My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

“Thank you.”

  The slim man pressed a rose-scented lavender linen weave envelope into Ben’s hand. He stiffened. The note looked like a love letter, which of course he knew it wouldn’t be. He pointed to the letter opener in the man’s supply tray. “May I borrow this?”

  “Certainly.”

  Ben sliced into the envelope and read the single sheet within:

  Dear Mr. Steffan,

  G. T. Harris, Father’s best journalist, will be arriving today. He has a lead on a story about an impoverished journalist posing as a wealthy German industrialist seeking to wed a wealthy island heiress. Isn’t that scandalous?

  Cordially,

  Anna

  P.S. I feel certain we could help squash this story with some reciprocity on your part.

  Chasing an heiress? But he hadn’t. Ben swallowed hard. Anna’s veiled threat was crystal clear. If Ben didn’t submit his story, then Harris’s wouldn’t be published, either.

  “I have another for you, sir.” Mr. Morris held a cream-colored envelope aloft.

  His landlady’s name was neatly printed above the imprinted return address for a hotel near the boardinghouse. They had an agreement that no messages would be sent to the hotel unless there was an emergency. He swallowed.

  “Thank you.” He tucked the missive inside his jacket pocket and headed toward the stairs to go up to his room. As he turned the corner, he spied a group of musicians gathered inside the ballroom, the doors open wide. How did they feel about an author displacing them this afternoon?

  Ben entered his room, removed his jacket and patted the pocket for the letter. Then he sat down in the corner chair by the desk, reached into the drawer for an ivory letter opener, and slit it open:

  Dear Benjamin,

  I have terrible news. The boardinghouse burned, and everything in it….

  Ben’s mouth fell open—all his belongings—his books, his instruments—destroyed. He closed his eyes. Why, God, why me, why now? He had nothing, was nothing. Nothing but an imposter. And he had no story.

  Get ahold of yourself. He shook his shoulders and took a deep breath, the pastor’s words from Sunday’s sermon echoing in his ears: “Everything you have comes from God, by His will, and for His glory only. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking that anything here on earth truly belongs to you. We took this church for granted, and we failed to care for it. But by His prompting and the obedience of people on this island, we are rebuilding this church, to His glory and for His will.”

  He’d need to add a job as a pianist and even take on pupils just to make a dent in what he’d lost.

  Thy will, not mine.

  He continued reading the missive. The poor woman lost everything, but all of the boarders had gotten out alive. Had he been there, on the top floor, would he have been so fortunate? Something dripped down onto the paper, leaving a wet blotch.

  After setting the letter down atop the desk, Ben rose and went to the window. I don’t even know myself anymore. Character traits he’d taken for granted, that defined who he was had been yanked away. He was no actor. And the longer this charade persisted, the less he liked of who he was becoming.

  “You’re a kind young man, Benjamin—the type of man I’d wish my Anna would marry.” Both he and the Prussian-born woman knew that would never be. She knew from whence he hailed and how his uncle had run them off. He recalled how she’d thanked him profusely when he’d lifted her, a dying woman, into her carriage after her footmen couldn’t seem to manage. What would she think of him now, were she yet alive? Had Anna made a terrible mistake with Greyson? Or was she simply like Ben—someone who had followed her own path and now dealt with the consequences?

  Had Mrs. Forham loved her daughter so much that she’d overlooked Anna’s propensity to flirt, tease, and dangle another young man in front of a rival? But he’d been no rival—he’d simply been a newspaperman there to report on her father and her family and whatever events they attended where something newsworthy happened.

  Standing here in a room he’d soon vacate, going to who knew where with nothing and no one to greet him, Ben suddenly felt ten years old again. Groβmutter, when she was dying, spoke directly and succinctly to each of them in her last few months. Her words had gotten him through many a difficult night when he’d worked hard so that he could study, improve his English, and write. Without her encouragement he’d never have landed the job at the Detroit Post. And now—to be so close to being offered assistant editor … He pushed a hand through his hair.

  He’d taken Mrs. Forham’s utterances in the same vein as his grandmother’s. But they weren’t. Mrs. Forham may have been expressing her wishes to combat the fear she had at leaving her eldest daughter behind in the world—that she’d find a kind man, not the rakes she’d been chasing about town with. Ben stretched his shoulders.

  “What about my wishes for you?”

  Ben looked around the room, so real was the voice he’d heard calling to him. Like a sweet voice accompanied by a brief snippet of a brilliant piano concerto.

  He opened his Bible and went to Ecclesiastes. Was he chasing after the wind? What was God’s will for him?

  Hours later, Ray arrived and readied Ben. “You sure look fine, sir. And don’t that beat all that you gonna introduce Mr. Mark Twain?”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s a steady flow of decked-out guests, business owners from town, and a bunch of newspapermen downstairs.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. And some rustic-looking people from the mainland, too.”

  “Lumberjacks even?”

  “Might be a few, but no checked flannel shirts that I saw!”

  “I better get downstairs.” Ben brushed a stray speck of lint from his sleeve.

  “You’ll do fine. The good Lord’ll be right beside you, sir.”

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  A sharp rap on the door startled both men. Ray went to the door.

  “I need to speak with Mr. König.” Ada’s tight voice wavered.

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s about to head down for Mr. Twain’s presentation.”

  “Tell them he’ll be down shortly, Blevins.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ada closed the door behind the departing servant, a newspaper tucked under her arm. She swiveled to face Ben and offered him the Times. “Go to the ‘International’ section. And you might want to sit down.” She pointed to the bed.

  “What is it?” He turned to a page marked by the corners being folded in.

  “I thought you should read this.”

  Ben scanned the top headline. “GRAND DUKE FRIEDRICH KÖNIG OF BAVARIA DIES AT AFRICAN PLANTATION.” He sank onto his bed and continued reading. “My uncle.”

  Her countenance softened. “I wondered. Because of your use of the name.”

  Ben nodded then resumed scanning the article. “Malaria killed him. He’d just turned fifty.” His mother had died before reaching forty, heartbroken after Magdalena had died. Mother and Father both became chronically ill from the conditions where they lived in Chicago.

  “The paper just came, but guests from the mainland likely already know.” Ada’s voice was soft and maternal. “And they may have questions.”

  “Right.”

  Ada clasped her hands at her waist. “Would you like a few minutes to compose yourself before you go down?”

  Ben breathed a sigh and stood. “I’m angry still, at what that wicked man wrought.”

  “He’s met his Maker now.” Ada dipped her chin.

  “Yes.” Ben ran a hand over his jaw. “I pray he didn’t poison his son with his beliefs.”

  “That young man will have some difficult days ahead of him. I see from the article that he’s quite young.”

  “I never met my cousin.” He’d read the rest of the article later. “I better go downstairs before I’m late.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you saw that, just in case people ask you about it.”

  “Danke.” He follow
ed her out the door, locking it behind him, then hurried down the back stairs. He’d never imagined his uncle would die so early. He’d expected him to outlive Ben, even, as he had the rest of his family.

  Mark Twain paced outside the rear door that led to the ballroom’s dais, as a burly blond man looked on. When he saw Ben, he strode toward him, clasped both his hands between his and shook them. “My boy, look at you now.”

  “So good to see you, sir.” A tremor coursed through Ben. Maybe Ada was right; maybe he should have taken a few minutes to compose himself.

  “I’m sorry about your namesake.” The author’s bushy eyebrows worked together.

  “I just learned of his death.” Sweat broke out on Ben’s brow.

  Behind the wall, the noise of happy patrons carried through—women’s high-pitched voices and laughter, and deep men’s voices initiating jokes that had brought on the women’s glee. All were apparently in high spirits and weren’t the decorous sort Ben had found attending literary events in Detroit. Their happiness loomed incongruous against his railing emotions.

  “Quite a crowd, I was told.” Twain tugged at his vest. “And it sounds like it.”

  Drawing in a long breath, Ben cracked the door open and looked through. There in the front row sat the wealthiest of the Grand’s extensive guest list.

  A proud-looking beauty with coils of cinnamon curls trailing her shoulders entered on Robert Swaine’s arm. Maude. She’d come. Ben hung his head. He didn’t deserve her.

  He turned to Twain. “I don’t merit the honor of presenting you, sir.”

  Smiling, he clapped Ben’s arm. “The honor is mine.”

  What did he mean?

  The hall clock chimed the hour. “I better get in there.”

  The servant crossed his arms and stood, feet planted wide apart. “I’ll be right here if either of you need anything. And we have a man on the other side, too.”

  Mark Twain often spoke his mind and had offended a great many people. But did they really think someone would come all the way to Mackinac Island to harass the celebrated author?

  Taking his place on the dais, Ben waited momentarily until they quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce Mark Twain, undeniably one of the most beloved authors of our time.”

  “Here! Here!” Some of the rowdy journalists called out.

  I can do this. Glancing at his notecards, Ben drew in a fortifying breath as he proceeded to name Twain’s many accomplishments. Heads bobbed in agreement and applause punctuated the announcement of some of his books. “And it is without further ado, I give you the renowned Mark Twain.”

  Applause and foot-stomping shook the room. Some of the reporters whistled.

  Twain moved forward and Ben gathered his notes, preparing to depart the stage, but the author drew alongside him. “Wait.”

  Then Twain gestured for the crowd to calm. He smiled benevolently at those assembled. “I do love to tell a story, you know.”

  Laughter erupted.

  He raised his palm. “I want to tell you a story about a young man who inspired a character in my book The Prince and the Pauper.”

  Ben leaned back, sensing the strain in the fine wool of his tailored suit coat. He now possessed only one set of clothing to his name.

  “This young man alongside me, sold me a paper one windy day about fifteen years ago.”

  Several fellow journalists, standing on the side, scribbled on their notepads.

  “There was something about that little German boy that bothered me. His aristocratic voice, his bearing, his way of looking down his little nose at me as he offered me my paper as though it were a treasure.” The author chuckled.

  The room hushed. Ben’s eyes moistened. He wanted nothing more than to run. But where would he go?

  “When I asked his name, he proclaimed himself as Benjamin Friedrich König Steffan.” Twain paused and scanned the room. “I told him that was quite a mouthful for a little chap.”

  The crowd tittered, a few present exchanging puzzled looks.

  He turned and looked up at Ben. “He’s certainly grown into that big name, hasn’t he?”

  Polite laughter ensued.

  “I couldn’t leave it at that. I have one of those noses”—Twain tapped the side of his nose then turned to the side, displaying his profile so that the crowd laughed—“that can’t resist sniffing out a story. So I followed that boy to a tenement building in Chicago, where he lived with his parents. And I started doing my own little journalistic snooping around.”

  Ben leaned in. “Please, sir, Mr. Twain, say no more.”

  Twain’s shaggy eyebrows bunched together. “That newsboy was the nephew of the archduke of Bavaria. He’d begun his life at a grand estate. But life brought changes.”

  In the front row, Gladys leaned in to say something to Evelyn. The electric lights illuminated the bronze highlights of Maude’s hair, and her eyes widened.

  “He was like my little prince who’d become a pauper. Like the story in my head, I had right before me a living and breathing example. And I couldn’t get that proud little boy out of my mind. I’ve followed his career over the years, as he has blossomed in Detroit.”

  “For those of you who haven’t heard, the archduke died this past week.” He half-swiveled toward Ben. “I think that might leave you second in line to his title.”

  Ben’s head began to swim. All he wanted to do was run and hide.

  Twain waggled his eyebrows. “I’m guessing I could get another story out of my friend now. Maybe one about a restored aristocrat searching for his future duchess from among all the fine young ladies at the Grand Hotel!”

  Mortified, Ben bowed slightly as the audience applauded. He turned to leave. He’d go search out a rock cave and hide in it until Twain and all the entourage left the island.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The next day, having been summoned to the Winds of Mackinac by Maude’s father, Ben wasn’t sure what to expect. He arrived in his own clothing. Stan gave Ben a salute as he dropped him off at the inn. At least no one at the hotel had asked when Ben was returning to Bavaria. Never.

  Beatrice opened the front door and bobbed a curtsy to him before he entered to find Peter Welling pacing in the hallway. The floral arrangement Ben had ordered was perched on a plant stand, as though it were simply one purchased to decorate the inn.

  Welling jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward his office. “We need to talk.”

  What did the man know? He followed the man as he stomped down the hall to the office. The door clicked closed as Ben waited to be directed to sit.

  Welling stood, his thumbs tucked into his suspenders. “Are you considering returning to Europe?”

  So someone finally asked. Ben gave a curt laugh. “I’m an American journalist.”

  Maude’s father tapped a newspaper on his desk. “And reporters say you may be second in line to a title.”

  “I’m sure my cousin, who’ll receive the hereditary title, will marry and produce many little König heirs.”

  “Do you love my girl?”

  Prickles of irritation scurried around Ben’s neck collar. “I do.”

  The man pinioned him with his icy gaze. “Do you understand about her … peculiarities?”

  “An attack of the lungs is an illness—not an oddity.”

  “Ah, so you don’t fully understand.” Peter Welling’s sardonic smile irked Ben. “Have a seat.”

  He didn’t want to sit—would rather remain standing so he could bolt out the door, if needed. But Ben lowered himself onto the closest chair. Perhaps Welling was referring to his daughter’s stint as a maid. “Sir, I don’t think Maude’s service as a maid was due to some emotional instability—rather she was trying to prove herself to you.”

  “Unnecessary—I know my daughter is capable of running this or any other business on the island, including the Grand Hotel, by herself.”

  “But …”

  Welling raised his hand. �
�And I do know what you’ve been up to—putting together a story about Greyson Luce and that poor girl he married.” He shook his head.

  “Poor girl? She’s a wealthy young woman who pursued him.” And half the eligible young men in Detroit. How could Welling be so naive?

  The man’s openmouthed stare accused Ben of idiocy. “Shame his mother will be crushed when she reads your column—you’re one of her favorite writers, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.” He gave a short laugh. “I suspect I shall be her least favorite from hence forth.”

  “Hard to say—Mrs. Luce values honesty.”

  “As do I.” But was it cruel for him to expose the truth?

  “But please leave my daughter’s name out of the article.” He brought his hand down with a smack on his desktop, causing loose papers to rise and then fall back again in disarray.

  Swallowing, Ben was tempted to rise, to leave the room. “I hope to do so.”

  “But you love her, don’t you? Want to marry her, even?”

  He did. Ben nodded slowly. Suddenly he felt ten years old, sitting outside his uncle’s office as he ordered his mother and father from the estate in Bavaria. And that day he’d rearranged every plan he had in his head for his life. No longer did he aspire to become a musician like his parents, to play in the orchestra and travel across Europe, to return to their ancestral home for respite. No, he’d be his own man, earn his own way, and rely upon no one but himself and his own hard work.

  With this story, he might have a crack at providing a life for Maude and himself. “It’s my wish to obtain a small house for us in Detroit and to take her there.”

  “I see.” Salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose and fell. “Maude will be heartbroken, you know.”

  Why? “I know she loves this property, the island, but …”

  Her father’s lips bunched up. “She’ll never leave here. And you threaten her situation if she does.”

  Ben rose, the odor of stale tobacco in the room suddenly annoying. “How?”

  “Thought you were an investigative reporter—aren’t you? You go and find out.” Welling waved a dismissive hand at him.

  Heels clicked down the outer hall and stopped at the door. “Father?” Maude stepped in.