by Kari Bovee
“Mr. Everett, please, come sit by me.” Annie patted the chair next to hers. “Tell me how you think Buck is doing. I thought he looked quite well.”
“Yes. The boy has rallied.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Did you have to inject the heroin again?” Annie asked.
“Not so far. Looks like it will be smooth sailing. Until the next storm.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” Hulda said. “Mr. Everett, have you had lunch yet?”
Annie noticed her sister’s cheeks flushing a shade of crimson, almost the color of the dress, and her indigo eyes darkened. A niggle of worry buried itself into her stomach. Her nervous horse and the recent murder seemed enough to contend with without having to play mother to her younger sister.
“Yes. Just. I say, Miss. . . .”
“Mosey,” Hulda said, her voice a bit too eager. “Hulda Mosey.”
“If you’re not hungry, would you care to take a stroll on the deck with me?”
“Oh, well, yes, I’d love to.” Hulda scooted her chair away from the table.
Annie laid a hand on Hulda’s arm. “Really, Hulda. You must eat, and didn’t you promise Bobby you would help him with the animals?”
“I did no such thing. Where did you get that idea? And as for lunch, I’m not hungry,” her sister said through clenched teeth.
Annie knew the fib about her sister promising to help Bobby was wrong, but she wanted to keep the growing attraction between Hulda and Mr. Everett at bay. Mr. Everett was far too much a man of the world for Hulda, and years her senior. Frank was thirteen years older than Annie, but that had been different. Their relationship had grown out of rivalry, then friendship, and finally love.
Still, Annie knew it wasn’t a winning argument, and if she said anything, her sister would just resent her even more than she apparently already did.
“Let her go,” Frank said, lowering his paper. “The fresh air will do her good. Seems we’re all feeling a bit peaked today.”
“I feel perfectly fine!” Annie said, giving him a look.
Hulda lifted her shoulders with glee, smiled prettily at Frank, and then scowled at Annie as she took Mr. Everett’s arm. As they left the room, Annie’s gaze traveled over to the colonel’s table where Bobby was watching Hulda leave with the veterinarian, his face crumpled in disappointment.
Annie released a sigh, resigned to the unpleasant idea that her sister had come to an age where flirting and courting were a natural hazard. She’d certainly been sneaking kisses with Mick Easton by that age. If only Annie could figure a way to turn Hulda’s interests in Bobby’s direction. Annie knew she could trust Bobby, and that he would never hurt Hulda. They’d only met Mr. Everett a few days ago.
“Aren’t you worried about her, Frank?” Annie asked.
Frank lowered his paper to his lap and his spectacles from his nose.
“Would worrying help?” he asked. “She’s a sensible young girl, and she’s probably bored out of her mind with the rest of the cast, who are all much older than she is. Mr. Everett is closer to her age than the rest of us, other than you.”
“Hulda is only thirteen. I met you at nearly sixteen. Mr. Everett must be in his early twenties at least—older than me! Bobby is much more suitable for her.” Annie said, astonished at Frank’s calm.
Frank turned to her, his brows raised. “Mr. Everett may be older than her, but you are a fine one to talk.”
A jolt of pain stabbed at Annie’s heart, and that pain made her anger rise. Her life with Frank had been so easy, so natural; he must have forgotten about all the hardships she’d told him she’d endured before they met.
“I didn’t have time to be a child, Frank. I had to grow up in a hurry. It pains me that you forget. Hulda has not experienced life as I have. I worked myself nearly to death so she wouldn’t have to do the same. She may not look it, but she is younger than her thirteen years in many ways. I was older than my fifteen years.”
Frank finally lowered his paper and reached out to grasp Annie’s hand.
“I’m sorry to have upset you. I’ve never seen you as anyone other than an accomplished woman. I understand what you’re saying, and your argument is sound. She’s not ready for a serious relationship with an older man. I will speak with Mr. Everett.”
“And Bobby?”
Frank laughed. “The boy is so tongue-tied around her, I don’t think there’s much to worry about. He would make a good friend for her. He’s a fine fellow.”
“He is indeed.” Annie agreed. “But he hardly has the captivating good looks of Mr. Everett.”
“True. It’s probably just a passing phase for Hulda. An older, accomplished gentleman is taking an interest in her. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Much like you, my dear.”
“But you will speak with him?”
“I promise.” Frank squeezed Annie’s hand and raised his paper again. Annie relaxed in her chair. Frank’s logic often settled her worries, but this time, she found only partial comfort in his promise. She didn’t care for the idol-worship in Hulda’s eyes when she looked at the dashing veterinarian. Thirteen years old, or thirty years old, the sentiment was unseemly. No one individual should be idolized over another. People were equals in her mind. She just wished the rest of the world would catch on.
She thought of the way she’d been treated by Vernon McCrimmon. She had been younger than Hulda at the time. After their father died, Annie had been responsible for putting food on the table by shooting game in the area. During a drought, when the animals and birds had fled in search of water, Annie’s mother had farmed her out to the Darke County Infirmary, the poorhouse, and they had placed Annie with the McCrimmon family in Preble County.
She had finally escaped, taking the beaten and abused Buck with her. The fact that she had let the abuse go on so long shamed her. She tried to justify it by telling herself she had to help her family—but the shame still clung, like the dirty sackcloth dress she used to wear.
Now, as if she didn’t have enough to worry about on this voyage, her sister’s virtue had been added to her list.
Chapter Seven
Refusing to feel sorry for herself any longer, Annie scanned the grand dining room, trying to decide how to proceed with her questioning.
Her eyes settled on two women, one of mature age and the other probably seventeen, not much younger than Annie, seated with their backs to the room. A tall, willow-thin man seated with them faced the room. Like the younger woman, he looked to be in his late teens or early twenties—Annie couldn’t tell—but he did not carry himself as elegantly as his lunch companions. He seemed uncomfortable in the refined setting, like a giraffe at high tea.
The tables had been strategically set to encourage conversation, and it looked as if the trio had rearranged the place settings to deter any attempt at socializing.
“Frank, do you see those three people there?”
“What’s that?” He lowered his paper.
“Those people. The man with the two women. Why are they seated like that?”
As if the younger woman could hear them, she turned around, making eye contact with Annie. She was the same girl who had come down to the captain’s stateroom when Dr. Adams was examining the dead Mr. Bhakta. Had she heard Frank and Annie talking about her? It couldn’t be. The trio was clear across the dining hall. The woman turned back around to face the wall.
“It seems they don’t want to be social,” Frank said. “Perhaps their stomachs have made their complexions green, and they are embarrassed at the state of their faces. I know I’m not feeling well today—not sure I can look at luncheon, much less eat it.”
“You are unwell?” Annie reached out to smooth Frank’s hair.
“My stomach. Feeling a bit cold as well. Must have caught a chill from being in the water. How are you feeling after yesterday’s adventure? You look positively radiant, aside from the crease of worry on your delicate brow.” He smiled in a teasing way, and Annie punc
hed his arm.
“Stop making fun of me. I do feel quite fine.” The nausea came and went, and had momentarily subsided, though eating was the last thing she wanted to do. “But I can’t help thinking about poor Mr. Bhakta. We could be sitting in the very same room as his killer.”
“Those three hardly look like killers.”
Annie threw her napkin on the table. “I can’t believe you are being so casual about this, Frank. Someone pushed you overboard. Aren’t you the least bit troubled? Aren’t you concerned?”
Frank put the paper down, looking at her in earnest for the first time all morning.
“No, I’m not concerned, and I don’t want you to worry. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm me. It just seems unfathomable. More than likely the culprit was after Mr. Bhakta, and I happened to be standing there, too. I may not have even been the intended target.”
She scowled at his response. Annie remembered that she’d said she’d let Emma question Frank, but the moment had seemed ripe for her own inquiry.
“What about your association with your uncle and his political causes?”
Frank’s eyes flickered up toward someone walking by. “Like I said earlier, I hadn’t heard from him for years before he died.”
“Did he discuss his causes with you? Was he one of these Fenians?”
“He sympathized with the Fenians; that much is true. But there was nothing in his correspondence that attempted to involve me in his cause. He simply reported his opinions.”
Annie studied his face, looking for any signs of unease, discomfort, or offense. His eyes slid back to his paper.
“Do you think you have any disgruntled rivals from your shooting days? Any disgruntled lovers?”
“Annie!” Frank lowered the paper.
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m just trying to understand why someone would be after you.”
“According to Mr. Patel,” he reminded her. “Idle gossip, in my opinion.”
“But why would Mr. Patel make that up?”
“I’m not sure. The fact is, someone pushed Mr. Bhakta overboard. I just happened to be in the way.”
“Maybe, but still, Frank, we can’t discount what Mr. Patel said.”
“Annie, you—of all people—know how things get out of hand with the press. I’m a known Irishman. Now, I am traveling to England with you and the show to see the queen. People fabricate stories. There’s been much unrest between the Crown, Mr. Gladstone, and the Irish.”
“Gladstone? Who is he?”
“The former Prime Minister of England.”
“Oh yes,” Annie said. “I’ve read about him in the papers. I thought he was a liberal and sympathetic to the Irish plight.”
“He is, but he won’t condone the violent crimes of some of the radical Irish independence groups.”
“Like the Fenians?” Annie guessed.
“Yes. He brought on the Coercion Act for Ireland—a way of suspending habeas corpus.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It was also called the Protection of Persons and Property Act. It allowed for the jailing and internment of agitators involved in the Irish Land War, without giving them any sort of a trial. Caused quite the commotion over there.”
“So the Fenians were being imprisoned without trials?” Annie asked.
“Exactly.”
“That must have angered them.”
“I imagine so.” Frank folded his paper. “And Gladstone still hadn’t recovered from the negative publicity from what was called the Phoenix Park Murders of 1882 in Dublin.”
“That sounds dreadful. What happened?”
“Two British diplomats were murdered while taking an evening walk in Phoenix Park. It was speculated the killers were Fenians. Gladstone had been trying to compromise with the Irish Nationalist leaders. He stuck his neck out for the Irish, and then the Irish gangs made him look foolish by killing the chief secretary of Ireland and his undersecretary.”
Annie tapped her fingers on the tabletop, thinking about Frank’s words, trying to see the connection to Mr. Bhakta’s death.
“That still doesn’t explain why someone would kill Mr. Bhakta,” she said.
“No it doesn’t,” said Frank.
But Annie intended to find out.
The lunch party had started to disband when Dr. Adams stepped between the large potted palms flanking the entrance to the dining room. He weaved his way through the dispersing passengers who’d finished their lunch and made his way over to Annie and Frank, a large leather book in his hands.
“Hello, Dr. Adams, care to sit down?” Frank asked.
“No, I don’t really have time for lunch.”
“That looks like some ambitious reading,” said Annie pointing to the book.
“Ah, yes. Ship’s manifest. I was just returning it to the captain’s stateroom. I like to study it, to familiarize myself with all of the passenger’s names, in case of illness or—well—anyway, I stopped by to see how you were feeling, Miss Oakley. Any more lightheadedness?”
“No, I feel fine, Dr. Adams. Thank you for your concern,” she said, distracted by the leather book he had tucked under her arm. She’d love to get a hold of that somehow—she wanted to study it, too.
“Very well, I’m glad to hear it. Now, I must attend to the Indians below decks. Never seen such a scared and sick lot.”
Miss Brady, still at the table with her companions across the dining hall, turned to look at Annie again. Annie had grown used to people staring, but it still unnerved her. She tried her best to blend in, but somehow she couldn’t. Perhaps Hulda was right about her state of dress. Her drabness made her stand out even more than she realized. When the girl turned away again, Annie whispered to the doctor, “Do you know who those people are? The two women with their backs to the room? And the gentleman?”
The doctor turned to look at them.
“I believe that is Anne Parsons and her companion, Becky Brady. I’m not sure about the man.”
Before Annie could ask for more information about the women, Frank uttered a strangled noise and gripped at his stomach. “Oh my,” he groaned.
“Feeling all right, old chap?” Dr. Adams asked.
“Just a bit of seasickness, I think,” Frank said.
Annie noticed perspiration dotting his forehead. “Should you go lie down, darling?” she asked.
“It will pass.” Frank gave her a reassuring smile.
She studied him a few seconds longer but decided not to press. He was a proud man and wouldn’t take to her clucking over him in front of the other men, nor did he relish admitting to any kind of weakness.
“I’ll leave you, then,” Dr. Adams said. He moved to another table with several couples dressed in velvet and wool finery, greeting them quickly before leaving the room.
Annie’s gaze travelled back to the trio seated across the room. The young woman occasionally fidgeted in her chair, and looked over her shoulder as if nervous about something. Her behavior was odd, to say the least, piquing Annie’s interest.
“That woman over there is acting strangely, Frank. She almost looks frightened of something.”
“Perhaps she is afraid of sea travel, like the Indians.” Frank wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it on the table. “I think I’ll go for a stroll on deck. Come with me?”
“No,” Annie said, her eyes still on the young woman. “You go ahead. I think I’ll wait for Emma. Frank, while you’re on deck, will you look for Hulda? See that she’s not making a fool of herself with Mr. Everett.”
Frank pushed his spectacles up his nose, giving her an incredulous stare. She knew her request seemed ridiculous, but his checking on Hulda would ease her worries. Without waiting for his answer, she smiled sweetly at him.
“Of course, dear. Anything for you,” Frank said. Annie noticed his face had gone sallow.
“Are you sure you are all right?”
“Yes, yes. Fine. Nothing to worry about. I’ll go find Hulda for you.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek and strolled away from the table. Annie watched him leave, admiring the square set of his shoulders and the casual way he walked, graceful as a lion.
The two women and their companion stood up as if to leave. Annie rose from the table and, smoothing her skirts, walked toward the entrance to the dining hall, measuring the distance between her and the threesome so they would exit together. She wondered what she could possibly say to them without seeming obvious. The older woman wore a beautiful plaid scarf. What better way to start a conversation than with a compliment?
Annie weaved her way in and out of the tables and, as she had planned, ended up right next to the older woman.
“I’ve been admiring your scarf. Wherever did you get it?”
The older woman’s hazel eyes settled on Annie’s. “Well, thank you. My companion made it.” The woman held her arm out to the girl. “This is Becky Brady, and I’m Anne Parsons.” She indicated the man. “This is Mr. John O’Brien. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Oakley. Imagine our luck to be traveling with the Wild West Show.” The woman’s voice carried the hint of an Irish brogue.
Becky Brady, a pretty girl with russet ringlets and auburn eyes, gazed at Annie with a hard stare, making Annie’s insides twinge with apprehension. Not everyone admired her, she knew, but outright rudeness always startled her. Like when she had first seen Miss Tessen. The woman’s gaze had seemed to cut through her like a knife, but after speaking with her, Annie realized she was harmless, just unhappy. Still, Annie always made an effort to be kind, and it unsettled her when others didn’t.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Brady, Mr. O’Brien.”
Mr. O’Brien bowed a greeting but remained silent. Annie turned her attention back to the older woman.
