by Joanne Dahme
Trout frowned as he looked into my eyes. “You are giving up your campaign to stop pollution—to enforce the sewer laws?”
“Of course not,” I responded adamantly. “But I know the sewer laws will never be adequately enforced. The river may already be far too polluted to save.”
“That’s not like you, Sean,” Trout scolded.
I smiled as I caught Trout’s eye. “I’m just enjoying a moment of bitterness. It’s tiring being the optimist.”
The door swung open again, banging hard against its wooden stop.
“Somebody order a hansom?” A young man in knickers, with thick socks and a woolen sweater and scarf, stood on the outside front step. For a moment, I wondered if the youth was a Buchanan protégé, although I couldn’t imagine riding a bicycle in this weather.
“Right here,” I called back. “We’re coming.”
Trout never looked back as the heavy oak door slammed behind us.
ROSE
“Patrick,” I whispered, as if he would awake at the sound of my voice. Until then, I hadn’t been sure if I could say his name aloud—afraid the syllables would choke in my throat before they touched the air.
The French doors of the morning room were closed behind me. They were draped in black, as was everything in the house, including myself. Julius had hung black bunting over our front door, from the sills of the front windows and the railing of the front steps.The tables and chairs that normally crowded the room were pushed against its walls to accommodate Patrick’s casket. Even in death, Patrick managed to command a room, his pearl white casket implying a saintly repose. His wake was to begin at four o’clock. The hands of the porcelain clocks warned me the time was near.
I drew in my breath.The air was cold and saturated with the perfume of the lilies. The morbid flowers filled every vase—standing at attention like death’s sentinels. Even Patrick’s fingers curled loosely around the stem of a lily lying across his breast. I clutched my black bordered handkerchief to stifle a cry.
I inhaled unexpectedly when I looked at him and suddenly felt nauseous from the powerful aroma of the flowers. I wasn’t ready to look at his face. Instead, I allowed myself to scrutinize his wardrobe—always of prime importance to Patrick. He was dressed in his favorite suit, the same suit that he had worn to the City Councils’ hearing just two weeks ago. His black vest showed beneath his morning coat, which was buttoned only at the top. A handkerchief was crisply folded in his breast pocket. A black tie encircled his neck. He wore spats over his shoes, and his striped trousers were pressed for eternity. His serpent-headed walking stick rested against his thigh. Father Meehan had been a bit taken aback by my insistence about the walking stick accompanying Patrick to his grave.
His presence in this room haunted me. Last night, I had been afraid to imagine him lying here, inanimate. I had jumped at every creaking board and wind-rattled window, had almost expected to see my bedroom door open and to smell that familiar scent of cold air that clung to his skin throughout the winter. Not too long ago, I had yearned for that scent.
I touched his face with my black-gloved hand and recoiled against the taut skin of his cheek. I stepped back. His death confirmed that his betrayal of me recognized no mortal limits. “Why did you do this to me, Patrick?” I needed to look into his face now. I had trouble glimpsing his soul when he was alive. Would some impression of it be left, like a death mask, after his soul was gone?
Shiny copper pennies covered his eyes, an old Irish tradition that Patrick had practiced at his father’s and brother’s wakes. The pennies were meant to keep evil spirits from inhabiting a body that newly lost its soul. The light of the chandelier glinted off the copper as if his eyes still held a spark of life. I held my breath as I felt an anguish pressing against my chest, threatening to make me cry out. Here was my husband, a man to whom I had been promised as a young girl, a man that had professed his love for me. I had given him my love, my life in its entirety to him really. I stared at his face and clenched my fists. Its normally weather-burnished color was drained away. His skin now possessed the porcelain quality of his Delft china. His fine nose, held high in life, begged a challenge even in death. Only his mouth offered a serene smile. How had the undertaker managed it? Tranquility was never a quality Patrick embraced.
“Why Patrick?” I begged. My voice was louder now, and I couldn’t hold back a welling bitterness and grief. I covered my face with my handkerchief as I tried to calm my heaving chest and shoulders. But the crying felt good. I couldn’t rant at him for pretending he was someone else during our years together. I couldn’t strike him in a woman’s fury. He was dead. I would never have the satisfaction of an explanation for his cruelty toward me. I would never understand what made him do such unspeakable acts, including his intent to see me murdered. An image of Patrick suddenly came to me—Patrick impatiently pinching the flame of the last, lingering candle on our dining room table. “Are you ready?” he had asked eagerly. I hadn’t finished my meal. But that never mattered. He had a need. I, and everything else in his life, was there to solely satisfy him. I was only one trifling light out of many that distracted him on his quest for power.Yet this was the man I had done my best to defend, even with Nellie. A familiar distress pressed against my ribs.
I was alone now. The realization stole my breath with the ferocity of December’s gales. This house was my house. These things were my things, although I felt no affection for them.They should accompany Patrick to his grave. I had no need for them. They were a part of him. Everything was tainted. My life, at least the life I had known for eighteen years, lay beside Patrick in his coffin. I balled my handkerchief in my hand and pressed it hard against my eyes to stem the tears. These were angry tears staining my face. I didn’t want them to be mistaken for grief for Patrick. I was ashamed and bitter that they were also bereavement for my own life.
A heavy hand on my shoulder startled me. I turned to see Father Meehan’s florid face and pale blue eyes searching my own.
“Your guests will begin arriving in a few minutes. Would you like to take some time to compose yourself, Rose?” His hand moved from my shoulder to shelter my entire back. I had known Father Meehan since I was a child. He had known both of our families well. I wondered what he had heard about Patrick. Since Patrick’s death, Father thought of nothing but my comfort. He had barely mentioned Patrick, except when assisting me with the wake and funeral arrangements. Even then, it was only the care of Patrick’s body we had discussed.
I shook my head, wiping my face one last time. I adjusted my mourning cap, tugging at the veil, which was supposed to cover my face. “No thank you, Father.” I looked again at Patrick’s body. “I thought that I could find some answers—looking at him, in his peacefulness.” I felt my body stiffen. “I was wrong.”
“Rose.” Father Meehan turned me gently to look at him. He held my gloved hands. “You were a dutiful wife. You did everything you could to bless your marriage.You must not blame yourself.”
A slight knock interrupted us, and I straightened. The wake was about to begin. Brigid stepped apologetically into the room, and I saw how small and frail she looked in black. She looked nervously at me and then back to the hallway. “The mayor and his wife are here. They asked if they could pay their respects a few minutes early.” I was amazed that Brigid had stayed on after Patrick’s death. Scandal was like a poison in society. But Brigid, for all her timidity, was loyal.
I glanced at Father Meehan and was surprised to see a knowing resignation in his eyes. He smiled sympathetically and squeezed my hands. “I’m going to take my seat by the coffin. I’ll be right at your elbow should you need me.” I gave him a quick, grateful smile.
“Of course, Brigid. Would you escort them in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brigid curtseyed. Within a moment, the mayor and Mrs. Warwick appeared in the doorway.
The mayor was dapper as usual and held his top hat at his waist to ward off an embrace. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, and his s
mile was uncharacteristically tentative. Mrs. Warwick, though, pecked me on the cheek. She looked regal in her silk black dress and bonnet. I imagined that a mayor’s wife’s duties included rounds of wakes, as well as weddings.
“You must continue to work with me, dear,” she commanded. “Your husband would not want you to pine away.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I liked Mrs. Warwick and knew that she was not a woman who would fade away after her husband’s death.
“I would be honored to continue to work with you, Mrs. Warwick. Thank you for thinking about me,” I replied, feeling a surprising gratitude. Mrs. Warwick patted me gently on the cheek.
The mayor, usually an orator, was more at a loss for words. He embraced me brusquely and stepped back. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dugan. Rest assured that I will hunt down your husband’s murderer.” The mayor did not look me in the eye.
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It was good of you to come.” I stiffened at his touch. I had been duped by so many people in my life. I felt some small vindication at the twitch in the mayor’s left eye. Such duplicity is bound to defeat the body.
As the mayor and his wife excused themselves, Brigid appeared again in the doorway.
“Ma’am, Julius says that a crowd is lining up along the sidewalk,” she warned. “Looking a bit pinched from the cold,” she added with a sympathetic smile.
“Then we best let them in,” I instructed. I appreciated Brigid’s kind-hearted support, and I grasped her hand for a moment. I hoped Patrick had been respectful of Brigid, or at worst, had ignored her. I knew that Martha had regularly scolded the girl. That was considered a housekeeper’s duty, and Martha was always zealous.
I stood in the hall and smoothed my skirt with my hands. I watched a tall gentleman remove his top hat as he crossed the threshold of the front door. A procession followed him—society friends, neighbors, contractors, politicians—all stopped to whisper some condolence to me before parading by Patrick’s casket. I didn’t know all of their names, but I recognized most. I didn’t see Sean in the long line of visitors and wistfully concentrated on the guests before me.
“I’m so sorry . ...”
“Call on me, Rose . ...”
“Let me assist you, Rose . ...”
The words coursed from their mouths as they looked into my face. Most of them seemed sincere.
I found myself searching the faces of the young women that I didn’t know well.There was the blonde with the delicate nose and tear-filled eyes who briefly nodded to me before moving directly to Patrick’s casket. She wore a stiff black dress with a bonnet of silk crape and a long veil—a widow’s mourning outfit, I thought cynically. Not far behind her a taller, dark-haired woman in gray stopped directly, to appraise me. A gray ribbon pulled the hair from her face. A pair of jet earrings hung from her earlobes. Many women were crying into their handkerchiefs. I found myself inspecting these women for a pair of dainty, white gloves, although my bitter curiosity sickened me. Which woman might his mistress be? Or could there be a few? More than one woman averted her eyes when I looked at them.
A lull in the stream of visitors allowed me the chance to view the scene before me. I watched as the mourners genuflected in front of Patrick’s casket. The men moved on to greet Father Meehan, while the women greeted one another, touching the lilies or the drapes or some object in the room as they exchanged impressions. From across the room, Father Meehan looked at me with a question, his great brows creased over his eyes. I nodded to him that I was fine.
I flinched then at a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Brigid glancing over her shoulder. Brigid smiled shyly.
“Julius says that the detective and a few gentlemen have just arrived. They wish to wait for you in the dining room before they pay their respects.”
I felt myself flush. “I believe one of the gentlemen is Mr. Parker,” Brigid added, seeing the brightness in my eyes. “They said they would wait.”
“I’ll come now, Brigid. I could use a reprieve,” I replied dryly.
I heard the soft murmur of their voices as I entered the room. Their backs were to me, but I was filled with a palpable relief as I recognized the familiar shapes of their shoulders and the tilt of their heads. The four men were speaking earnestly to one another, nodding and cupping their chins in concentration. Detective Buchanan’s broad back dwarfed Sean’s father’s frail form. Sean held Thomas gently by the elbow as the older gentleman grasped Detective Buchanan by the shoulder. They appeared old friends. Officer Russo stood in attention in his uniform, eyeing the sliced meats and other dishes on the table. All wore black armbands, but only Russo’s was obvious against his blue coat. The men were crammed into the far corner of the room by the kitchen. Officer Russo saw me first and flashed me an inappropriate smile. He immediately grew serious, though, his brown eyes unblinking. I was glad to see that his color was better and that he appeared to be gaining some weight.
Sean glanced my way and released his father, carefully maneuvering around the wide table to reach me. His features were creased with worry. He gently took my hands and squeezed them. Sean’s hands were the hands of an honest man, clean and callused. His blue eyes were wide, and his gaze unwavering, as if some burden had been lifted. “How are you, Rose? You look exhausted.”
“I am fine, Sean,” I replied, oddly at peace now. Bony, old Thomas stood behind him. I could suddenly see Sean as he would appear thirty years from now—in another century, another world. Thomas looked at me, caught my thoughtful gaze, and smiled. How easy it would be for me to share the next thirty or so years with a good, decent man. Perhaps the promise of a future did exist. But I couldn’t think of these things now. My dead husband was just across the hall.
Thomas pushed Sean aside. “We are so glad that you were not harmed. I couldn’t help but think of the day you fled our house, back to this place where the real danger was. ...”
“Father,” Sean interrupted, caught off guard by Thomas’ impropriety.
“It’s all right,” I assured Thomas, taking his hand. Detective Buchanan suddenly squeezed his girth between the two men and the table and embraced me. I again was reminded of my father as I felt the power in his protective arms.
“Age has its privileges,” the detective remarked, noticing Russo’s amused expression. Sean smiled and shook his head.
“It is good of you all to come,” I insisted, appreciating their obvious efforts to make this situation bearable. But I needed to put words to the circumstances that brought us together.
“My husband was responsible for so much horror. How can I make it right? How can I undo what he has done?” I felt the angry tremor in my voice and lowered it, not wanting to attract the attention of the mourners still milling about his casket.
All four men opened their mouths to protest. Officer Russo spoke first. “The crime was not yours, Mrs. Dugan.” His brown eyes shone in the soft light of the chandelier.
I grasped Russo gently by the hands. “How are you, Officer? Are you fully recovered?”
“Yes. Don’t I look the embodiment of health?” He couldn’t help but smile at me. I thought he truly did look better but wanted to see a few more pounds fill the hallows beneath his eyes.
Detective Buchanan loomed behind the two, a glass of wine in his hand.
“Mrs. Dugan, when you are ready, I need to talk to you about a few things.”
“I need to share something with you also, Detective. There are still some matters that need to be addressed to fully expose the breadth of Patrick’s deeds. May we talk now?”
The detective’s eyebrows arched.
“Are you sure it’s—convenient?”
“If I don’t do this now, I may never be able to do it.” I thought of Patrick’s ledger. The information it contained would end all doubt of Patrick’s culpability. I closed my eyes at the thought that my marriage had been nothing but a gothic drama of murder and betrayal. “Why don’t we go into Patrick’s study? There is something I need to give to you and
Officer Russo.” I didn’t care if my behavior was inappropriate. The wake was a farce for me, and I felt dishonest playing the role of the bereaved widow. “Sean, would you join us also?”
“If you want me there, I will,” he replied softly.
“If it’s all the same to you, miss, I’ll keep Father Meehan company until you’re finished with your meeting,” Thomas offered.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parker.”
I felt the curious glances from recent arrivals as we entered the hallway. I didn’t recognize the newcomers, including another young woman who appeared overly distressed. My resolve to give the detective the ledger hardened as I motioned to Father Meehan that I would be a few minutes. He saw Detective Buchanan and nodded before he turned to acknowledge Thomas.
“This way gentlemen.” I attempted to sound in control.
They nodded at a knot of councilman who stood at the foot of the stairway. All wore black morning coats and held top hats. Two were checking the time on their pocket watches as the men and I moved silently down the hall. When they passed the kitchen, the smell of beef stew seemed oddly normal. Life must go on, I thought, listening to the self-conscious footsteps of the men behind me.They reached Patrick’s Study. Its doors were closed.
“Why don’t you let me make sure that everything is in order?” Detective Buchanan suggested, probably noticing the dread in my eyes.
“Certainly, thank you Detective.” I stepped back, allowing him to slowly push the double oak doors forward. I wrinkled my nose against the ammonia scent of blueprints that wafted into the hall.
“The switch for the chandelier is on the wall to your right,” I advised.
I shivered as the ghostly forms of the furniture were illuminated.
The room appeared exactly as I had last seen it, except that the foot stool was positioned in front of one of the mahogany chairs. I could imagine Patrick lounging after a good day, his ankles crossed and his feet resting on the stool. His smile would have been indulgent.
