A Deceptive Homecoming

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  I placed a hand lightly on her back but didn’t return the embrace. “I was afraid you’d discover my father was alive. I didn’t know what to do.”

  I pulled myself away and took a step back. “Why not simply confide in me?” I was still hurt from all that had transpired between us.

  “Because . . . because . . .”

  “Because we can’t risk discovery,” Frank Hayward said, putting his arm around his distraught daughter.

  “So what I suspect is true, isn’t it?”

  “What is it you suspect, Hattie?”

  “That you were a member of the James-Younger gang. That your real name is Charles Mayfield.” He closed his eyes and stood silently for several moments before finally nodding. Ginny stifled a cry with her handkerchief.

  “But he didn’t kill anyone,” Ginny declared. “He never hurt anyone.”

  “Jesse James alone is credited with killing over a dozen men,” I said. “Are you saying you weren’t involved in any of the violence?”

  “It’s true. I never killed anyone. I was with them for a short period of time. I knew numbers, I knew banks. I proved useful to them in their planning. I rarely even held a gun.” He looked down at his daughter, who stared up at him in complete adoration. “But I helped them steal, Virginia. And that’s wrong.” He turned to me. “How did you find out?”

  “A photograph in a newspaper from the day after the shooting. It was a portrait supposedly taken of some of the members of the James-Younger gang. You stood in the back and to the right of Jesse James.”

  “Oh God, I’d forgotten about that picture. How young and stupid I was. We thought we were invincible.”

  “But then why, Hattie, didn’t you think it was Levi Yardley in the picture?” Ginny asked. “You yourself said how striking the resemblance was between them. Maybe he was the gang member and not my father.”

  “Because of the scar,” I said, pointing to the scar that crossed Mr. Hayward’s eyebrow. “It was what caused me to suspect the truth when I saw the body in the coffin. I didn’t see it when I saw you that day on Rochester Road, though. It was you I saw, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was me. I’d hoped to get out of town unrecognized. I shaved off my beard and mustache and used a pencil to fill in the scar.” He ran his fingers over several days’ new growth of hair on his chin.

  “How did you get the scar, by the way? Was it while you were with the James-Younger gang? I’ve always wanted to know. Did a bullet graze your face?”

  Frank Hayward chuckled but didn’t answer my question.

  “But I’d told you, you were wrong. I thought that would be enough. Why didn’t you trust me?” Ginny said.

  “Because of the agrimony,” I said.

  “Agrimony?” Ginny said.

  “It was in the bouquet you sent to the funeral, Mr. Hayward.”

  “Father? You sent one of the bouquets?” Mr. Hayward nodded.

  “Not the most appropriate flowers for a funeral bouquet,” I said.

  “No, it was an act of a liberated man, Miss Davish. I was given a chance at a new start.”

  “Another new start,” I added.

  “Yes, I’ve been lucky. More than anyone knows. Not too many people get a second, let alone third and fourth chances.”

  “A fourth chance? What do you mean, Father?”

  “Do you remember when we almost left St. Joseph, Virginia?” His daughter nodded.

  “Yes, I still don’t know why.”

  “It was because I saw Jesse, after he moved to St. Joe. It was Palm Sunday at the Presbyterian Church near the old World’s Hotel. I was terrified he’d recognize me. I had already changed my name and moved to a new city. I couldn’t risk being associated with him again. I spent the rest of the day packing and planning to leave town. You and I were waiting for our train at the depot the next morning when we heard the news. Bob Ford had shot and killed Jesse James. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.” I inwardly cringed thinking about the misery I’d encountered that same day.

  “And what happened this time?” I asked. “Jesse James has been dead for years.”

  “You have to remember whispers had already begun that connected my name with the school’s dwindling financial reserves. Who had better access to the school’s funds but its bookkeeper? And then the ‘incidents’ at the school began. I started to panic. I’d absolutely nothing to do with the missing money or the incidents at the school, but it wouldn’t matter if my true identity was discovered. I’d no idea what I was going to do. I could leave town for good this time, but the police would pursue me. And of course, there was Ginny’s future to think about.”

  “And then Asa Upchurch appeared on your doorstep with a dead body that could’ve been your twin,” I said.

  “Yes, I was upstairs at the time and Asa never saw me. I have to admit I didn’t hesitate for a moment to take advantage of the mistaken identification. I told Ginny what she had to do, and the moment it was safe, I disappeared, intending never to return. I wasn’t considering the consequences. Now I have to bear the burden of knowing how much pain and distress I’ve caused.” Had Ginny told him about Miss Woodruff? Had she told him about me?

  “But what about the agrimony?” Ginny asked, fiddling with her locket.

  “You remember our lessons from Mrs. Chaplin on the language of flowers, Ginny. Your father’s bouquet had zinnia, mullein, and agrimony. Zinnia means ‘I mourn your absence’ and mullein means ‘take courage.’ But agrimony means ‘thankfulness or gratitude.’ No one would ever place that flower in a funeral bouquet.”

  “Except for a silly man who couldn’t believe his extraordinary good luck,” Frank Hayward said.

  “Oh, Father!” Ginny hugged him close.

  Over his daughter’s head, Frank Hayward said, “What now?”

  “I have to notify the police.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, Hattie, must you?” Ginny said, clinging to her father.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to. Of course, I’ll have to take the streetcar back into town and it will take some time before the police arrive.” Ginny suddenly looked at me with wide, comprehending eyes. “What they find when they arrive is up to you.”

  Ginny hugged her father tightly, gazing lovingly into his face. “Thank you, Hattie,” she said, looking back at me. “You’re a true friend indeed.”

  “All I ever wanted to do was help.”

  But had I? Had I really been helpful or merely the instrument in uncovering lies, secrets, and murder? I was gratified that Ginny had been reunited with her father and that all of the troubles between us had been a product of her fierce protection of him. But no matter how much she apologized and no matter how much I understood, something had died between us.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Hayward. Good-bye, Virginia,” I said, knowing I’d never see or hear from either of them again. Again I’d lost someone special to me in the place I’d called home.

  They walked me as far as the gate and were still watching when I turned to look back before entering the main road. They waved one last time before disappearing into the farmhouse. As I sauntered back toward the streetcar stop, I thought about all that had happened since I’d arrived. I’d found peace with my father’s death. I’d uncovered an embezzler and a murderer. I discovered the whereabouts of a wanted outlaw. How simple my life is when I’m working for Sir Arthur, I thought. I wanted nothing more than to be at my typewriter again. No, that’s not quite true, I thought, imagining myself once again in Walter’s embrace.

  Maybe I have found a new home. And I couldn’t get back there soon enough.

  CHAPTER 35

  “But he was gone when the police arrived?” Mrs. Chaplin said.

  I was sitting in Mrs. Chaplin’s front parlor sipping tea with her, Miss Woodruff, Madame Maisonet, and Mrs. Emily Upchurch. Over a plate of lemon shortbread, wine cake, scotch cake, and a variety of cheese and crackers, I’d told them everything, or at least almost everything, I knew about Frank H
ayward’s deception and disappearance.

  I nodded. “Officer Quick promised they would pursue the outlaw but pressed upon me the possibility that they might never catch him or bring him to justice.”

  “Well, I don’t care what he’s done, he’ll always be a gentleman to me,” Miss Woodruff said, defiantly. Although she’d given up her mourning dress, she still had a small black ribbon tied around her wrist.

  “Ah l’amour,” Madame Maisonet wistfully said. “One can forgive anything, yes?”

  “Despite the shocking truth, I for one am not going to judge the man,” Mrs. Upchurch said. I’d noticed the moment I arrived that she was no longer wearing her pearls and I could detect only her wedding band beneath her gloves. “Despite his past transgressions, it seems he has led a faultless life since working for you, Mrs. Chaplin.”

  Unlike your husband, I thought, knowing from Mrs. Chaplin’s raised eyebrow, I wasn’t the only one.

  “Yes, you’re quite right, Mrs. Upchurch,” Mrs. Chaplin said, her booming voice filling the room. “This comes as a complete shock to me. I knew Mr. Hayward as an outstanding member of my staff. I was deeply saddened by his supposed death and have no reason to believe he was anything but loyal to me and the school. But a member of the James-Younger gang? Those men were cutthroats, thieves, and murderers. I don’t know how to reconcile the Frank Hayward I knew and this . . . what did you say his real name was, Hattie?”

  “Charles Mayfield.” I’d read it on the newspaper cutout of the James-Younger gang portrait.

  “Yes, and this Charles Mayfield fellow,” Mrs. Chaplin said, finishing her thought. “You did say he denied any involvement in violence of any kind?”

  “Yes,” I said. Yet I wasn’t so certain; there was still the scar on his face to explain.

  “And he was quite young at the time,” Miss Woodruff said, adding to his defense.

  “And he showed considerable remorse for putting everyone through such pain,” I said, looking directly at Miss Woodruff. She lowered her eyes to the floor as she lifted her handkerchief to her face once more. “He saw the opportunity and took it. He didn’t consider the consequences. He didn’t know of any other way.”

  “And if we atone, we all deserve forgiveness for our mistakes,” Miss Woodruff said. She lifted her head high. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Upchurch?” Mrs. Upchurch’s cheeks burned red. Shamed into silence, she merely nodded.

  “C’est vrai, ma chère,” Madame Maisonet said. “It is true.”

  We all looked at Mrs. Chaplin, waiting for her verdict.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Chaplin said, as if that concluded the discussion.

  “Speaking of transgressions,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. Upchurch blanched in anticipation of my comment. “May I enquire about the fate of Miss Gilbert?” Without looking at her, I heard Mrs. Upchurch sigh with relief. Her husband wasn’t going to be the topic of conversation.

  “If you’re asking in your polite and discreet manner whether I’ll be turning her in to the police, Miss Davish, the answer is no,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “I have, however, encouraged Miss Gilbert to seek employment elsewhere.”

  “Then what about the president’s position?” Miss Woodruff asked. Mrs. Upchurch blanched again, her dimples nearly disappearing.

  The poor woman, I thought. This is torture for her. Why had she even been invited to tea? And then I got my answer.

  “Obviously I will come out of retirement and run the school myself until my successor can be properly trained.”

  “Your successor?” I asked.

  “Oui, it is a good decision,” Madame Maisonet said, nodding her approval. “You choose well, Madame Chaplin.”

  “Yes, well, I’m undoing a grievous mistake. I obviously hired the wrong Upchurch in the first place,” Mrs. Chaplin said, indicating the blushing woman across from her with her hand. Mrs. Upchurch smiled meekly.

  Miss Woodruff’s hand flew to her chin. “Mrs. Upchurch?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “She’s more than competent. She needs some specific guidance from me, of course, but then I’ll be able to rest easy knowing Mrs. Chaplin’s School for Women is in good hands.” I recalled how she’d organized the funeral and the lake party, had done her husband’s book work, and was a genuinely amiable person; not a single staff member or student I spoke to had said a bad word about her. I smiled at Mrs. Upchurch. Mrs. Chaplin had made a good choice.

  “Congratulations,” I said, knowing how difficult it would’ve been for the wife of an embezzler to succeed anywhere else. If not for this opportunity, Mrs. Upchurch would be at the mercy of any relatives she might have, or worse.

  And Mrs. Chaplin has an excuse to come out of retirement, I thought.

  “Thank you, Miss Davish. It’s an honor and a challenge. To tell you the truth, I’m quite excited to begin. If I’ve learned nothing else from your visit, it’s that we women can overcome our past, face challenges gracefully and succeed.”

  She learned that from me? I thought, blushing at her compliment.

  “Don’t be so surprised, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Chaplin said, reading my mind. “You know you’re quite capable to inspire.” Before I’d a chance to refute her comment, Mrs. Chaplin continued. “Speaking of, what are your plans now, Miss Davish? Off on the grand tour with a millionaire writing his memoirs? Taking dictation for a debutante who’d rather flirt than put pen to paper? Helping some business magnate conquer the world one typewritten memorandum at a time?”

  “Or?” Miss Woodruff added, winking at Mrs. Chaplin. “Do you plan to trade your typewriter for an apron and settle down? I’ve heard you receive daily letters from a beau, a doctor no less!”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, you did not tell me!” Madame Maisonet chided.

  Even as I blushed again at the mention of Walter and the possibility of a future together, I wondered how Miss Woodruff had learned about my letters from him.

  Maybe Mr. Putney at the hotel likes his gossip a bit too much, I thought.

  “Miss Mollie Woodruff,” Mrs. Chaplin said, “I’m surprised at you. You make it sound as though you’d recommend this outcome.”

  “Wouldn’t you? What woman wouldn’t prefer marrying and settling down to having to work every day for a living and worry about her future?”

  “A Chaplin girl, that’s who. I train my girls to be independent in body, mind, and spirit. Not to pine after any man that will pay the bills. Beau or no beau, our Miss Davish isn’t going to put away her typewriter without a fight. She’s one of us. She’s a Chaplin girl. We make our own way in the world, don’t we, Hattie?”

  “Yes, we do but . . .” I wasn’t sure if I completely agreed with Mrs. Chaplin. I did draw immense satisfaction from my work, but I loved Walter too.

  If only there was a way to have both, I thought, careful to keep the thought to myself.

  “But you were married once, Mrs. Chaplin,” Miss Woodruff said.

  “Yes, Miss Woodruff, I was and can therefore speak from experience. Wouldn’t you agree, Madame Maisonet and Mrs. Upchurch?” Madame simply nodded and smiled.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Emily Upchurch said. “As you all know, being married didn’t stop me worrying about the future. Asa was a good provider and a generous husband, but at what cost? I actually envy you and Miss Davish.”

  “Why?” Miss Woodruff and I said simultaneously.

  “Because you both have your whole lives ahead of you. You don’t know what the future holds. It’s quite exciting to think about, really.”

  “It is indeed something to envy,” Madame said.

  “But the past?” Miss Woodruff said, obviously thinking about Frank. “How do we overcome the past to face an uncertain future?”

  I looked to Mrs. Chaplin, who sighed deeply but remained silent, her tea turning cold in her lap. I looked to Mrs. Upchurch who, despite her earlier declaration, seemed hesitant and unsure. She took a bite of the lemon shortbread instead of answering the question. Madame Mai
sonet stared at me over the rim of her coffee cup. And then I looked at Miss Woodruff who, with her hand covering the scar on her chin, sat tall in her chair, expectant.

  I pictured my typewriter, locked in its case and propped against the desk in the library at Lady Philippa’s summer home in Newport.

  “With diligence, faith, and love,” I said, as the other two women nodded. “With those we can accomplish anything.”

  “Oh là là là là là là,” Madame Maisonet said. I glanced at Mrs. Chaplin; she beamed with pride. “You have become quite the philosopher, mademoiselle.”

  I should’ve blushed again as the other women laughed, but I didn’t. I wasn’t embarrassed by what I’d said. I knew I was right.

  “There’s my girl,” my father said the moment I walked in the door. He had left Mr. Van Beek to finish the display they’d been working on. “Come here, Hattie,” he said, a broad smile on his face as he waved for me to approach. “Where have you been, my girl? I didn’t think I could wait much longer.”

  “What is it, Father? I came straight home from school.”

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me to the counter. “I know, I know. I’m just an impatient man. I couldn’t wait to give you this.” He danced around the counter and reaching under, lifted out a large square box. It was wrapped in brown paper and embellished with a wide white satin ribbon.

  “For me?” I couldn’t keep my eyes off of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been given such a gift. I’d always received books, dolls, or sweets for my birthday and at Christmas. But this was special. “It’s not even my birthday.”

  “No, I couldn’t wait until your birthday.”

  “Father! What is it?” The anticipation now was unbearable.

  Then the shop bell rang and I thought I would cry. My father would have to serve the customer before he’d allow me to open my present. A rotund man in a top hat entered as I flung myself onto a nearby stool.

  “Mr. Van Beek, would you be so kind as to help Mr. Hardin find what he needs?”

  Mr. Van Beek coughed to cover his astonishment before leading the gentleman to the latest in top hats. I did nothing to hide my surprise and joy.