She sliced off the top of the boiled egg, salting it. But she found she couldn’t stand the smell of it, so she moved it aside and added a small teaspoonful of the black currant jam they’d put up last fall to one of Sara’s fluffy baking powder biscuits. Hattie clearly remembered the outing into the foothills of the Olympic Mountains to gather the precious wild berries—it had been one of the last times Charles had seemed relaxed in her company.
After only one small bite, however, she pushed back from the table, too restless to remain seated. Walking around the table to the matching oak sideboard, she retrieved a tray of small crystal vases and the basket of sweet peas she’d gathered from the garden before breakfast. She arranged the fragrant sprigs among the vases, then set a bouquet by each place setting, hoping the routine task would soothe her frazzled nerves.
Out in the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed nine times, its pendulous ticking unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence. In the back of the house, Hattie could hear Sara talking softly to Tabitha, instructing her to take a tray of tea up to Charlotte. It all seemed so normal, and yet Hattie felt as if everything had changed in some way she had yet to understand.
The events of the night of the fire still plagued her. Had the fire been started as Eleanor had reported? Hattie couldn’t bring herself to believe it. And even if the fire had originated in a house of ill repute, it could’ve been started there with the intent of misleading the authorities. Placing the blame on the prostitutes ran counter to what she’d seen with her own eyes. And many illegal activities were carried out daily on the waterfront, any of which could’ve provided a motive for arson.
But why had Eleanor felt the need to publicly chastise her? Perhaps her mention of corruption had threatened Eleanor in some way. Or maybe Eleanor’s pride had been damaged, and she’d simply wanted a public venue in which to retaliate.
Hattie stopped to consider, then shook her head. Though Eleanor was overly rigid and moralistic, she’d never been petty. No, it seemed far more likely that she had a stronger motive, and that she knew more about the activities on the waterfront than she let on.
As Hattie placed the last of the vases on the table, the image of Frank Lewis’s expression of pity resurfaced. She hugged herself, turning to stare out the dining room window at the dew-laden garden, still untouched by the morning sun.
Though she’d been deeply offended by Lewis’s accusations, he had raised questions in her mind about Charles—about his business and how he had treated people. And those questions were all jumbled together with her memories of her struggle to make their marriage work, of her resultant confusion when nothing she did seemed to get through to him.
Had she known Charles at all? Had she thirsted so much for adventure, as her mother had suggested, that she’d been blind to the kind of person he was? She could only hope she hadn’t been that naïve or self-absorbed, but how could she be certain?
She’d found it puzzling that once they’d recited their vows, Charles had become distant and cold, the antithesis of the handsome, charming man who had courted her so determinedly in Boston. Yet it didn’t necessarily follow that acting aloof or abrupt with her meant he would’ve done what Mona Starr and Frank Lewis claimed. And she could hardly take Lewis’s word as gospel—he’d written the “Red Letters” column that had incited the crew on board Charles’s ship to mutiny.
She worried her lower lip as she mentally reviewed the events of two nights ago. What she needed was proof. She needed to know what kind of man she’d fallen in love with—whether Charles had been honorable, whether she was right to blame herself for having failed in their marriage. She wouldn’t be capable of moving on until she had answers, and that meant taking a closer look at Charles’s activities and business dealings, however distasteful she found the task to be.
She turned from the window to pace the length of the elegantly appointed room. This restlessness within her—her constant chafing against the restrictions of the mourning period and her overwhelming sense of being stifled—simply wouldn’t ease. Was she merely being reckless, as it now appeared she’d been the night of the fire? Or were the questions that swirled through her mind, keeping her sleepless, legitimate?
The front door slammed, jolting her from her thoughts, and Sara entered the dining room carrying a huge package. “For you and the girls, Mrs. Longren,” she said, placing it on the oak sideboard.
Curious, Hattie examined the parcel, which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon. She opened the accompanying white linen envelope and withdrew a card. To replace the dresses you ruined, the scrawled message said, accompanied by Mona’s bold signature at the bottom of the card.
Hattie placed it on the sideboard and unwrapped the package. Bolts of fabric tumbled into her arms—black mousseline de soie silk, blue India silk, forest-green French cashmere—all of the finest quality. Stunned, Hattie set them down and reached out a hand to the back of the closest chair to steady herself. The gift was extravagant … and yet thoughtful. Mona had included the mousseline de soie in deference to her mourning period, the more vibrant colors for the girls.
Charlotte chose that moment to sweep into the room, a carefree vision in her cheerful lemon-yellow muslin gown, her elaborately styled cascade of blond ringlets no doubt the result of Tabitha’s painstaking efforts. The poor girl was probably slumped over the kitchen table, exhausted and useless to Sara for the foreseeable future, Hattie thought, sighing inwardly.
Spying the fabric, Charlotte shrieked and rushed over to run her hands over the mousseline de soie. “It’s as soft as the most expensive muslin,” she breathed. She lifted the bolt of India silk, which was a perfect match for her eyes, and hugged it to her chest. “Oh, Hattie! These will make such beautiful gowns!”
“We’ll have to send Mona a note thanking her.”
“We must invite her to tea!”
“I doubt she would come.” When Charlotte looked confused, she explained gently. “She wouldn’t want to jeopardize our reputations by coming to our home.”
“But that’s not fair!”
“No, it’s not, though we can do little about it.” Hattie reached for the cup of tea Sara had brought her, grimacing at its taste.
Voices floated in from the front hall, and Sara entered, followed by Police Chief Greeley, who hadn’t waited to be formally announced. Tall and imposing in his black wool suit, he bowed from the waist. “Ladies.”
Charlotte blushed prettily. “Chief Greeley!”
He smiled indulgently, then turned to Hattie. “Forgive me for calling so early, but I wanted to drop by on my way to the police station to make certain you ladies hadn’t suffered any lingering effects from your ill-advised adventure.”
“As you can see, we’re perfectly fine,” Hattie replied coolly. “But thank you for your concern.”
Greeley took in Charlotte’s attire. “Your gown is quite beautiful, Charlotte, as well as conservatively designed. You look very fetching in it.”
“Thank you, Chief Greeley.” Charlotte smiled brilliantly.
“Please call me John,” he said gently, then asked Hattie, “I gather you took my advice to heart?”
As luck would have it, Charlotte was wearing one of her more demure gowns. Determined to avoid an argument, she didn’t respond to Greeley’s query, instead turning to the housekeeper. “Sara, please bring Chief Greeley some tea.”
He shook his head. “No, thank you—I can’t stay long.”
“But surely you would sample one of Sara’s marvelous biscuits,” Charlotte exclaimed, then looked hesitant. “Unless you’ve already had breakfast?”
“No, I planned to purchase something from a street vendor.”
“Oh, then you must stay! You can’t work all day on an empty stomach.”
Greeley raised a brow at Hattie, who nodded. “Charlotte is right, of course.” She indicated that he take a seat at the table. “Sara, if you would quickly prepare something for the chief?”
“Ye
s, ma’am,” Sara said, though she gave Greeley a cautious look.
He pulled out a chair and sat down, moving the bouquet of sweet peas aside and setting his gloves and hat in its place. With one hand, he adjusted the crease in his slacks to accommodate the pull across his legs, which Hattie noted were the size of tree trunks. The fabric of his wool vest pulled across his massive chest, straining the buttons. She hoped he didn’t intend to breathe too deeply. The man was built like a lumberjack who’d eaten far too many meals of hardtack and bacon.
Because her inclination was to pace, Hattie pulled a large crystal vase from the sideboard’s lower cupboard and set about filling it with long stems of yellow forsythia and pink plum blossoms.
Greeley spied the bolts of fabric. “Ah, I see you’ve even purchased fabric to add to Charlotte’s wardrobe.”
“The fabric is from Mona,” Charlotte gushed, not noticing Hattie’s wince. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Mona Starr?” Greeley looked at Hattie in stunned disbelief.
“Our gowns were ruined while fighting the fire,” Hattie explained as she placed a sprig of forsythia. “Mona was kind enough to send fabric to replace them.”
The chief’s face set in rigid lines. “Surely you can’t think it appropriate to accept a gift from that woman.”
Charlotte slipped into the chair closest to where Hattie stood, looking stricken. “But—”
“Mona only meant to thank us for our help,” Hattie interrupted, placing a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “And as you yourself have noted, we can put the fabric to good use in dresses for the girls.”
Greeley snorted as Sara brought in his breakfast. “Come now, Mrs. Longren. Were I to see the material made into a dress for Charlotte, I could hardly forget where it came from.”
“You can’t possibly think it has been tainted in some way!”
“That is precisely what I believe.” He buttered his biscuit, wielding the delicate silver butter knife like a plaster trowel, then added a large quantity of jam. “I find myself at a loss to understand how you could be so ignorant of social propriety.”
“But Mrs. Starr is a generous benefactor in this town, is she not?”
Greeley waved a hand. “That is neither here nor there. The material should be returned at once or, more appropriately, discarded.”
“Hattie …” Charlotte whispered.
“Please take the fabric into the parlor,” Hattie told her, keeping her tone gentle, “then assist Sara in the kitchen.”
Charlotte sent her a pleading glance, then gathered the bolts, curtsied, and fled.
Hattie turned back to her arrangement, willing her hands to remain steady. “I will of course take your opinions under advisement, Chief Greeley, but I won’t have you upsetting Charlotte. She lost her parents not even a year ago, and she is emotionally fragile.”
Greeley took his time finishing the biscuit, then leaned back and observed Hattie in a manner that set her teeth on edge. “It isn’t my intent to upset Charlotte. On the contrary, I intend to court her.”
Hattie barely managed to keep her horror hidden. After setting the vase in the center of the table, she returned to her chair, meeting his gaze steadily as she folded her hands in her lap. “I absolutely forbid any courtship, Chief Greeley. At fifteen, Charlotte is far too young to be thinking of marriage.”
“Nonsense. Women frequently marry young,” he returned calmly. “I find fifteen to be an ideal age—Charlotte is malleable and eager to please. And she can certainly benefit from the firm hand and clear guidance of a man of my stature.”
“You mean she can benefit from a father figure, now that hers is gone.” Hattie scoffed at the notion. “You have a decidedly patriarchal view of marriage. Women today consider that a poor basis for a fulfilling relationship.”
“I’m at a loss to understand how I should view marriage any differently,” he retorted, “since it is the way the institution has survived successfully throughout the ages.”
“Patriarchal power and female subordination are hardly God-given patterns.”
He waved an impatient hand. “I can only assume you’ve picked up these misguided notions from reading the recent anarchist feminist literature. If that is the case, then, frankly, the sooner Charlotte is married to me and away from your influence, the better.”
When Hattie opened her mouth to furiously protest, he held up a hand. “I also find it perplexing that you’d deny Charlotte the chance for a suitor who has the means to support her comfortably. Shouldn’t you be considering what Charlotte wants and needs?”
“That is precisely what I am doing, taking into account her best interests! She is too young to make this decision on her own, and whether you like it or not, I am her legal guardian. I will determine who she sees and what she does.”
He stood, bracing his hands on the table to lean over her, and she had a moment of unease.
“I know when a woman is attracted to me, Mrs. Longren,” he said softly, anger radiating off him in waves. “Charlotte is as good as mine. Before you cross me in this, I suggest you give the matter some thought.”
The image of Charlotte married at fifteen to a man such as Greeley made the bite of biscuit Hattie had managed to swallow threaten to come back up. Yet he was the chief of police and, as such, wielded tremendous power. She was forced to accept the wisdom of not refusing him outright.
“I will give you my answer within the week,” she said, barely able to get the words out.
Greeley straightened, reaching for his hat and gloves. “Then I await your favorable decision.”
She accompanied him into the front hall, the palms of her hands itching from the urge to shove him out the door.
He paused. “I hope you will also give grave consideration to my feelings about accepting any gift from Mona Starr. She is not someone you should encourage.”
Hattie didn’t reply, hoping he would take her silence on the matter as assent. Instead, she strove for a way to smooth things over. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of advising me on a different matter altogether, Chief Greeley. It has been hinted that my husband, Charles, was in the habit of paying the crimps for his sailing crews. Is that correct? Because if so, I will immediately direct Mr. Johnson to rectify the situation.”
Greeley frowned down at her. “I thought you understood it is best to leave these matters to the discretion of your business manager.”
“I can’t ignore the fact that a business I now own might be condoning the brutal treatment of sailors. Surely you are as concerned as I am.”
She’d neatly turned the tables on him, and his expression spoke volumes. “If you feel it absolutely necessary to interfere, I strongly advise you to take up this matter with Clive Johnson.”
Hattie shook her head. “I have reason to doubt he’d be candid with his answers.”
“That’s absurd. Johnson is a man of stellar reputation. If he has dealt with the crimps on occasion, then he has done so with good reason.”
She smiled politely, her headache having returned full force.
He opened the door and then turned back. “I will give you one last word of advice, Mrs. Longren. You will be better served in this community if you adopt a more pleasing attitude toward those who have your best interests at heart.” He placed his hat on his head and, bowing, bid her good day.
“Pompous ass,” she muttered when the door had closed.
She heard a snicker, and turned to find Sara behind her, a hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes bright with mirth. “Land sakes, Mrs. Longren. I never enjoyed myself so much as in these last few moments. That man needed to be brought down a peg or two.”
“Yes, well, I doubt I succeeded,” Hattie muttered. “Nothing could penetrate that thick skull of his.”
Charlotte rushed down the hallway from the kitchen. “Oh, Hattie, how could you! You practically ran him off, and you were unforgivably rude to him! He’ll never come back to see me,” she ended on a wail.
Hattie stare
d at her in surprise. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”
“Yes! He’s handsome and kind and—”
“He’s much too old for you.”
“You’re just jealous!” Charlotte accused. “You don’t have anyone calling on you, and you can’t stand that he wants me.”
“I’m in mourning for Charles,” Hattie corrected, exasperated. “No respectable man would call on me so soon after his death.” She spread her hands. “Charlotte, Greeley’s not the right man for you. You should have someone lighter in spirit, who won’t be so stern, whom you can fall in love with—”
“I am in love!” Charlotte cried, then let loose a sob. “You’ll just ruin everything! I hate you!” She ran up the stairs.
Her bedroom door slammed, and Hattie could hear muffled, heartrending sobs. She sighed, rubbing her temples. She’d taken her irritation with Greeley out on Charlotte, which was inexcusable. Charlotte needed her understanding right now, not her disapproval.
“Let her go, ma’am,” Sara said. “She’s just overwrought.”
“It’s just that he’s—”
“A lot like Mr. Longren,” Sara observed shrewdly.
Hattie realized Sara was right. Oh, God. She didn’t want Charlotte to suffer as she had, to feel guilty because the man she loved couldn’t bring himself to return the sentiment.
“I’ll have Tabitha take Charlotte some chamomile tea in a bit, along with the latest dress patterns from Butterick’s,” Sara was saying. “After she settles down, you can try to reason with her.”
Hattie smiled gratefully, but her thoughts remained troubled. Was she being fair? Or was she allowing her personal dislike of Greeley to cloud her judgment? She couldn’t expect Charlotte to want or need the same things from a relationship that she had wanted.
And yet, Greeley’s views regarding marriage and women’s position in society were decidedly old-fashioned. It had been on the tip of her tongue to inform him that she had no intention of giving Clive Johnson free rein in the business any longer, that she had decided to take a much more active role in its day-to-day affairs. Greeley might well have become apoplectic at that news—something she would’ve secretly loved to witness.
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