Louisa and the Missing Heiress

by Anna Maclean

  The finale of this folksy opera culminated in a rather crowded scene of Indians (many of whom, killed in a previous scene, had miraculously risen from the dead), cowboys, cloth cows whose hindquarters did not move in unison with their front quarters, and the hero and heroine clasped in each other’s arms, singing of undying love. For some reason unknown to the audience, the stage manager had also decided to have a row of scantily clad girls waving Fourth of July sparklers parade through this melee. The audience stamped their feet with approval. Father sat stony faced, arms crossed over his chest.

  When the last Indian had been shot, the last duet sung, and the applause had finally died away—and there was considerable applause, let there be no doubt about it; the theatergoing audience loved spectacle, and Miss Mendosa and her dancing Indians provided considerable spectacle—when the theater was quiet again, I rose from my seat and headed not for the exit but toward the curtained wing I knew would lead backstage, pulling Sylvia along after me.

  I had enjoyed the show, but other matters now required my attention.

  “Miss Mendosa is known for her temper,” I said. “Let’s see if her passion extends to the murder of rivals.”

  It was difficult to think of Dorothy as anybody’s rival in anything but sweetness, and people did not compete over that quality, but Sylvia followed my thinking. If Preston had been mooning and boasting about how much he loved his wife, his former mistress might well grow impatient of such conversation and wish to do away with the topic of conversation.

  “Is my company still needed?” Father complained, pulling his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. His watch had ceased running some months ago, but he still used it to make a point. “I am not eager to make a backstage visit to this female.” People swirled around us, and it seemed that Father would end up backstage whether he wished to be or not, for it was difficult to break loose from that stream of humanity.

  An opening cleared, and a man’s arms appeared and forged a path in the direction of the center aisle and liberty.

  “You may leave these young women in my care. I promise to see them safely home.” Constable Cobban emerged from the shadows, making his slow, careful way through the jostling crowd like Moses walking through the Red Sea. He must have been seated close to us, if he could arrive at my side so quickly.

  I fought the urge to blush but this time found the battle surprisingly easy to win. I gave an amused glance and said, “Constable Cobban. Enjoying some time away from your duties, I see. And how did you enjoy Miss Mendosa? Or perhaps you have seen the play before.” I folded my arms over my chest, talking to him as I would my father, avoiding any appearance of the coquette.

  Cobban blushed, where I had not.

  “Rather . . . uum, nonsensical,” he said. “Don’t you think? But did I hear you were to pay a backstage visit? I will accompany you, if your father wishes to . . . be about his business.” All of Boston knew that Father’s business was liable to be illegal, involved as he was in the abolitionist movement and that phenomenon known as the Underground Railroad, whereby fugitive slaves were aided on their way north, to freedom.

  “I do have an appointment for quite early this morning. Thank you, young man,” he said.

  Cobban winked. “Godspeed,” he said.

  “COME IIINNN!” THE diva sang out as soon as Cobban had pounded on the door, and her voice seemed better offstage than on. Cobban opened the door and a strong scent of attar of roses floated out to us. I held my breath, expecting to see a backstage scenario of swooning suitors carrying armloads of flowers and jewels, hoping for a word from the beloved; stage managers begging to extend the run; a bohemian dressing room filled with colorful costumes and strange mementos.

  In fact, the only gentleman in Miss Mendosa’s dressing room was a somewhat portly fellow who quickly fled when he saw Cobban, and the only flowers were a wilting bunch of daffodils stolen from someone’s window box. The disappointment was almost unbearable. For Miss Mendosa, too, it would seem.

  Obviously, from her sour expression, she was expecting a different type of visitor, not two other females and an officer of the law, for Constable Cobban was still in his loud brown plaid working attire, with the conspicuous badge pinned to his lapel. I eventually suspected that the young man, notoriously poorly paid as a Boston policeman, had no other suit. Or perhaps he was one of those men who feel inadequate unless they are clothed in garments of authority.

  “I had nothing to do with it! Nothing! Nothing!” Miss Mendosa shrieked upon seeing him.

  I know that theater professionals often lead lives less than law-abiding or at least lives of freethinking morality, but her instantaneous denial of a crime of which she had not been accused revealed a conscience more than usually burdened with guilt, I thought.

  “I’m sure. But nothing to do with what?” Cobban asked, puzzled.

  “Ah,” she said, growing quieter, realizing that her defensive outburst might have given away more than silence would have. With a small, almost covert gesture she removed the bracelet she had worn during the performance and tucked it under a pillow on her settee.

  I realized that the bracelet was probably stolen. Was Miss Mendosa a pickpocket? That seemed unlikely, as this bracelet was clearly a present a man would give a woman and not something a woman would purchase or even steal for herself. The “weaker sex,” I knew even then, are far more practical than the dreamers known as men.

  But perhaps it did belong to someone else—someone else’s wife—and Miss Mendosa knew she had taken a risk by accepting the gift from a male admirer and not asking many questions. What if the bracelet were Dorothy’s?

  But at that moment, I thought not of the hastily removed bracelet but of Miss Mendosa herself, who had decided to say nothing about whatever matter had made her so quickly proclaim innocence. She turned to me, her dark eyes glowing with venom.

  “So!” she hissed, leaning backward as snakes do before the strike. “You haunt me! Go away! Go away!” Obviously she remembered me from our brief chance meeting at Edgar Brownly’s studio.

  “I wanted to congratulate you on an excellent performance,” I said, posing as an adoring fan. My years of dreaming of my own ambition to go on the stage had not been wasted; I successfully feigned admiration.

  Cobban eyed me askance, but he was clever and immediately realized the pretense. He bent to take the diva’s hand and place a kiss of admiration on it, a gesture that he performed stiffly and with little enthusiasm. Cobban seemed incapable of gallantry. Such a refreshing change from most men, who wear their “gallantry” as a pose that disintegrates the moment something goes wrong.

  “Ohh,” Miss Mendosa cooed. She’d had time to remove her plumed hat and dancing slippers and stood there in corset and frothing petticoats. They were none too clean. Feeling cold, or perhaps overly exposed, she reached for the shawl hanging on her dressing table mirror, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Miss Mendosa, I believe we have a friend in common,” I gushed, sounding more girlish than I had at thirteen. Why did that shawl look familiar?

  I glanced at the diva’s dressing table. Face powder covered everything with a whitish coat, including a tin box of marzipan, and an overturned perfume bottle released that scent of attar of roses. As Miss Mendosa glared at me, I noticed a little porcelain dish containing many calling cards, with Preston Wortham’s on top of the pile.

  “Yes. We have a ‘friend’ in common,” Miss Mendosa hissed. “And if you continue to see him I will personally cut out your heart.” She no longer cooed happily. Cobban, affecting a nonchalance he perhaps did not feel, peered curiously at me.

  “She means Edgar Brownly,” I explained, which of course was no explanation at all, not to Constable Cobban. His jaw fell just as his eyebrows shot up. “Edgar Brownly?” he asked in a strangled voice. “You and Edgar Brownly?”

  “However, I refer to Mr. Preston Wortham,” I said.

  “Wortham? Wortham? Yes, I know that name.” Miss Mendosa frowned in c
oncentration, her slashing eyebrows tilting toward her nose.

  “You should. You are his mistress,” I said. Next to me, Cobban inhaled sharply. He tapped his fingers on the lapel of his plaid suit, a gesture I already recognized as one he made when nervous or surprised.

  “Was I? Yes, yes, I think I might have been,” the diva said quietly. “Before he married that mousy Brownly girl. The truth. We were old friends. Men are so stupid.” Her Latin accent had disappeared.

  “You must have been devastated when he married,” I suggested.

  “Devastated? Me?” Miss Mendosa drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “Never! I was glad to be rid of the man! Ayee!” The accent was back, stronger than before. “What a pest he was, always saying, ‘Give me a kiss; give me a hug; do you love me, Katya’! No, good riddance. Humph!” And she spat on the floor for emphasis. “He had no money,” she muttered. “Always the empty pockets.”

  I took a step backward, out of spitting range.

  Miss Mendosa’s bookcase was a tangle of ribbons and paste jewelry and kid gloves, all in open cigar boxes. Were any of those scarlet or blue ribbons strong enough to strangle a woman, to leave marks on her throat? What were those rusty stains on the half-buried glove in the smallest box?

  “After he wed, he had plenty of money,” Cobban insisted. “Did you see him then?”

  “After he married that little nobody?” Obviously Miss Mendosa, whatever her origins, was not a Boston native. Bostonians would never refer to a Brownly as a nobody, not even for spite.

  From the pursing movements of her mouth it seemed that the diva might spit again, so I took another step backward. Instead, Miss Mendosa swallowed hard. I gazed over her shoulder and glanced at Preston’s calling card, there on her dressing table. Now that I was close I could see a note scribbled on it: Thurs. at 4. Please. An assignation?

  “No,” she said. “Never. He come to me, he beg me to take him back. But I would not. He was bad before, and worse after. Before, just poor. After, married and poor. Not for me.” She sighed and lifted a limp hand to her brow in resignation and leaned slightly backward, as if to swoon. It was the same gesture we had just viewed onstage several times that evening. More playacting.

  “But Preston Wortham was wealthy,” I persisted. “Before the marriage he was of limited but independent means, and after . . . well, his wife was one of the wealthiest women in the state.”

  “Yes, his wife give him allowance.” The fluttering hand on her brow flew back down to her hip, and now the actress leaned forward again, aggressive, angry. “But too little. Gone in a day. I ask for a new pair of gloves; he say, ‘Not this week, my love. Maybe next week.’ Now, leave, please. I have people to see. You . . .” She pointed her finger at me. “You stay away from Mr. Brownly. And you . . .” She turned and glared at Sylvia. “You leave my things alone.”

  Guiltily, Sylvia replaced the wig she had picked up to examine.

  “I was trying to imagine her as a blonde,” Sylvia admitted once we were back in the hall and the diva had slammed the door on us. “How can a woman of such obvious Latin origins play a blonde?”

  “Sylvia,” I said, “sometimes you see so much. And sometimes you see so little. You were right in your earlier description. Miss Mendosa is a woman of uncommon energy.” I had remembered where I had seen that shawl before. In Preston Wortham’s parlor, when his man, Digby, had been entertaining an unseen lady upstairs.

  Back in the now-darkened theater and heading for the side door, Constable Cobban gave me the kind of look that little men make when they play king of the mountain.

  “Your friend Preston Wortham is a real no-account kind of fellow, it would seem,” he said with some satisfaction.

  “Make your criticism more specific, Constable Cobban, if you please,” I requested gently.

  “Cheating on his wife, for one. Odious. But then, to cheat on his mistress, too!”

  “Miss Mendosa never accused him of infidelity. Quite the opposite. In her telling of the tale, he seems to be pining away for her. You must listen more carefully, Mr. Cobban.”

  “But she said he never had money on him, although he was wealthy. Obviously he was keeping a third woman somewhere.” His red hair, cut as short as convention would allow to control its springy curls, glinted when we passed under a gas lamp, and the gleam in his eye was unmistakable. It seemed he was jealous of Preston, because he was my friend.

  “Have you noticed,” he asked with feigned innocence, “that the maid in the Wortham household is particularly attractive?”

  “Why are we now speaking of maids?” I asked.

  “Not just attractive,” Cobban persisted. “In point of fact, she looks a bit like yourself. If you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I do mind.” He was suggesting that some illicit emotion or even act had passed between Wortham and myself, and that the maid was my substitute. It was common enough; even a ribald joke was made of it, that if you wanted to see what a man’s mistress looked like, you had only to view the new parlor maid. I paused and turned to stare him full in the face. I was rightly angry. Gentlemen do not engage in and voice such speculations. Moreover, I, as an abolitionist, had to tightly guard my reputation against all gossip, for anything said against me could also belittle my ideals.

  “And as for Mr. Wortham having a second mistress,” I continued, “I’m not certain that Miss Mendosa’s word can be taken as gospel truth. Her values appear rather arbitrary. Good night, Mr. Cobban. Thank you for accompanying us. Oh . . . I almost forgot to ask. What brought you to the theater, tonight, Constable?”

  “To speak with Miss Mendosa, of course.” He blushed again. “In a strictly professional manner, that is.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “Good night, Constable.”

  “I’d be pleased to see you home.”

  “Not necessary. It is a pleasant evening and it will be refreshing to walk. Won’t it, Sylvie?”

  He seemed displeased. “As you wish,” he said curtly, and turned briskly.

  “Actually, Louisa, these shoes pinch. I would have preferred a carriage,” Sylvia protested after the young constable was gone.

  “I admit that young man makes me nervous,” I explained. “Let’s walk a bit, and if your feet swell, we’ll find our own carriage.”

  We were both disinclined to converse. As we walked from gas lamp to gas lamp, we studied the still night and our own thoughts.

  “Such a muddle.” Sylvia sighed once. “It makes no sense. This connection between Mr. Wortham and Katya Mendosa and Edgar Brownly, the lies . . . it is impossible to discern the truth of this situation.”

  Our shoes clicked on the sidewalk, and that was the only sound once we left the neighborhood of the theater and the little private clubs and ice-cream parlors. The relentless clouds of that season covered the moon, and when the lamps grew farther apart, the night was very dark. We moved from circle to circle of sickly light from the streetlamps, feeling ourselves swallowed by the night between those circles.

  Sylvia hummed occasionally, for as silly as the evening’s music had been, some of the tunes were engaging.

  “Be quiet, Sylvia,” I said abruptly, once we had turned the corner and headed up Beacon Hill.

  “My melody does not warrant such an order,” she protested.

  “Do you hear something?” I asked, ignoring the complaint.

  Sylvia listened. Nothing. And then the distant, gravelly sound of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestones.

  “A carriage,” she said.

  “Oh, why don’t the clouds leave for even a moment?” I fretted. “Where is the carriage? Can you see it, Sylvia?” My eyes were often strained and weakened.

  “Not yet. It is too dark.” By instinct we pressed closer to the building at our back, skirts flattening like collapsed flowers, for the street had narrowed considerably.

  “There!” I exclaimed. A carriage, black and completely enclosed, emerged from the darkness, and the ringing of the wheels grew deafening
.

  “It is coming quickly,” I said.

  And before Sylvia could respond, it was upon us, forcing us to cower against the building and cover our faces against the wind of it, for the driver had whipped the horses to a reckless gallop and the carriage passed within inches.

  “You madman!” Sylvia yelled at the driver, but he raised the whip and urged the horses even faster, and was gone around the corner.

  “That was a close call. We could have been trampled,” she muttered. “That driver should lose his cabby license.”

  “That was not a public cab, Sylvia,” I said. “There was a monogram on the door.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Maybe. I don’t say for certain, but I think it was a W.”

  “Well, whoever the driver was, he should be more careful,” Sylvia complained, smoothing her crumpled skirt.

  “Indeed,” said I, wondering.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  New Life and Old Problems

  THE VERY NEXT MORNING, at dawn, Queenie’s baby decided to arrive.

  I was already up and at my first chores of the day, rolling out biscuits for a first rising, cleaning irons for the next day’s laundry, and correcting May’s composition written the day before.

  When little Brendan from the Home came to announce the event, he used the kitchen door, knowing it was closest to the cookie jar, and that I was always liable to be there, instead of in the parlor. He was right.

  “Now? I must go there,” I said, tearing off my apron and running to the bottom of the staircase. “She must be terrified. Abba! Abba! I’m going to the Home! It’s Queenie’s time!”

  “Go, Louy,” Abba yelled back, leaning over the upstairs railing. “Take a cake of soap with you and some bread. There’s never enough there.” And then, more softly, “I’m sure you’ll be some time, Louy. This being her first and her so little. Keep your courage.”

  Already buttoning my cloak, I smiled up at my mother. Wasn’t that just like Abba? Bread and soap and courage.