by Jeanne Dams
“It is snowing?” Hilda had been too busy all evening to look out the windows.
“It is snowing hard. It has been since nightfall.”
Only then did Hilda notice that the rug was wet from Sven’s boots, and his coat and hat were sodden.
“But Sven! This is bad! If he is out in a snowstorm, why do we stand here and talk?”
“But it was you—”
Patrick, who had stood by silently, broke in. “We can’t go any quicker than now, but we must go. Hilda, should you tell Mrs. Sullivan you’re leavin’?”
Hilda looked at the clock on the mantel. “It is after ten o’clock. She will be sleeping. I will tell Colonel George. He will still be in his office, or the library. I will be back in a moment.”
Hilda would ordinarily have shied away from telling the master of the house that she was going out, especially at night. However, this was not an ordinary time. Events were falling about her head thick and fast, but the supreme event was that she had just committed herself to marriage. She was wearing Patrick’s diamond ring on her finger. With calm step and utter confidence, she approached the open door of Colonel George’s office, knocked, and went inside.
He looked up from what he was reading. “Yes, Hilda? I hope Mr. Williams hasn’t taken a turn for the worse.”
“No, sir. That is, I do not know, sir. I have heard nothing since the afternoon. I am sorry to disturb you, but someone had to be told that I am leaving the house, perhaps for the night. My little brother has run away again. He is distressed because it is his teacher who has been killed. It is snowing very hard; we are afraid for him. I will take a key to the back door, and I will turn off all the lamps downstairs, but there will be no one to answer bells or see to the rest of the lights when you go up. You will not forget to turn off the gas, will you, sir?”
And with a little curtsey, she turned and was gone.
Colonel George sat for a moment with his mouth open. Finding that he could no longer concentrate on the journal in front of him, a treatise on the automobile, he sighed, stood, and turned off the lamps in his office. Methodically he went around the main floor of the house, turning off every gas fixture, and then, stumbling in the dark, he groped his way to the upstairs hall, where the sconces were still lit. He turned those off, too, and went to his bedroom.
Mrs. George put aside the book she was reading. “You’re retiring rather early, George. Are you not feeling well?”
He sat down on the bed, heavily. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, Ada. Hilda just came to my office and announced she was taking off for the night. Going out in a blizzard to hunt for that rascally little brother of hers, who’s gone missing again. Never a hint of ‘May I?’ or ‘By your leave’ or anything else. Told me I’d have to fend for myself, there’s nobody to answer bells, and to be sure and turn off all the gas before I went to bed! I don’t know why I keep a pack of servants around this place if I’m going to have to do the work myself!”
“Now, George. Hilda is very reliable. She’ll come back when she can. Come to bed.”
“It was her attitude, though!”
“Surely she wasn’t disrespectful. She’s always so correct.”
“Not disrespectful, exactly,” he grumbled, loosening his tie. “Just—I can’t put a finger on it. Over-confident, maybe. That girl has changed, Ada, and not for the better.” He took off his jacket and flung it over a chair.
Mrs. George said nothing more, but a suspicion arose in her mind. Hilda had been seeing a good deal of that fireman of hers, lately. Even the mistress of the house sometimes heard the servants’ gossip. Surely Hilda wouldn’t…no. Mrs. George let the uncomfortable idea drift away as she reached again for her book.
Hilda, meanwhile, had struggled out into the storm, which had grown much worse while Sven had been in the house. They had not been out five minutes before Hilda’s skirts were heavy and sodden. Her face was numb. She could scarcely see where she was going, and she would have fallen several times had it not been for the sturdy arms of Sven on one side and Patrick on the other.
“Look here,” Patrick shouted above the wind, “this won’t do. Stop a minute.”
He pulled her into the relative shelter of a house, and Sven, perforce, followed. Leaning against the wall of the building, they simply stood for a moment, catching their breath.
“Now listen to me, both of you,” said Patrick when it was easier to speak. “It’s a blizzard out here.”
“It is nothing,” Sven insisted. “In Sweden—”
“But we’re not in Sweden, are we? We’re in South Bend, Indiana, and we don’t have the kind of clothes they wear in Sweden, and we could freeze to death out here tonight!”
The wind howled. Snowflakes swirled. Sven decided not to argue the point.
“So,” Patrick went on with dogged persistence, “there’s no point at all in us goin’ off tryin’ to find Erik in this. He could be three feet away and we’d not see him. And he’s not a fool.”
“But we go to Mama’s house,” said Hilda, “to talk to her, and try to get an idea where he is.”
“We could die before we get there,” retorted Patrick. “I’m serious. You can’t see your hand in front of your face out here. So I figure we’d best do some thinkin’. Sven, when does your ma reckon he left home?”
“She does not know. Probably before the snow started to fall so hard. She did not think he would go out in a storm. But—”
“So he went, and he wouldn’t have just run off. He would have gone to a place. Where, Hilda?”
“I am t’inking. A friend’s house, maybe. Not a train. They do not run so late, I t’ink, and he would not have enough money. Or—Patrick, the firehouse! The stables!”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Patrick with satisfaction. “He loves the horses, and he’d be safe enough there. Nobody’d catch him, neither, if he hid when any fireman came in. It’d be cold, of course, but he could bed down in the straw and do well enough. And he could think things out while he was there, decide what he’s goin’ to do.”
“Yes,” said Hilda. “Yes, that is where he must be. That is where we should go.”
“Where we’re goin’, my girl, is back home. Your home, I mean. Tippecanoe Place. If I can find it, that is.”
“But we cannot abandon Erik!”
“I should say not!” said Sven furiously.
“I don’t mean to abandon him. Have you forgotten, darlin’ girl, that the firehouse has a telephone?”
Hilda had forgotten. She was never allowed to use the instrument at the Studebaker mansion, except on rare occasions to answer it if it rang when Mr. Williams wasn’t around the house. She had never in her life placed a telephone call, but there was a first time for everything.
She took Patrick’s arm again. “The snow is not falling so hard now. The house is that way, I t’ink. Let us hurry, before the storm is worse again.”
They struggled back. The streets and sidewalks were deeply drifted. Walking was treacherous.
Clinging tightly to Patrick’s arm, Hilda rounded a corner and saw the great house looming on the next corner. The nearby arc light lit up the snow, but couldn’t reach across the broad lawn to the house itself. It brooded on its hill like a dark mountain, the blackness relieved only by one pale rectangle high in the tower—Colonel and Mrs. George’s bedroom. There was probably a light in Mr. Williams’s sickroom, too, but it was on the other side of the great, dark house. Hilda shivered, and not just from the cold. This house that had sheltered her for years seemed suddenly ominous. As they approached, the one pale light went out.
In the basement entryway the darkness was complete, until Patrick found a match and kindled the gaslight. Then shadows dispersed and familiarity returned, but still Hilda shivered.
“Cold, darlin’ girl?”
Hilda saw Sven frown at the endearment. She ignored him. “A little cold,” she replied. “John will have damped down the furnace for the night, and I am very wet.”
Patrick grimaced at the mention of John’s name. John Bolton, the coachman and general handyman, had for years been a casual rival for Hilda’s attentions. Patrick pulled her closer. “You’d best get out of your wet things and then into bed. It’s nearly eleven. Just show me where the telephone is. I can talk to the firehouse and make certain Erik is safe and sound.”
“No, Patrick. I mean, yes, I will show you the telephone, and I will be happy if you will make the call. I do not know how. But I must know, before I can go to bed, that he is safe. And I must lock the door after you.”
“I, too, must know!” Sven tried to make it a roar, but the effect was spoiled by a sneeze at the end.
“Of course!” Patrick smiled at them both, to Sven’s obvious annoyance. “That’s what we’ll do. Hilda, go on up and get yourself into warm things while I make the call. Then I’ll leave Sven here to tell you the good news, and I’ll be off.”
“Oh, that is good, Patrick,” said Hilda, starting up the back stairs before Sven could object to the plan. “The telephone, it is in Colonel George’s office. I will go to my room and change my clothes.”
She heard the ting as the receiver was raised from the hook, and Patrick shouting at the operator, and then she went on up the stairs. She wanted to listen to what was said, but it was more important to leave Sven and Patrick alone. Sven was going to have to get used to the idea that Patrick was now one of the men of the family.
She was exhausted, she found as she reached her room. Not only was she up later than usual, not only had her work been exacting all day, but she had been through so many emotional peaks and valleys that she felt wrung dry. She would have preferred to shed her wet clothing and fall into bed, but there were duties yet to be done.
She dropped her apron, skirt, and outer petticoat on the floor, where they lay in sodden puddles. She simply could not muster the energy to hang them up properly, and Mrs. Sullivan would be too busy tomorrow to scold her for her carelessness. There was a clean uniform skirt in her drawer, and Hilda could wash and iron the apron early in the morning, before she had to put it on. For now she pulled the clean skirt on over the thin inner petticoat. It clung to her figure in a most improper way, but she was far too tired to worry about that. Her wet boots and stockings cast aside, she thrust her feet into worn crocheted slippers and wearily trudged downstairs again.
Patrick was still there, just hanging the ear-piece back on the hook.
“Is he there? What did he say? Is he all right?”
“He’s there. They let us talk to him. I gave him an earful, and so did Sven—in Swedish. I told him to stay where he was till the mornin’ or I’d skelp him, and I reckon Sven said much the same.” Patrick grinned reassuringly at Hilda. “Not that what we said would keep him where he was, but it’s snowing hard again, and they’ve given him a proper bed. They’ll keep an eye on him, so you’ve no need to worry. Then tomorrow—”
His tone of voice boded no good for Erik on the morrow.
Hilda’s worry gave way instantly to anger. “Oh! I wish he were here! I would turn him over my knee. I do not care how big and grown-up he is.”
“I expect Sven’ll do that for you,” said Patrick, and yawned. “We’ll be gettin’ along now, so’s you can lock up and get to bed, but there’s one more thing.”
Hilda sighed. “What is that?”
“Well, you’ll not be likin’ it, but I reckon I’d better tell you, so you can be thinkin’ some about it.”
“Patrick! What?”
“It’s only that the young imp says he’ll run away again unless you agree to start lookin’ into Miss Jacobs’s murder.”
He tipped his hat and hurried downstairs before she could muster her wits for a reply.
A short distance in front of her as she left
[her boarding house] was…a leading attorney,
who is lame, and was walking slowly.
—South Bend Tribune
January 23, 1904
9
SVEN WATCHED PATRICK go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was glad to be rid of him. Patrick had no business to be here in the house with Hilda, unchaperoned, indeed alone for all practical purposes until he, Sven, had come.
On the other hand, Patrick had been useful over the Erik business. And he appeared to be able to handle Hilda, something Sven was no longer sure he could do.
Sven looked at Hilda, hoping to read her face. Would he find anger there? Stubbornness? That ridiculous lovesick look he had caught more than once this evening?
He saw none of those things. Hilda’s face was wiped clean of expression, but two tears rolled down her cheek.
“Hilda! Little sister!” The words were in Swedish, and he continued in that language. “What is the matter?”
“I do not know,” she said dully. “I am crying. I do not know why. I am very tired, Sven. I must go to bed.”
“I—yes. Of course. Erik—in the morning—”
“I cannot go to bed until you leave, Sven. I must lock the door.”
She spoke in that same toneless voice. Sven had never heard her sound like that before. He opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more. “Yes. I go now. Do not—try not to worry. In the morning…”
He trailed off and went down the stairs. Hilda followed. He dared not offer any parting words. Her behavior was too strange; he was too afraid of provoking some sort of storm. He kissed her on the cheek, said, “Good night” in Swedish, and left.
Hilda locked the door, turned off the gas, and climbed the stairs to bed. She locked her bedroom door and lay down to rest for a moment before undressing.
The next thing she knew, someone was pounding on her door and shouting.
“Hilda! Maggie couldn’t wake you! Are you well? Hilda! It’s past six-thirty!”
She roused herself. She was still in her clothes, and she was stiff all over. She made an instant decision. “No, Mrs. Sullivan. I am not well. I have a headache. I must sleep until it goes away.”
And she turned over and put the pillow over her head, ignoring the further shouts and poundings. There was work to be done. Let someone else do it. For once in her life, she was going to do as she pleased. And what she pleased, just now, was to sleep for hours. Everyone in the household, including Mrs. George, knew about Hilda’s terrible sick headaches, and knew that she was utterly useless when she was in the grip of one. The other servants would complain resentfully, but no one would disturb her.
But sleep wouldn’t come. The upheavals of the day before had left her drained and spent, but once awakened she found that the problems began immediately to assault her mind.
What was she to do about Erik?
You have troubles enough of your own, a voice in her mind said. Erik is not your problem.
He was, though. Hilda was an accomplished liar, when lies were necessary, but she was basically honest. And honesty compelled her to acknowledge that she, of all the family, understood Erik best. Mama still thought of him as a baby, and Sven was overly harsh with him. Hilda and Erik had always been the best of friends. If anyone could deal with Erik, it was going to be Hilda.
But he wants you to investigate that murder. And with Mr. Williams ill, you have no time.
She turned restlessly to her other side, with a creak of bed-springs. That was another thing. Her job. When she married Patrick, she would lose her job.
When she married Patrick. She closed her eyes and allowed a tide of joy to wash over her. Patrick’s kiss…his arms warm around her…
She lost herself in rosy daydreams that turned to real dreams.
When she woke again, she could tell that it was very late. The sun had come out, a watery, wintry sun, but strong enough to make a small pool of light on her floor, almost directly below her south window.
Reluctantly Hilda abandoned her dreams and got out of bed. Someday she would be mistress of a house and could arrange her work to suit herself, but for now she had responsibilities. Including—she bit back an i
mproper Swedish expression as she remembered—including preparations for a dinner party tonight. She shed her wrinkled skirt and waist and dressed in the freshest uniform she could find. She also took off her ring and hung it on a chain around her neck, hidden under her clothes. She wasn’t ready yet to talk about her future, especially not to the family.
“You’re a sight, girl,” was the cook’s sour greeting when Hilda hurried into the kitchen.
“I know. I am sorry. I will wash my apron as soon as I can. How is Mr. Williams feeling?”
Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “No better. He can’t hardly eat. What with him sick and you sick, this house is goin’ to rack and ruin. If you’d got to bed at a decent hour last night, you’d not have had to lie abed this mornin’. As if we didn’t have enough troubles…”
The cook went on in the same vein for some time. Hilda didn’t listen. She’d expected the tirade, and she had to admit she deserved it, especially since she’d lied about the headache. She tried to look properly penitent, and when Mrs. Sullivan finally ran down, Hilda nodded. “I am sorry,” she said again. “I will work extra hard to make up for it. Do you have orders for me?”
“Girl, I’ve trouble enough runnin’ me own kitchen, what with cookin’ for forty people and makin’ trays for upstairs that come down untouched.” She raised her arms to the sky in a gesture of despair. “See what needs to be done and do it. And if ye get hungry come and find somethin’ to eat. There’s no time today for servants’ meals.”
Hilda nodded. “Is Mrs. George going to hire a butler for tonight? I don’t see how we are to serve without Mr. Williams.”
The cook nodded, her mind obviously back on the tarts she was preparing. Hilda hoped the pastry wouldn’t be tough, but from the way Mrs. Sullivan was thumping down the rolling pin she had her doubts.
For the rest of the afternoon Hilda had no time to think about anything except work. The dailies were upset by the change in routine and had to be alternately scolded and cajoled into doing their jobs. Anton, who was doing many of the butler’s jobs in the emergency, was pale and nervous. Mrs. Czeszewski, the laundress who came in twice weekly, resented Hilda’s intrusion when she went into the laundry to wash her apron. Of course, Mrs. Czeszewski was always inclined to surliness, so Hilda didn’t pay much attention, but it was an additional stress she didn’t need on that stressful day.
