The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  One day Fletcher came back for a visit. The same man who had once judged her harshly had become her dear friend. They seldom spoke about Benjamin. Emma would not allow it. Instead their conversations centered on lighter matters—her flowers, the weather, the people he knew, or events he had attended. She found herself thinking of simple, everyday things she had nearly forgotten about.

  The morning was cool, and the air thick with mist. It collected on branches. Leaves seeped drops of moisture. Scents rose up from the flowers and mixed with the smell of wet bark. A breeze whispered the coming of rain to the leaves, stirring a sense of expectancy into living things. On days like this, at the poor farm, cows would crowd about trees. Perhaps the patients could sense weather, too, for the lawn and the gardens were nearly deserted. Emma was not deterred. Gray and gloomy days comforted her.

  She sat beside Fletcher on a bench along one of the paths in the gardens, and listened to one of his stories.

  They shared a laugh. He went on, “It might not have been funny with anyone else—well, yes, it would have been funny with anyone else, but after what she’d said—when she sat in that chair and it broke, it was all I could do not to spew cabernet on the Battenberg linens!”

  Emma’s eyes danced as the laughter dissolved.

  Fletcher’s eyes swept over her face. Then a genuine smile slowly spread to his lips. “It’s good to see that.”

  “You’ve seen me laugh.”

  “Not with that shimmer in your eyes.”

  “It’s your fault. I can’t help but laugh when I’m with you.”

  “I’ve been told that before—most often by women.” He frowned, and she laughed even more.

  A few drops fell. It would rain soon.

  “We’d better get back.” Fletcher stood and offered his arm. Emma took it and leaned against him as they strolled up the lawn to the hospital building in comfortable silence.

  They were nearing the entrance when he paused, suddenly serious. “Emma, he’s leaving tomorrow.”

  The news struck her hard, but she held her expression in check as she fixed her eyes forward and nodded. It was starting to drizzle, and yet neither moved to seek shelter.

  “I thought you should know.”

  Emma looked into Fletcher’s eyes. “I’m...glad for him.” But her expression spoke of countless emotions, none of which approached gladness. She glanced down and nodded to herself as though everything was as it should be.

  Fletcher took hold of her hands and peered into her eyes. “He loves you.”

  Her face crumbled, but she would not let one tear fall.

  Fletcher lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. “Give me something to tell him.”

  Such a sorrowful look met his eyes that it gripped him, and his heart ached for them both. Emma gave his hands a squeeze, and then left.

  Benjamin sat on the train for Seattle, going through the supply list that the Harriman Expedition office had sent him. This would be nothing like his previous trip through Alaska. They would stay on a steamer in lavish surroundings, with only short day trips to the rugged coastline. There was no question that some of the finest men of science would be there. The rare opportunity to share such an adventure with men of their ilk was not to be taken at all lightly. Before Emma, he would have been thrilled by the chance to take part in such an expedition.

  He set down the papers and looked out the window. But now he missed home. For the start of a journey, this feeling was new. There was no stirring in his chest, no anticipatory thrill of the voyage. With each section of track, he felt the distance from Emma more keenly. Home was not what he missed. Without Emma, it was as hollow as everything else in his life. Day after day, he had tried to see her, to convince her to come home to him. Soon she retreated to the safety of that gloomy building. His visits had driven her there. He had made her even more of a prisoner than she had been before, so he left her alone. Now he was the prisoner, trapped in memories.

  He was running away, but not fast enough. Had he made a mistake? Time would help. In two months, he would come back, and she might see him then. That was the hope. But this was the truth: she would not.

  Every moment with Emma soared through his mind. Was there anything he might have done to avoid what now kept them apart? The answer was lost in dark memories. Why couldn’t he remember what had happened that night?

  The last night with Emma was the sort that people never grow too old to remember. Emma opened her heart and loved him fully. All the love and the fear, she gave over to him with complete trust. How he loved her. They fell asleep by the fire. When it burned out, the chill found its way in through the chimney. He woke feeling cold, except where her warm body was curled into his. He tried to rouse her, but she would not awaken. He lifted her into his arms and carried her up to the room beside his. She half woke on the way, and murmured things that made no sense to him. She was dreaming, sweet girl. Sweet dreams. He set her down in the bed and pulled the thick quilts over her. How lovely she looked, lovely and peaceful. He bent down to kiss her. If she had been awake, he could not have left her. But he would not give in to desire, not now—but tomorrow he would, and the days after that. Their new life would begin with their wedding tomorrow. And yet, he could not resist wanting her now in her bed, spreading the length of his body against her soft warmth.

  She deserved a night’s sleep before her wedding, but it would be a struggle to give it to her. After locking the door to the hall from the inside, he looked at her lying there on the bed in her shirt waist and skirt. She’d sleep better if she were out of that corset. But he would not. The thought worked in his mind while he stood there and watched her. He sat on the bed beside her and, with large, clumsy fingers, undid the long row of tiny cloth covered buttons that led down the back of her dress. She stirred and put her hand over his. “Go to bed,” she said, sweetly.

  “I’m trying,” he said, not so sweetly, and with an arched brow.

  “I’m not going to look haggard and sleep through my wedding,” she murmured. She tenderly nudged him toward the door that adjoined their two rooms.

  With an edge of helpless frustration, he said, “I’m going.” His gaze fell to the creamy skin at the top of her corset. “—Before I lose my mind from just gazing at you.”

  He walked through the door that joined their two rooms. “Lock it,” she said with a drowsy grin.

  And he did.

  The train rattled on as he mulled over each step of that evening, as he had so many times. He recalled vividly turning the key in the lock. He would not have forgotten.

  He had moved her to the room next to his to escape Mrs. Dowling’s judgmental eye. He had since wondered if it had been Mrs. Dowling who’d provided corroborating evidence for the criminal seduction charges. He had locked the door. He recalled Mrs. Dowling turning the knob just to test it while she had been in his room tidying up. He harbored no grudge. She was a woman who lived on high moral ground. As loyal as she might otherwise be, she would not compromise her morals to protect him. Moving Emma next door was a fiction that, although not subtle, made it easier for Mrs. Dowling to look the other way.

  From his side of the locked door, he thought of his earlier discussion with Emma—her love and her fears, childhood, losing her mother, and her father’s remarriage. Benjamin would honor her wishes for a night of good sleep. She would not be a bride with dark shadows under her eyes.

  He gripped the top of the door frame and leaned, rounding the muscles along his sturdy arms. He recalled laughing to himself that no key would keep him from her, fool that he was. That was the door Emma later came through, or so Gwendolyn told him. Sometime in the night, she was supposed to have come through that door to his room. Somehow, he got out of bed and fell down where they found him. But how?

  There was some sort of struggle. Something prompted Emma to strike him on the head with the pitcher. But the pitcher was on the opposite side of the room from the door beside which he had fallen. It made no sense to him—unle
ss they had argued and moved about the room, while Emma wielded the pitcher in hand. Nothing about that sounded like Emma.

  The next morning, Gwendolyn found them. She said, “I was walking through the hall, looking for you. I heard crying. I glanced inside the room. There she was on the floor beside you, your head bloodied. I thought you were dead. The girl was in hysterics. She woke up in your room and found you there. She must have gone mad. What else could it be? Sitting there in her nightgown? There’s no other explanation.”

  Benjamin tried to imagine the scene. “She glanced in from the hall? The hall door was open, as well?” When he had arrived home from the doctor, both keys were still there on his bureau.

  “You must have left it unlocked,” she had told him.

  “But two doors?”

  Gwendolyn shrugged. “She only needed to get past one locked door. Then she could unlatch the other.”

  “I suppose so, but I was so sure I’d locked both doors.”

  “Well, it couldn’t be the first time you’ve made a mistake.”

  Benjamin stared out the train window and focused his thoughts on that night, but still it was blank. Still he could not remember.

  After the attack, he’d woken up in the doctor’s office. All he knew from that morning was what he was told. Gwendolyn had found them together. He went over her words.

  “The girl was in hysterics. She had to have done it in her sleep. What else could it be? Sitting there in her nightgown?”

  Benjamin got off the train at the next station and wired the Harriman team. He regretted that he would be unable to go on the expedition after all. He boarded the next train heading home. The ride took forever; his mind raced ahead. In tattered bits, memories flashed through his mind. He could not make sense of it all. Some parts of that evening might forever be lost, but he was recalling enough to know where he could find out what had happened. Nothing would keep him from the truth anymore.

  Late in the evening, he was back in Clifton Point, banging on Fletcher’s front door. An annoyed, and then surprised, Fletcher answered.

  “Benjamin? I expected you to be halfway to Seattle by now. Oh, forgive me. Come in.”

  Benjamin walked in, eyes bright from the thoughts that now raced through his mind. There had to be something else, something Fletcher had forgotten.

  “Tell me what happened that morning.”

  Fletcher knew exactly which morning. He gestured for Benjamin to sit down.

  “You were the only other person there. Tell me what you remember about the morning you found me with Emma.”

  Fletcher sat down in an overstuffed chair, and ran lean fingers through his neat hair, causing a few straight strands to fall to his cheekbone.

  “I told you everything—more than once.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I’d come over early. We were driving together to the wedding. I knew you were home, so I came in. You didn’t answer, and you know I don’t yell, so I came up to find you. And there you all were.”

  “With Gwendolyn?”

  “Yes, and with Emma, of course.” Fletcher shook his head slowly. “The poor girl was despondent.”

  “Despondent?”

  “Forlorn...hopeless...despairing...”

  “I know what it means! But that’s how you’d describe how you found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not crying? Frantic?”

  “Well, you must understand, she was in shock. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

  “Tell me, how was she dressed?”

  Fletcher thought for a moment. “Well, she’d abandoned her mail order catalog clothing, thank God. But she was still dressed quite simply. She’s got the sort of beauty that flatters the clothes.”

  Benjamin’s patience exploded. “Yes, but what—what was she wearing?”

  “Ivory satin... ” He paused, a deep questioning look on his face. Shaking his head, he said, “Might have been crepe back satin…no, not with the way it was draping. No, I believe it was crepe de chine, and her skirt was sumptuous chocolate brown velveteen.”

  “So she was dressed?”

  Having just described what she was wearing in detail, Fletcher cast a look of mild disdain from beneath hooded eyes. “Yes. She was dressed.”

  “Come with me,” Benjamin said, without waiting to see whether Fletcher followed.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Chapter 22

  The next evening, the two of them stood by the buggy in front of Gwendolyn’s mansion in Newport. Benjamin opened the door to the carriage, but Fletcher grabbed hold of his arm.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you with this,” Fletcher told him.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “A little of both. I’m sorry.”

  Benjamin was scrutinized Fletcher with his puzzled eyes. “Think about Emma.”

  Fletcher looked him in the eye. “I am. You don’t need me for this. You’ll do better without me.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing having to do with that morning. You know everything that I know.”

  Fletcher’s sudden apprehension made Benjamin doubt. “Tell me again.”

  “I found Gwendolyn there in the room. Emma was there—on the floor beside you. We took you to the doctor.”

  Benjamin eyed Fletcher severely. “After that, what happened?” Fletcher held his gaze for the most part, but Benjamin saw something there. “You saw Gwendolyn after that.”

  Fletcher reluctantly nodded.

  Benjamin said, “What else happened?”

  Fletcher stared at his hands.

  Benjamin started toward Fletcher, but pulled back and pounded the side of the carriage as he fought to stay calm.

  Fletcher shut his eyes and buried his brow in his hand. He slowly exhaled. After a long silence, he looked at Benjamin.

  “In the carriage, we argued.”

  “About what?” Benjamin looked as though he did not want the answer.

  “She was going to take Emma. I didn’t agree.”

  Benjamin kept his voice quiet and spoke with deliberate control. “Take Emma where?”

  “You know where.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, why did you let her? “

  Fletcher glanced up at the moon, half concealed by a cloud.

  “Fletcher, how could you?”

  Fletcher’s eyes fell to the ground. “I didn’t know her as well then. And, after all, you’d been hurt pretty badly. She appeared to need some sort of help. She looked unwell.” His deep remorse did not comfort Benjamin.

  “But you knew that I loved her. You had to have known that I’d never have wanted that for her—no matter what she had done to me.” Benjamin could barely contain his anger.

  Fletcher went on, “I went back to the hospital later, but they said she wasn’t there. Gwendolyn signed her in under a false name. She hid her.” Under his breath, he added, “Even from me.”

  Fletcher exhaled as Benjamin got out of the carriage and walked away. He’d been powerless. To confront Gwendolyn would only have invited her to make good on her blackmail threat. She would have shattered his life in a moment. He’d had to be cautious. Confronting her would have stirred up her wrath. She’d have ruined not only his life, but also the lives of his family—and Paul’s—by exposing his secret. That done, she would have started in on Emma. What she might have done to her, he could only imagine. Poor Emma was at Gwendolyn’s mercy. He had had little choice but to proceed with great care.

  Benjamin left Fletcher in the carriage and walked up the steps. He was shocked at the state Gwendolyn was in when she opened the door, which she did without aid of a servant. Hair disheveled, eyes ringed and skin hued with gray shadows, but the worst shock of all was her lifeless demeanor.

  “Come in.” She was gliding through well-rehearsed motions of which she was barely aware.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, trying not to sound too alarme
d.

  She was unconcerned and soft-spoken. “Yes, I am a bit under the weather.” Her speech was thick-tongued and slow.

  He followed her through the expansive entry hall. It was strikingly bare. They went onto a large room that was almost entirely void of furniture. The place looked like a grand marble mausoleum. “Gwendolyn, we need to talk.”

  She looked through him and lowered her eyes.

  “It’s about Emma,” he said.

  Her lips turned up at the corners. She watched him and waited.

  “I need you to tell me what happened that morning.”

  “I told you. You just don’t want to accept it.” Gwendolyn clutched her collar and wadded it tight in her hand.

  Benjamin’s face grew dark and restrained.

  She settled into an overstuffed chair and went on, her eyes clouded and moist. “It’s not easy to suffer a loss.”

  She looked truly broken with grief. Benjamin almost felt sorry for her.

  She went on. “Everyone tells you to accept it, as if that will make it all better. And the days and the weeks and the months just go by, and you try to accept it, but it won’t go away. And then nobody cares anymore. They just don’t want to hear it.”

  Benjamin said, “I didn’t know of your loss. Was it someone close?”

  Gwendolyn looked toward him as though unable to focus. “It was a terrible loss. All the money is gone.” Gwendolyn drifted to sleep, barely stirred, and then slipped away once more.

  Benjamin sat and watched for a moment. When she did not wake up, he gave her shoulder a shake.

  When her eyes opened, she looked oddly confused, then looked about, randomly groping about the floor around her chair. With peculiar coyness, she said, “Would you be a darling and bring me my medicine?” She waved her wrist toward the bar.

  Moments later, he returned from the bar with a medicine bottle he’d found there. She reached for it and regarded him, oddly confused and yet grateful. He pulled it away. “Tell me, is this what you used that night? Chloroform?”