  Today seemed to be shaping up to be exactly like yesterday. He assembled what he hoped was a smile. “It isn’t like me to oversleep. The fresh air here . . . ”

  “Yes!” Mrs. McSheen trilled. “Isn’t it marvellous? Well, come along. We have so many calls to make, and we are already late.”

  Theo tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The thought of facing the Finest People in Our Beloved Fraser Springs without the benefit of breakfast was daunting. Still, this town was his home for the near future, and perhaps this was an opportunity to remedy the poor impression he’d already made. “Lead the way,” he said with all the cheerfulness he could muster.

  They met the proprietor of the general store; the telegraph operator; the Presbyterian minister, the Episcopalian minister, and the Methodist minister; a flock of ladies with hats to rival Mrs. McSheen’s; and a banker and the banker’s brood of small children. Theo worked hard to shake hands and smile politely and find something to praise about the town at each stop. His guide continued to confidently mispronounce his name, and he lacked the courage to correct her. He was going to be Dr. White-ay-kurr for the duration of his stay, it appeared.

  Dr. Greyson was nowhere to be found.

  Eventually, they arrived at a building at the end of the boardwalk whose plate glass front window proclaimed it to be “Wilson’s Bathhouse.”

  “Now, this stop would not normally be on my tour. I must warn you that Mrs. Sterling is in a family way.” She paused for effect here, presumably to allow him a chance to absorb the horror of visible pregnancy. “When I was expecting a blessed event, I certainly did not make a spectacle of myself. But of course, you are a physician. I’m sure you would know all about the dangers of overexertion during pregnancy, so I would consider it a kindness if you can talk some sense into the lady.” He wasn’t sure if that was a request or an order. “And her husband, Mr. Owen Sterling, is the mayor.” Mrs. McSheen added this last in a pinched, grudging way, as though it pained her to admit that the town had a mayor at all.

  Theo didn’t know what to say to any of this. In truth, he’d only absorbed a rough outline of the entire morning. Something about services and pregnant spectacles and the mayor? The sun was high overhead, and the morning chill had burned off into a warm humidity that was surely unseasonable for autumn. The heat combined with his lack of breakfast was beginning to make him lightheaded.

  The interior of Wilson’s Bathhouse, however, was blessedly cool. An attractive, auburn-haired woman in her mid-twenties was writing in a ledger at a long counter; she rose to greet them as they entered, revealing a pronounced curve about her midsection.

  “My dear Mrs. Sterling. I do hope you’re keeping well?” cooed Mrs. McSheen. “I just dropped round to introduce our town’s newest addition. Dr. Whitacre, Mrs. Owen Sterling.”

  “Welcome.” Mrs. Sterling extended a hand. “Please, call me Jo.” The woman was indeed large with pregnancy. Did Fraser Springs have access to a midwife, or would he be expected to attend the birth? His limited obstetrics training had been damned awkward, since he’d spent at least half the practicum sessions with his eyes averted. How much worse would it be to have to socialize with the lady afterwards?

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sterling,” he said, dragging his attention back to the situation at hand. The parlour was abruptly filled with a half-dozen girls in white dresses and smocks. Mrs. McSheen dutifully set about introducing each one, though it quickly became clear she did not know most of their names.

  “And this is . . . ” She looked expectantly at the girl.

  “Mary,” the girl supplied.

  “Yes, of course. Mary! And this is . . . ”

  “Doris.” And on and on. Theo said hello to all of them like a smiling, handshaking automaton.
“And I believe that’s everyone,” Mrs. McSheen finally announced. “Where is Mr. Sterling?”

  “Either working in his study or out and about with Nils,” Mrs. Sterling said. “Would you like me to send for him?”

  “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure we’ll run across him sooner or later.” Mrs. McSheen seemed relieved that she would not have to face being upstaged by so august a personage as the town’s mayor. “We’ll be on our way, then.”

  “Oh, wait,” Mrs. Sterling interjected. “I’m afraid you have one more hand to shake, Dr. Whitacre. You can’t leave without meeting my right-hand woman. Ilsa!” she called cheerfully over her shoulder. “Come and meet the new doctor!”

  Theo’s attention snapped back to the room so quickly that he physically lurched. He steadied himself with his cane. Ilsa wasn’t a common name. But it wasn’t uncommon, either. He just hadn’t heard it in a long while, that was all. Nothing to be getting worked up over.

  The slim, female figure who drifted in through the door was backlit by the sun, and he could only make out a slender silhouette with an aura of messily pinned pale hair. But it was her. Unmistakeably her.

  He watched the shock of recognition pass over her face as she stepped closer, saw her step falter. Mrs. McSheen’s voice came from somewhere far away: “And, of course, this is Ilsa.”

  “Ilsa Pedersen,” he whispered.

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Ilsa, may I introduce Dr. Whitacre.”

  She didn’t say a word, just nodded. His mind was racing as quickly as his heartbeat: perhaps it would be better if they pretended not to know each other? He certainly didn’t want to explain their personal business to Mrs. McSheen and the assembled staff of Wilson’s Bathhouse.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss . . . Pendergast, was it?” he said.

  She seemed to have to force herself to meet his gaze, but when she did, he stared at blue eyes fringed by eyelashes so pale they were only visible when the light hit them at an angle. He knew that one eye was just slightly greener than the other and that there was a faint birthmark behind her left ear. He forced himself to adopt what he hoped was a neutral expression and held out his hand for her to shake.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Whitacre,” she said at last. She reached across and shook his hand quickly, then stepped back immediately to stand beside Mrs. Sterling.

  “Actually, it’s White-ay-kur,” Mrs. McSheen corrected.

  Ilsa’s lips quirked up at the corners, and Theo’s stomach flipped. He knew that look, the one that always meant she was barely holding back a smart-aleck response. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, Dr. White-ay-kur. I mispronounce things all the time, I’m afraid.”

  Theo felt his cheeks flush with heat. “Well, there are variations on the name. But, um. Yes, I suppose Whit-ucker is the . . . most common . . . in my particular branch of the family.”

  He didn’t need to look at Mrs. McSheen to register her displeasure. “So I have introduced you incorrectly all about town this morning?”

  Theo knew he should smooth over the situation with Mrs. McSheen, but his attention was currently committed to that little smile on Ilsa’s face. She was staring right back at him now, as if daring him to look away first. Mrs. McSheen was saying something. Damn. He had missed it, and now everyone was waiting for his response.

  “Not incorrectly, just . . . an alternative pronunciation.” He forced himself to turn and smile at Mrs. McSheen. “Really, the pronunciation doesn’t matter.”

  “Now I’m going to have to go back and correct them! The whole town!”

  “That’s not . . . I was merely trying to . . . ” He fought the urge to glance back at Ilsa, who was probably enjoying his discomfort. Which, of course, he richly deserved. Did anyone else in the room know about him, how he’d betrayed her?

  “Save it,” Mrs. McSheen snapped, storming out of the bathhouse.

  Was he supposed to follow her? He glanced at Mrs. Sterling, as if she could remind him of his lines in this farce. Her expression gave him no clues. If anything, she seemed as confused as he was. He sighed and adjusted his cane. “It was lovely to meet you all,” he said to the room at large. And, finally, he made eye contact again with Ilsa. “Lovely.”

  And, without a word, she turned on her heel and left the room.

  • • •

  As she fled back to the safety of the kitchen, Ilsa exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. The girls were giggling madly in the room behind her, but that wasn’t unusual.

  She plunged her hands back into the tub of dishes she had been working her way through before Theo—before Dr. Whitacre had arrived. How on earth was he here? Of all the places in the world where a rich man could be a doctor, he somehow picked Fraser Springs? She yanked out a glass, rubbed it vigorously with the washcloth then slammed it back into the soapy water again.

  “Careful!” came Jo’s voice behind her. “You’re going to break something if you keep that up.”

  Ilsa placed the glass gently on the drying rack and turned around. “That dog and pony show out there put me behind, and it’s not like any of those lot are going to help me, and . . . ”

  “Ilsa.”

  “What?”

  “How did that doctor know your last name? And why did he pretend he didn’t know it?” Jo’s voice was gentle.

  Ilsa sighed. If only she’d seen his face last night, she could have been prepared for this. Seeing him wouldn’t have felt like such a blow to the chest. “How should I know?”

  “Ilsa.”

  “What?”

  Jo smiled. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Ilsa looked around. A few of the girls were milling about the kitchen door, most likely trying to eavesdrop. She lowered her voice. “I used to work for his family. As a maid. A long time ago.”

  “That doesn’t sound so terrible. He looked like he was going to faint when you walked in.”

  “It was years and years ago. And I didn’t leave with a nice letter of reference,” she admitted. “Probably because I called his mother a heartless bitch the last time I saw her.”

  Jo, God bless her, didn’t laugh. “I’m sure she deserved it. Did he mistreat you? Because if he did, Owen and I will gladly make his life so miserable, he’ll be sorry he set foot in Fraser Springs.”

  The idea of driving Theo from the town with her own personal posse was tempting, but Ilsa shook her head. “No. He . . . Dr. Whitacre was always kind to me. He’s not that bad.”

  Jo nodded. “Well, I’m sorry he gave you such a shock.” She put her hand on Ilsa’s shoulder. “And I’ll talk to the girls. There won’t be any gossip.”

  After Jo left, Ilsa abandoned the washing and walked out into the kitchen garden. The shrivelled tomato and bean stalks and the crisping leaves made a soothing, rustling sound. She took a deep breath. He was walking now, clearly. He seemed taller, and broader in the shoulders, but the way he had looked at her had been just the same as the first day she’d met him. A startled, curious stare, magnified by wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Her first glimpse of Theo, all those years ago, had been a pale face made paler by his dark hair and green eyes. He’d been sitting in bed with a checkers board on his lap, moving the pieces on both sides—playing against himself. He had looked much younger than sixteen.

  When she came in with a saucer of beef tea on a tray, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to notice her as he moved the pieces, playing both sides of the game.

  She’d been on the job for only a day, and she was determined to keep her head down and stay out of trouble this time. Ilsa set down the tea and collected the napkins and dishes left from the morning. The checkers clacked on the board’s thin wood, and she risked a glance towards the bed as she turned back for the door.

  His board was a complete disaster. If he’d been playing anyone except himself, he’d have been trounced immediately. Pathetic. “You shouldn’t break your back row,” she blurted.

&nb
sp; He looked up. “What?”

  Ilsa set the tray down. “Your back row. The other side can’t win if your back row is full, so try not to move them.”

  Theo’s instinct had been to shield the checkers board from her view. “I’m quite good at checkers. I’ve beaten my tutor for years now.”

  “Either he’s not much of a tutor, or he’s letting you win.”

  He flushed, his embarrassment pushing colour to those waxy cheeks. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  She bent over the checkerboard. As she’d suspected, both sides of the game were wide open. “I could beat you in two minutes.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She just couldn’t manage to be respectable. This was her last chance, and she was already insulting the house’s sick son.

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Yes, I could.”

  “Prove it.”

  Ilsa looked back at the cups and saucers waiting to be taken back to the kitchen. “I’m not supposed to dawdle. Cook said to come right back down.”

  Theo smiled. “If she notices, I’ll tell her I made you stay.” He took a toy soldier off the bedside table. “And I’ll give you this.” Even from across the room, she could see it was expensive. It was expertly painted, and it wasn’t made of wood. She could trade it for enough pocket money to buy a dozen silk ribbons, or tickets to see the vaudeville. She didn’t know many sixteen-year-olds who still played with toy soldiers, but then again, most of the sixteen-year-old boys she knew were working at the dockyards. Things were different for rich boys, and even more so for boys who seemed to spend all their time in bed.

  Among the ranks of toy soldiers, Ilsa found her eye drawn to the little tin horse that represented the cavalry brigade. It was the size of her hand, painted gleaming white with grey dapples; its saddle and bridle were shiny gilt, with reins made of tiny strips of real leather. Its neck and front leg were arched so daintily that she ached to stroke the little horse like a kitten. She looked behind her, expecting to see Cook bearing down on her, but the house seemed quiet. It really was a lovely horse. “Five minutes,” she said. “And I want the horse, not the soldier.”