Marblestone Mansion, Book 9

by Marti Talbott

  “Yes,” Matilda admitted.

  “Is it the pay? Do you need more?”

  “No, it is not that.”

  “What then?”

  “I so hesitate to bring it up.”

  “Do you mean you have heard somethin’ about a book?”

  Matilda let out a relived sigh. “Yes, that’s it. Of course, I have not yet read it, but I am hearing all sorts of things about her. They are calling her ‘the duchess.”

  McKenna was amazed that the rumors had spread so quickly. “That is what we always call her.”

  “But is your sister-in-law not the MacGreagor duchess?”

  “She is, but we do not call Cathleen a duchess now that they are in America.”

  “Was the title taken away?”

  “Oh, no, nothin’ like that. She is still a duchess and my brother is the duke. We only call Hannish’s first wife ‘the duchess.’”

  “I see,” Matilda said. “Is what they say about her true?”

  “It is likely worse than you have heard.”

  “I cannot imagine how it could be worse.”

  McKenna set her teacup on the table and folded her arms. “After my brother made his fortune and sent his wife money, she hired a lad to see to repairin’ the place. He was a stonemason, and the truth be told, the castle was badly in need of repairs.”

  “The castle that burned? I heard about that.”

  “Aye. We grew up in it and were devastated when it burned.”

  “I am sure you must have been. What about this stonemason?”

  “Well, his work was inferior at best and it took him ages just to complete one project. We, Cameron and I, suspected she kept him on because she was having an affair with him.”

  Matilda Meriwether’s eyes widened. “An affair? Right there in your castle?”

  “The duchess was quite handsome and few lads could resist her. Now, naturally, she is older and has lost most of her glow.”

  “But did she have an affair right in your brother’s bedroom?”

  “‘Twas worse than that.”

  “How could it be worse than that?”

  “The lad she hired turned out to be one of her previous husbands. Of a truth, he was the first husband, and the one to whom she was still legally married.”

  Fully without a clear thought in her head, the spinster piano teacher’s mouth dropped and she nearly spilled her tea. “Then it was not an affair, it was…”

  “Of course, we did not find that out until after she had come to America, refused to live in Marblestone, and gone back to Scotland.”

  “She refused to live at Marblestone?”

  “Aye, she could not do without her London society, you see.”

  It took several moments before Miss Matilda Meriwether could grasp the full meaning of what she heard. Suddenly, it occurred to her she had much to tell her friends. She handed the cup of tea to McKenna, stood up, rushed to the door and nearly forgot her manners. “Mrs. Mitchell, I shall return next week at this same time.”

  “I am happy to hear that,” McKenna managed to say right before the door closed. “There,” she muttered with a satisfied smile. “That should do it up nicely.”

  *

  McKenna was right.

  Abigail decided that Vivian Mabs was the biggest gossip she knew, called to tell her about the asylum, and then listened as Mrs. Mabs called Pearl, who called Loretta right away. Loretta then called Mrs. Merth and on it went. By the next day, the telephone lines had exploded with rumors and speculation. The lines were so busy, operator Mable could hardly keep up. Naturally, she listened in whenever she could and was just as stunned as everyone else. As far as she could tell, this duchess everyone was talking about, had fangs and a tail. Word that the book would arrive within the week spread just as quickly as the gossip, and everyone hoped the bookshop manager had ordered enough copies.

  No one was enjoying it more than Abigail Whitfield. To keep from saying something about it on the telephone herself, Abigail made three trips to Marblestone just to keep everyone informed. She couldn’t remember a happier time. Their plan of attack was working and working very well.

  When the day finally drew to a close, Hannish and Leesil were beginning to set aside their forebodings – albeit cautiously.

  CHAPTER 9

  In Denver, Jack Handlan was desperate to make it big as a newspaper reporter. Three days earlier, his sister mentioned a certain book about a bigamist. He thought little of it at the time, but when his sister dropped the book off at his office, he opened it and scanned the first few sentences. Enthralled, he read all day and long into the night. No sooner had he gotten to his office the next day, than he found the wanted poster Hannish put in the Colorado Springs newspaper.

  That was it…his lucky break had arrived and it was time to write his first prize winning article. He popped all the knuckles in his fingers, stretched them several times and then loaded a sheet of paper in his Sholes and Gidden Type-Writer.

  Where is Alexandra Sinclair?

  By Jack Handlan

  Last night, this reporter finished reading a book the whole country is talking about. The title is, The Scandalous Affairs of Alexandra Sinclair, and the book claims to be truthful and honest. If so, Alexandra Sinclair is the most notorious bigamist the world has ever seen.

  The book reports seven husbands, some of whom are notable men in both Great Britain and Colorado. Naturally, when a book is called a novel, it implies it is fiction. Yet, this one appears to be non-fiction and I must wonder what publisher would put a book to print using real names, if the facts are unprovable.

  Therefore, if Alexandra Sinclair truly exists, where is she? She was last seen in New York City and may still be there, but she could be in New Orleans, Chicago or Los Angeles. Perhaps she is well hidden in states with fewer residents such as Idaho, Montana or Wyoming. Wherever she is, someone believes she is real, for there is a $5,000.00 reward offered for her arrest.

  *

  Printed the very next day, Jack’s small article, plus his reissue of the wanted poster was soon picked up by the Associated Press, and reprinted in papers all over the country.

  The search for the duchess was on.

  *

  In her Cleveland hotel, the duchess paused her packing to go out for a time. She retrieved all her daily newspapers, went back to her room, took off her widow’s hat, and settled down to read. The London papers reported an upcoming gala event marking the opening of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Oh how she longed to be there, for absolutely everyone that mattered surely would be. She briefly bit her lower lip, found nothing else of interest in that paper and set it aside.

  It was in the Denver paper that she saw it. How could she not, for the article and the poster were printed on the second page in big bold letters.

  * $5000 Reward Offered *

  For the whereabouts of Alexandra Sinclair. If captured, she must remain unharmed. Mrs. Sinclair is average in appearance, five feet, five inches tall, has black hair, and was last seen in New York City. Be advised she keeps a small revolver strapped to her right leg.

  Reward offered by Mr. Hannish MacGreagor and Mr. Claymore Whitfield.

  “Average!” the duchess nearly shouted. “This is all Laura’s doing.” She could feel her catatonic state coming on, took several deep breaths, and began to concentrate on the ring she still wore – the one Mr. Douglas Roth gave her before he declined to follow through with their marriage. She kept it, and why wouldn’t she, after he humiliated and tossed her aside as if she were an unwanted doll? He owed it to her.

  “Average,” she muttered again as soon as she got her wits about her. It was then she realized the reward mentioned her revolver. She lifted her skirt, unstrapped the holster and placed it and the gun on the table. Now how was she to defend herself? She supposed she would have to buy a larger purse, one which would easily accommodate the gun, but how tiresome that sounded. She was practiced at lifting her skirt, but not at having to reach in a pur
se.

  The duchess heaved a frustrating sigh. “Why does nothing ever go my way?”

  She got up, paced the floor a few times and then stopped. If anyone would suspect who she really was, it was the hotel manager. She ran to her closet and pulled out a handful of clothes. “I must leave Cleveland this very instant!”

  The duchess was resolved to move to Kansas. There was a price on her head now, but perhaps no one would guess who she was in the quaint little town of Salina. The people were friendly and none seemed too awfully nosey. At least in Kansas, she wouldn’t be forced to wear widow’s weeds and no one was constantly taking pictures. She packed all her belongings in trunks, strapped the gun back to her leg, and bid the Cleveland hotel manager farewell.

  The duchess left no forwarding address and caught the next train heading west.

  She was not surprised to see Sheriff Jolly once more greeting passengers at the train station. It seemed to be one of his favorite responsibilities, and as he said, it kept him aware of who was in town and who was not. He seemed happy to see her, gave her a ride to the hotel in his sheriff’s automobile, and sent a man back to pick up her trunks. She paid a month in advance for a room with a bath and moved right in.

  Sheriff Jolly was pleased by her return and the hotel was thrilled to get the money, but no one would be happier to see her again than Matt and Dale Fifer.

  *

  Just outside their shack at the end of Babbling Brook Lane, Dale studied the clear blue sky. “Looks like rain.”

  Matt looked up, jerked his felt hat off his head and smacked his brother with it. “Does not!”

  “Well, it feels like rain. I can feel it in my bones, you know.”

  “You always say that, and it hardly ever rains.”

  “It always rains when I feel it in my bones, you just don’t pay attention.” A swirl of wind kicked up dust, but the brothers were so used to that, they each instantly covered their faces with their hats.

  “Let’s go fishing?” Dale suggested.

  “And miss seeing a train blow up? You’ve done had a brainball fire off again.”

  “What’s a brainball?”

  “Don’t you know? I swear, you get dumber every day,” said Matt, as he headed down the lane toward town.

  “Okay, if you’re so smart, tell me what a brainball is, and don’t lie.”

  “Miss Molly over at the school told me. Our brain has hundreds of little balls in it. When one accidentally runs into another, it shoots fire just like the lightning in the sky. And when that happens, you get dumber.”

  Dale abruptly stopped walking. “I’m going to ask Miss Molly if she told you that.”

  “You better not,” Matt said as he kept right on walking.

  “Why, because you’re lying again?”

  “No, because it might embarrass her.”

  “Embarrass her how?”

  “The school board don’t like her reading those kinds of books.”

  One of Dale’s eyebrows shot up. “Those kinds? Does it have pictures?”

  “See, you best not ask Miss Molly that. She’ll likely smack you in the mouth if you do.”

  Matt won, he always did.

  It was late when they started toward town so they missed the arrival of the train. Fortunately, the train didn’t blow up this time either, for they would have hated missing that. It was not until they were sitting on the barrels across the street from the hotel that they spotted Mrs. Lyons. The duchess was dressed in a summer print dress and held a parasol above her head to shade her from the sun. Truly smitten, Matt forgot to check the crease in his hat, jumped up and started across the street.

  “Mrs. Lyons…Mrs. Lyons.”

  At length, the duchess slowly turned around and waited for the two vagabonds to catch up. “What is it?”

  “Me and Dale, I mean mostly me, want to know if you’d like to see a two-headed calf?”

  “A two-headed calf? Is it dead or alive?”

  “Alive, last time I saw it.” When he felt his brother smack his shoulder and looked, Dale had his hat respectfully off and held over his heart. As quickly as he could, Matt removed his. To his horror, there was no crease at all in his floppy felt hat, so he hid it behind his back.

  “I have no interest in a two-headed calf.” The duchess turned and started to walk away.

  This time, Dale caught up fast. “We could catch a prairie dog for you.”

  She stopped. “A what?”

  “A prairie dog. Have you never seen one before?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. What do they look like?” It wasn’t long before their lack of a good scrubbing began to creep into her nostrils. She moved, hoping to get a little up wind from them.

  “We could show you,” Dale insisted. “We got wild turkeys too, though they are mighty hard to catch.”

  “Or we could shoot a pheasant, if we had a gun. Our Pa ran off with the gun,” Matt added. The sun was hot, so he put his un-creased hat back on.

  “He ran off?” the duchess asked.

  “With the widow Mercy,” Dale answered.

  The duchess moved downwind a little farther. “I cannot think why.”

  “Neither can we,” Dale admitted.

  “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have marketing to do.”

  Not often were the brothers called gentlemen, and certainly not by the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. They were so dumbfounded, they let their mouths hang agape and just watched her walk away. At length, Dale recovered enough to yell, “It feels like rain.”

  Just as she lowered her parasol and looked up at the clear sky, a large gust of wind lifted the back of her skirt, making her admirers roar with laughter.

  The duchess grabbed hold of the back of her skirt and darted into the bookshop, happily leaving the bothersome boys behind. The book about her was nowhere to be found, and this time, it was a relief. If they had seen it, she hoped most of Salina’s residence cared little about the wanted poster and the mysterious woman named in it. So far, it didn’t appear anyone suspected her.

  Next, she bought an apple at the general store. The brothers were following her, and she was anything but delighted. For a woman who thrived on admiration, she found she could certainly do without theirs. For just a moment, she darted into the barbershop to ask if the barber knew anything about tending wigs. He did not, and the bothersome brothers were waiting for her when she came out.

  “We saw your petticoat,” Dale snickered.

  Furious, the duchess turned her ire on both of them. “You stink. Dare you not come close to me again, or I shall shoot you.”

  Matt deeply wrinkled his brow. “We do not stink?” Behind him, he heard a man’s voice he knew all too well.

  “Make that two rows of beans to pick come harvest time,” said Sheriff Jolly. Just as he expected, the horrified brothers took off running. “And take a bath. You do stink!” he shouted after them.

  Dale got in the last word, “Hey, Sheriff, it’s going to rain.”

  Sheriff Jolly removed his hat and nodded. “Good Morning, Mrs. Lyons. I sincerely apologize for their bad behavior.”

  “Good morning. Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Any time…any time at all.”

  “Will it rain?”

  “Dale is a more trouble than he is worth, but when he says it is going to rain, he is usually right.” The sheriff put his hat back on and look up at the sky. “We get all kinds of weather here, wind, rain, snow and tornados, although the tornados here are not as bad as some parts of Kansas.” He wrapped her hand around his arm and began to walk her toward the hotel. “Lightning and tornados are the biggest danger, but then, men have been known to freeze to death in a blizzard. I’ve seen it warm in January and snowing in June.”

  “Do the brothers really have a two-headed calf?”

  Sheriff Jolly rolled his eyes. “They tried that trick on you? Mrs. Lyons, whatever you do, do not let them take you out of town. I have never known them to be dangerous, but you
are a mighty pretty woman, and they are…well, you know what I mean.”

  “I certainly do, Sheriff. I shall be cautious.”

  “Good. Mrs. Jolly asked me to invite you to have tea with her this afternoon. Shall I tell her you accept?”

  “I would like that. What time?”

  “I’ll be around to pick you up at two o’clock.”

  She nodded, watched him tip his hat, and then watched him saunter back down the street. She still had not gotten over his amusing appearance, even though he was now using wax to make the tips of his handlebar mustache stay turned upward. What, she wondered, did Mrs. Marcus Reginald Jolly, Reggie for short, look like?

  *

  By the time the duchess arrived at Mrs. Jolly’s house for tea, dark clouds had moved in and it looked like rain. No sooner had she been invited in, than a bolt of lightning streaked across the eastern sky, followed by a deafening clap of thunder that at first sounded a lot like a gunshot.

  The duchess involuntarily trembled.

  Mrs. Jolly seated her guest, poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. “Thunder frightens you, I see. You’ll soon get used to it here. I actually enjoy the lightning and the thunder.”

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Jolly was not at all what the duchess expected. She was a rather thin woman, with an oval face and a very pleasant smile. “You do?”

  “I truly do. So long as one is inside the house, there is nothing to fear.” To her horror, her tabby cat strolled into the room, spotted the duchess, arched his back and hissed. “Oh, my,” she gasped. She quickly put her teacup down, grabbed the cat, went to the door and tossed it outside. The cat verbally complained, and then scurried off to find some protection from the rain.

  Mrs. Jolly profusely apologized. “I cannot think what is wrong with that cat. He never does that, but I confess we entertain few strangers here in the house. Mr. Jolly is very careful about who he invites in. There are some very bad people in the world, you know.”

  “Indeed I do.” At the sound of heavy rain pounding on the roof, the duchess looked up.