The interior doors opened. Now she could make her escape before either of these young women, whose rooms she had tidied, took notice of her as their former maid.
Gladys tapped Friedrich’s arm. “Is Mr. Williams here tonight, Mr. König?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve been reading all of his columns from last month.” Gladys tugged at her lace-edged cuffs.
“Daniel is such a wonderful journalist.” Evelyn Stanton sighed.
Gladys nodded. “And he recommended we read Benjamin Steffan’s articles, in the Detroit Post, too.”
“Made us both want to visit Detroit and attend some of the wonderful social events he had covered.”
“I wonder if someone from the island newspaper will be covering this theatrical presentation.” Gladys scanned the stream of theater patrons.
“I’d love to be mentioned, wouldn’t you, Gladys?”
“Yes. How about you, Mr. König?”
“Nein.” His curt retort caused the two young ladies’ eyebrows to rise. But he didn’t care. This conversation didn’t need to take place right now. “Come along, Maude.”
❤
Friedrich guided Maude into the slightly musty building—his hand firm on her back as they separated from the two young women. The familiar give of the wood floor beneath the burgundy-patterned carpet reassured her. This was the same theater she’d always attended, despite a glance around the room suggesting otherwise. The men’s fancy hats, which they now removed, weren’t worn by islanders. Neither were the women’s elaborate jewels, which glittered beneath the gas lamp fixtures. While the Grand Hotel had electric lights, most establishments in town didn’t.
An usher led them to their row. Marcus Edmunds, a notorious flirt, stood and shook Friedrich’s hand. He gestured to a young woman whose ample cleavage almost spilled from her ruby-toned gown.
“You know Gracie Malone.”
“Mr. König, so good to see you out. We’ve not had the pleasure of your company at this quaint establishment before.” Gracie giggled.
Quaint? Maude ran her finger over her feather, wondering where she’d set the silly pretentious thing.
“No.” Friedrich grinned down at Maude before turning back toward Miss Malone. “I’ve been busy with other pursuits.”
Marcus leered at Maude, and she wanted to gag. “Like this beauty?”
“Miss Welling, this is Mr. Edmunds.”
“Call me Marcus—everybody does.”
Certainly all the wealthy young women he pursued called him by his given name. Not that she ever would.
Her companion gestured for them to sit. Thankfully, he sat next to Mr. Edmunds so she was spared rubbing elbows with him.
Maude tried to burrow down into the overstuffed velvet-cushioned chair. What should have brought comfort, as it normally did, suddenly seemed lumpy and stiff. She angled the peacock feather across her lap.
Finally, the lights were dimmed and the production commenced. As angry as Maude was with Friedrich for his duplicity, she was still painfully aware of his presence next to her and what could have been. How could she still yearn for his kiss when he’d spent his entire time on the island deceiving her?
When her companion took her hand in his, her heart picked up a beat.
He leaned in and whispered, “Are you all right?”
Nodding, she felt his side-whiskers brush her cheek before he straightened. The warm evening made the room hot, and the scent of men’s heavy Macassar hair oil practically suffocated her. Onstage, the actors continued on with the scene. The crowd remained transfixed. All Maude could do was force herself to breathe slowly, shallowly. I will not have a spell.
She prayed as the show continued, but her anger, disappointment, and fear brewed like a toxic gas that filled her being.
They shouldn’t have come here. This theater had been an escape for her since she’d been a child—a place where she could magically travel to places far away without leaving the island. Now, though, the painted frescoed walls closed in around her.
The crowd erupted in applause as the scene ended and the curtains closed.
Her breath stuck in her throat. Stay calm, this will pass. Maude took short breaths in and out, becoming dizzier by the moment. Frantically, she pulled her hand free from her escort’s and pressed a hand to her chest as those dreaded sounds began—the wheezing.
“Maude?” Friedrich leaned in toward her.
“Does she have lung problems?” Edmunds leaned forward and looked at Maude.
People around them rose and moved toward the aisles, their scents of perfume, wool, and leather accompanying them. Maude wrapped her arms around her middle and rocked, willing calm into her spirit. Lord, please, help me.
“Yes, I believe she does.” Friedrich took her hand. “Edmunds, please go find a doctor!”
Maude closed her eyes.
“Let’s get her outside.”
“Might this stuffy little playhouse have brought it on?” harrumphed Gracie.
The Island Theater was a fine establishment. Maude gasped and drew in an outraged breath, accompanied by a definite wheeze.
“Can you walk, sweetheart?” Friedrich pulled her up.
He’d called her sweetheart. But he was betraying her friends and possibly her family. She leaned into his arms, pressing her face against his chest. Lord, let me breathe. Don’t let me die. Not here in front of all these strangers. People who don’t care about me. Who don’t know us.
Us. Tears overflowed down her face. There would be no us. This man planned to ruin her friend.
Two strong arms wrapped beneath her as Friedrich skillfully guided her through the crowd cluttering the aisle. “Make way. Let us through.”
As she struggled to breathe, Maude overheard snippets of conversation. “It’s that girl with König.”
“The maid?” The sneer on the person’s voice squeezed Maude’s chest further.
“What’s he doing with her?”
Outside, Friedrich found a bench and sat. He sat her next to him, an arm wrapped around her. Cringing, Maude closed her eyes. How could she both despise this man and yet desire his presence?
Edmunds jogged up to them. “The doctor at the Grand is off tonight.”
Gracie eyed her with suspicion. “One way to get a man’s attention.”
“Sind Sie witzlos?”
“What did he say?” Gracie clutched Marcus’s arm.
No one informed her that she’d been asked if she was witless.
“Dreadful play so far, compared to the number we saw last year in Detroit.” Marcus coughed into his hand.
“But not so bad as to bring a fit on,” Gracie simpered.
Edmund’s laugh was echoed by Gracie’s higher-pitched one.
Annoying as Friedrich’s friends were, out in the fresh air, a steel band seemed to uncinch from around her lungs. Maude sucked in a deep breath. “Please, just take me home.”
Stan rode by, his carriage unoccupied.
Edmunds winked at Friedrich. “Maybe you should skip the rest of the play and get a cab to take you up to Lover’s Lookout.”
Maude fisted her hands. “It’s called Arch Rock, not Lover’s Lookout.”
“I think she’s had that planned all along.” Edmunds laughed.
Danke Gott Edmunds had returned to the theater. Ben was tempted to punch the man.
Ben listened as Maude’s wheezing quieted. “What do you think brought this on?”
“All those overpowering scents in the room.” She looked up, her eyes wet. “And I had an upsetting event today.”
“Oh?” Had Sadie told her?
“I think I’m all right now.”
He pointed across the green. “There’s the coffee stand. Caffeine can stimulate the bronchial tubes.”
“I can walk.”
She stood, and he followed suit, taking her hand in his.
They crossed the lawn to the tiny whitewashed building.
“Coffee?”
&
nbsp; “Thank you. Black for mine and for my …” He wanted to call Maude his sweetheart. “She likes lots of cream and sugar in it.” He longed to be the one who fixed this beautiful woman her morning coffee every day. First, though, he’d have to share with her about who and what he was and see if she could accept his request to court her as his true self. Taking their coffee, they moved to a bench.
“I need to tell you something,” Ben said. “I am a society reporter, from the Detroit Post, and my name is actually Ben Steffan.”
“So I’ve heard.”
When had she learned? Chills gathered at his cummerbund and raced up his back beneath the borrowed tuxedo.
“Sadie?”
“Yes. Why are you really here on the island?”
He exhaled loudly. “I want to be an editor. This was my chance for a big story. My boss has all but promised me a huge promotion….” With more money, he could bring Maude with him to Detroit.
Rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, he suddenly felt ridiculous. What was he thinking? He’d never be able to provide for her like her parents had.
And who was he to trust in Banyon—hadn’t everyone else in his life let Ben down? He’d likely turn in the piece and return to find O’Halloran sitting at Ben’s desk and himself demoted to junior. Sick dread filled Ben’s gut. Banyon would tell him, “Try a little harder next time, son.”
“You’ll return to Detroit?” Maude sipped her coffee.
“That’s where my job is. If I moved to another paper, I’d have to start all over again.” And after this piece he’d have zero chance of ever moving to the Detroit Free Press. Unless he didn’t send it. He tasted his coffee. Just as bitter as that brewed at the Post.
“What’s so special about this story?”
“Nothing really.” Except that he’d have to keep her name out of it. Which meant doing an additional article of some importance to placate Banyon. “Just a man who did a woman wrong—two women actually.” It was a lie—this story wasn’t nothing—it could be everything to Greyson Luce. And Banyon must be seeking vengeance on Forham for something.
She exhaled a puff of air, sending the curls on her forehead bobbing like the nearby waves on Lake Michigan.
“I tire of people taking advantage of one another,” Ben said. “Of life’s injustices.” Was he really angry with God, for what had happened to his own family?
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” Maude stated. “I think you’ve taken enough advantage of my family.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The ride from the island to the Upper Peninsula and the attorney’s office was everything Maude hoped it would not be. Rain pelted the deck at an alarming rate, whitecaps slammed against the boat, and passengers crowded within the cabin of the ferry. Finally, she disembarked at the dock with the rest of the travelers and followed the queue down to the main street in St. Ignace. Light but steady rain continued, and she aimed her umbrella to keep gusts of wind from blowing straight at her.
The delightful scent of cinnamon buns wafted from a bakery with deep pink awnings. She’d have to swing back and make a purchase on her return. For now, though, she wanted to see Mr. Hollingshead. She continued down the boardwalk until she spied his shingle. She shook out her umbrella before she went inside. Although she expected to be met by a secretary, a pretty young woman, her bun askew atop her head, sat on the floor playing blocks with a toddler.
Maude set her umbrella inside the stand by the door.
The woman rose and wiped her hands on her dusky gray skirt. “May I help you?”
The dark-stained mahogany door to the left likely led to the attorney’s office. Maude didn’t have an appointment. She moistened her lips.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Hollingshead.”
“Your name?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment. My name is Maude Welling….”
Her eyebrows rose in alarm. “Miss Welling?”
Why would this young woman fear her? “Yes, my family is represented by Mr. Hollingshead.”
Face flushed, the young woman turned and picked up the child. “Yes, my husband should be out shortly. Have a seat while I run upstairs for a moment.”
Like a chicken running from a fox, mother and child fled the room, heading to the back of the building, presumably to the stairs. After she was gone, Maude crossed to the coatrack and hung her dripping raincoat.
After she returned to the seating area, Maude sat and gathered her skirts around her then crossed her ankles. A large wall clock indicated it was already half past the hour. Because of the storm, the ferry had taken longer than she’d expected.
The office door swung open, and a tall young man emerged, speaking in a solemn voice to an elderly woman who leaned heavily on her brass-headed cane. He walked past Maude, cocking his head ever so slightly as though questioning her appearance in his office.
The silver-haired woman retrieved a large black umbrella from the stand. Then Mr. Hollingshead opened the front door for the frail lady.
In a moment, he turned to Maude, his eyes scanning the area around her, as though looking for his wife and child.
Maude pointed to the back. “They’ve gone upstairs for a moment.”
“Ah.” He nodded and clasped his hands together. “I’m Steven Hollingshead, how can I help you?”
“I hoped to speak with you about some family matters of a legal nature.”
“Come on into my office.” He gestured toward the open door and Maude rose.
Once inside, he pointed to an overstuffed leather armchair, and she sat as he rounded the desk and took his seat. He pulled out a notepad.
“I’m here about my mother’s estate—actually my grandmother’s—I’m not sure which or if they are somehow bound together.”
“I see.” He held his fountain pen over the pad, head bent. “I apologize, please tell me your full name.”
“Maude Jacqueline Welling.”
“Miss Welling?” His chin jerked up, his eyes wide. “You’ve finally come.”
She shifted in her chair. “I …”
“I summoned you months ago.”
He’d sent for her? “I received no word.”
The attorney’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m afraid I require some identification from you before we can proceed.”
“Identification?” She clutched at her reticule.
“Of course—I must ensure my clients’ privacy, and I must be sure you are who you claim to be.”
Claim to be? “What proof are you seeking, sir?”
His cheeks grew florid. “Something that shows, for instance, that you are Maude Welling of Mackinac Island.”
“Oh.” She opened her purse. “I have my library card with me. Will that suffice?”
“I must have the exact address of your home, as well.”
“Address? Everyone knows where the Winds of Mackinac is located and you, sir, should know we use the post office for our mail on the island.”
“Yes, quite right.”
She passed him her library card and he inspected it before returning it to her. Then he began tapping his fingers on his desk. “Are you worried about something, Mr. Hollingshead?”
“No, no, all seems to be in order. Do you mind telling me who your parents and grandparents are?”
She drew in a slow breath. “My mother, Eugenia Swaine Welling, and father Peter Welling. Maternal grandparents Jacqueline Cadotte Swaine and Carter Swaine.”
“Good, very good.” He pulled a thick file from his drawer and set it atop his desk. “Miss Welling, might I also ask if you retain an attorney from the island?” His well-formed lips pulled in tight.
“No. Why do you ask?”
His features pulled in several directions as though he was working out a puzzle and didn’t possess all the pieces. “No reason. Well, here, let’s review.”
Maude pulled her chair closer to the desk. For the next half hour, she listened to him rattle off
the specifications of her grandmother’s will. Some she had him repeat.
She drew in a deep breath. “So it’s true that my father owns none of the holdings he and my mother managed?”
“Correct. As stipulated in your grandmother’s will, her heir’s spouses wouldn’t inherit upon their deaths but their children would, when they came of age.”
Which meant she and Jack inherited their mother’s property. “At twenty-one?”
“Yes.”
Which meant she inherited on her upcoming birthday. “I don’t understand. Why would she do that?”
“It seems that your grandmother had been very disturbed about your grandfather Swaine making a muck of things, excuse my language, of the Cadotte holdings that she’d inherited.”
Maude recalled the stories of the extreme distress her grandmother had suffered when he’d died and she’d discovered her estate was almost ruined. She’d been left with a small child, Robert, and Maude’s mother to raise alone and had become a focused businesswoman, restoring the businesses.
“Miss Welling, you also must remain on the island, to live there, in order to profit from your holdings.”
“Robert isn’t married and he’s not lived on the island in almost a year.” Until now.
The lawyer leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss your uncle’s situation with you. I can say that it’s not clear, from the will’s terminology, as to whether your grandmother only stipulated for her grandchildren or also for the children. If you’d like, I can suggest another attorney who could advise you, if you wish to take any action.”
“Action?”
“Such as contesting the will or certain provisions.”
Her mouth was so dry. She needed a drink. Something sweet that would chase this bitter taste from her mouth.
“But what does this mean for us for now? For Winds of Mackinac?”
“You and your brother live on the island, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you fulfill that stipulation. I understand your brother is twelve.”
“Yes.”
“So his assets would need to be protected by the current sole heir, as would yours until your birthday.”
My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island Page 21
