by Megan Besing
“Mrs. Baronne, you are a true friend.” May Conrad accepted the cup of hot tea with shaking hands. “I do not know what I would have done had you not extended such kindness to me.”
The elderly woman sat down across the table and offered a smile. While she always did dress to excess, today’s emerald silk gown and matching turban with feathers tucked into her elaborate coiffure were in stark contrast to the simplicity of her home here on Dumont Street.
“My dear,” she said as she stretched her arm across the table to rest it atop May’s free hand, “your mother, rest her soul, would have done the same thing if it was my home that burned to the ground instead of yours.”
Though May seriously doubted that fact, still she managed to answer in the affirmative. There was no need to let Fleurette Baronne know that well before Mama passed away back in February, she suspected the Baronnes of some sort of nefarious conduct. What other reason might there be for the unusually large deliveries of mail that arrived regularly?
Of course, should Mama have been watching out the window spying on the neighbors? That was another question altogether. But then, so was the question of what kind of awful brew this was in her cup.
May upped her smile as she set the teacup back atop the saucer. “Again, you are a godsend. I only hope I can repay you.”
“My dear, I actually had it in mind to speak to you about this before now, but I don’t suppose it will hurt to bring up a rather indelicate topic on the same night you’ve lost your home, would it? I mean, you’re already distraught, so there’s no harm in a distraction, is there?”
“Well now,” she said as gently as she could manage given the pounding at her temples and the smell of smoke still lingering in her hair and clothing. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. What is this distraction, exactly? An indelicate topic of some kind?”
The sound of footsteps caught Mrs. Baronne’s attention. She pulled back her hand and swiveled to smile at her husband as he walked into the room. “Hello, love,” she told him. “Look, we’ve got dear May here.”
The gray-haired Mr. Baronne, whose first name she’d never learned, was a small man in stature but broad of shoulder and most intimidating when he turned his steely eyes in her direction as he did now. “Aye, yes, there she sits. Appears there was a bit of trouble at your place.”
May stifled the urge to impudently roll her eyes, putting the impulse off to exhaustion. Mr. Baronne might be aged, but it would be impossible for anyone to miss the smoldering pile of bricks next door that had once been a lovely, if modest, home.
And to say that losing everything she owned except the clothes on her back and what little she’d managed to pull from the flames was a bit of trouble? “Indeed there was,” she said as politely as possible.
“Dear, I was just about to talk to May here about the little thing you and I discussed in regard to her.” At his confused face, Mrs. Baronne continued. “The letter?”
A look of recognition dawned. “Ah, yes, well then. I’ll leave you to it.”
He cast a brief nod in May’s direction and then hurried away. A moment later, his tread on the stairs echoed creaks and groans until he arrived on the second floor.
Mrs. Baronne lifted the teapot in an offer to pour more of the bitter liquid into May’s cup. “Thank you, but I don’t believe I’ll have any more.”
“Suit yourself then,” she said with a shrug. “So, as to this letter I mentioned to the mister, perhaps I should begin at the beginning, eh? Back in the old country my people were considered quite skilled at the art of matchmaking. We were known to find just the right person for anyone, even the most difficult of persons.” She paused to offer May a broad grin. “It is a talent that was passed forward for so many generations that it has been forgotten just who was the first to obtain the skill.”
Mrs. Baronne looked at May as if she was expecting a response. “How interesting,” was all she could manage.
“It is indeed. So, when it was discovered that I could indeed perform this matchmaking with a great deal of success…” She paused to look around as if she suspected they might be overheard. “Well, as you can imagine, I set about to use my skills in a way most beneficial to mankind. It’s the only right thing to do.”
Mrs. Baronne continued to talk, but May’s attention wandered. This morning she’d awakened thinking today would be like any other day. That the routine and tedium that was her life after years of caring for her invalid mother would go on ad nauseam.
How wrong she’d been.
“So you see, May, how I thought of you.”
“Me?” May shook her head. “I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that?”
The older lady shook her head, causing the feathers in her turban to shimmy. “You’ve been through so much, May. First losing your mother only two years after the abandonment of your father, and now just a few months later your home. So many tragedies in such a young life.”
Tears shimmered in Mrs. Baronne’s eyes. “Oh May, you are an orphan with no home or family. What will you do?”
She appeared once again to be waiting for an answer, possibly some kind of grand plan that would remove the losses of the past few months and set May off on a path toward some lovely and yet unnamed future.
Unfortunately, May had none. “The Lord never gives us more than we can bear.”
Words her mother not only believed but spoke at least once every day. This time when she thought of Mama, tears inexplicably threatened.
“That is so true,” Mrs. Baronne said. “And I believe the Lord also provides us with others to share our burdens. And that brings me to this letter.”
She pulled a letter out of her pocket and set it on the table in front of May. Though upside down, May could easily read the information contained on the front.
Someone from Chicago sent a letter to a Baroness Fleurette. Odd that the sender had gotten Mrs. Baronne’s name so terribly wrong.
“This letter,” she said as she slid it back toward her and then tucked it into her pocket again, “it represents the dream of someone in need of my skills. And,” she said as she attempted a look of happiness, or perhaps she merely had some sort of intestinal issue, “that is where you come in.”
“Me?” May shook her head and then stifled a groan at the pain it caused. “I don’t understand.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” she demanded and then waved away any possible response with a sweep of her hand. “No matter. While you are most welcome to make your home here with us for as long as you need, I would submit that this couldn’t possibly be a permanent solution. A girl your age needs a bigger life than what can be offered here.”
At this moment, May cared nothing for the size of her life. It was the size of the pile of rubble next door that was foremost in her thoughts. Ridding herself of this pounding headache by finding a pillow and blanket and sleeping for several days was also high on her list.
“So with your permission I will write to this young man and tell him you are interested in beginning a correspondence but only if it is to lead to something other than a flirtation.”
“Wait.” May straightened. “What young man? What are you talking about?”
“Oh dear. You haven’t heard a thing I’ve told you. I put it off to the extreme disagreeable events of this day.” Mrs. Baronne shook her head. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I will see all is set to rights for the daughter of my dearest friend. Now, why don’t you let me see you to your room and let you get some rest?”
“That does sound lovely, but I am concerned about this letter and the young man you mentioned.” She rose and allowed Mrs. Baronne to lead her up the stairs. “See, I was listening at least in part. Things just aren’t making much sense. I do apologize.”
Mrs. Baronne stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and then pulled out a key ring and fumbled with the keys until she managed to unlock it. “Inside with you,” she said. “Tomorrow is a brand-new day and it will all make sense then.”
But it wouldn’t. Nothing made sense.
May looked around the tidy but small room and then moved toward the single bed set in the corner. Bypassing the pitcher and towel she should have used to get the scent of smoke off her, instead May flopped onto the narrow mattress and laid her head on the pillow.
“Tomorrow is a brand-new day,” she whispered, trying to convince herself of the truth of that statement, “and the Lord will never give me more than I can handle.”
And though she likely smudged the fine silk sheets with the soot still clinging to her gown, May closed her eyes and willed sleep to hurry. So successful was she that she almost immediately dreamed she heard the lock click in the door.
Her next recollection was another click, the same sound she’d heard in her dreams. May sat bolt upright, the covers tangled around her and a curtain of hair obstructing her view. As she swiped at her eyes, a wide-eyed serving girl holding a small trunk came into view in the doorway.
“Madame says you are to bathe and dress.”
She placed the trunk on the table beside the door and then stepped aside to allow two lads not much older than her to drag a small bathing tub in and place it by the fire. Two more young men brought buckets of water to quickly fill the tub.
When the door closed behind them, May tossed off her ruined clothes and gratefully scrubbed herself clean. She would still be soaking in the lavender-scented water had the girl not returned, insistent on helping her dress in a borrowed gown and pin up her hair.
When May finally arrived at Madame’s parlor door, she almost felt like her old self. Then she spied the pile of rubble out the hallway window and nearly crumpled.
She was, as Madame had so clearly pointed out last night, an orphan with no home or family. Owing to Papa’s advanced age, all his siblings were long deceased and any cousins lost to time and inattention. Mama had come into her marriage with Papa an orphan with no knowledge of her parents beyond the names they inscribed into the family Bible that had surely been lost to the flames.
A wave of fresh grief threatened. Steeling her backbone to ward off such unpleasantness, May slid open the parlor door and stepped inside.
“There you are, dear,” Mrs. Baronne said cheerily. “Do come in. I have someone for you to meet.”
A brief recollection of the older woman’s matchmaking skills occurred. She pressed it away with a smile.
Madame had chosen a gown of crimson trimmed with ebony beads and cuffs. Her hair was all but hidden beneath a matching crimson turban encrusted with beads of jet and crystal and topped by two raven feathers that had been made to curl in opposite directions. In stark contrast to his host, the gentleman perched at the edge of a gilt-and-ebony settee wore a drab brown suit, a hat that appeared to cover drab brown hair, and brown shoes with more scuffs than leather showing. The fellow rose as May entered the room, unfolding arms and legs that were far too long for his body.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Conrad,” he told her. “I do hope we can get started immediately. You look quite lovely, and I believe I can capture you if we hurry.”
Thoughts of matchmaking turned May’s attention to Mrs. Baronne. Crimson lips were parted in a broad smile that disappeared quickly.
“May, do stop gaping.”
“Yes, I do apologize,” she said as she moved closer to Mrs. Baronne. “If this is about what we discussed last night, the…”
“Matchmaking?” the older lady supplied.
May nodded and then cut her eyes toward the man in brown before returning her attention to Mrs. Baronne. “Yes, well, I do wonder if we might speak in private.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Mr. Carstens has limited time. Now be a lamb and do as he says. His equipment has been set up in the dining room.”
May knew she was gaping again but was powerless to stop. “Equipment?”
At Mrs. Baronne’s nod, Mr. Carstens pressed past May then stopped to beckon May to follow. “Go on,” Mrs. Baronne said, waving her bejeweled fingers at her.
“Truly it is too soon for any matchmaking efforts,” she said to her hostess. “There is so much yet to do.”
“First and foremost, do follow Mr. Carstens into the dining room.” She added a please, but it sounded anything but cordial.
“Yes, of course,” May said before hurrying to follow the man in brown. In the dining room she stopped short when she spied the aforementioned equipment. “You are a photographer?”
Mr. Carstens looked up at her, his expression neutral. “Sit there, please,” he said, ignoring her question.
A half hour later, the photographer declared the session at an end and ordered her back to the parlor, where Mrs. Baronne was waiting. “You are in need of a place to stay, May. Let’s talk about what will happen next, yes?”
Chapter 2
Three weeks later
At first it seemed so simple. Mrs. Baronne promised all May needed to do to earn her keep was to respond to any potential suitors who might wish to correspond. “But there are so many,” May protested as she nodded toward the stack of letters littering her writing table. “How are they finding me?”
Mrs. Baronne smiled. “My dear, you are an excellent catch. And I am an excellent matchmaker.”
A matchmaker, perhaps, but her claim of excellence was suspect at best. Most of the letters May got were so poorly written that it was impossible to determine much of what was said. Others were from men she found absolutely no interest in.
Of all the correspondence she’d received since Mrs. Baronne began her matchmaking, only one piqued her interest. She opened the desk drawer and pulled out the letter.
Despite Mrs. Baronne’s insistence that May give all the letters to her for safekeeping, she had spirited this one away so that she might read it again. And again.
Silly since unlike the other missives, this one was simple and straightforward.
Our mutual interests might be served by a meeting to see if we are a match. I don’t have much tolerance for small talk. If you feel the same, I await your letter.
Our mutual interests. No vain professions of suitability or, worse, flowery paragraphs declaring eternal love. Just a simple statement indicating they might have something to offer each other.
May flipped the paper over and took note of the name and address. “All right, Jeremiah Bingham,” she said as she reached for her writing materials. “Let’s see if you really want to meet.”
After several attempts, May settled for a brief response.
Agreed. Please notify me of your travel plans. Telegram is preferred.
The door opened and May tossed her letter back into the drawer. The serving girl whose name she’d learned was Violet stepped inside. “You called for me?”
May beckoned her to come closer as she reached inside the drawer for one of the tintype photographs Mrs. Baronne required her to put in each response to her suitors. “If I were to say I had an errand, a very secret errand, would you be willing to take care of it without letting Madame know?” She paused to lower her voice.
“For a generous price, of course.”
Violet grinned. “How generous?”
One week later
“Telegram is preferred?” Mr. Pinkerton’s laughter echoed against the brick walls of the office. “Well, Bingham, it looks like you’ve got a fish on the line. Now go reel her in.” He leaned forward to slide the picture toward him. “Is this the lucky woman?”
“Allegedly,” Jeremiah said.
“Pretty girl. Too bad she’s gotten herself tangled up in this mess.”
Jeremiah was more of a skeptic than his boss. He’d learned firsthand that a pretty face could hide a scheming mind. “I tend to think this mess is tangled up around her.”
“Then send her that telegram, Romeo,” he said as he stood. “Looks like you’re going to New Orleans.”
The door burst open and an errand boy tumbled inside. “Urgent for Mr. Pinkerton,” he managed as he climbed to his feet and thrust a note at t
he boss.
Mr. Pinkerton accepted the paper and then tipped the boy, who ran off as quickly as he had arrived. “Well, I’ll be,” he said as he shifted his attention from the note to Jeremiah. “Looks like your engagement needs to be put off awhile. I’ve got a tip on that mail fraud case we’ve been watching over in Philadelphia.”
He handed Jeremiah the note. Sure enough, their contact had come through with a name and the date of the perpetrator’s next attempt. Gathering up his letter from the matrimonial agency, he slipped the photograph inside and tipped his hat to the boss.
“Go get your man, son,” Mr. Pinkerton told him. “Then you can come back here and get your woman.”
It took the better part of two months to complete his surveillance and catch their mail fraud suspect. By the time he returned to his office in Chicago, it was the middle of June and the stack of marriage fraud letters had nearly doubled.
“What’s all this?” he said as he settled onto the chair to survey the chaos that was his desktop.
“Thirteen more letters just this week. Your Miss Conrad has been quite busy in your absence.”
Jeremiah reached for the letter on top of the stack. “How do you know it was her?”
Before Mr. Pinkerton could respond, a tintype fell out. He turned it over and looked into the face of the same woman who was waiting for a telegram from him.
“Same photo is in every letter,” Mr. Pinkerton said. “I know you just got back, but you’re needed in New Orleans. Just don’t get too comfortable down there,” he said. “Figuratively speaking, that is. I don’t want to lose my best detective to the state of Louisiana.”
Jeremiah grinned. “Never, boss. Texas maybe, but not Louisiana.”
“I thought your people were from California,” he said as he rose. “Isn’t that where those mines are?”
He stifled a cringe. For most men, wealth on a ridiculous scale was a source of pride. For Jeremiah, it was the noose that kept trying to tighten around his neck.
“The mines are in multiple locations,” he said carefully. “I leave the running of that to my sister’s husband. I prefer detective work.”
