Chapter 19
John Donavan pushed his way into my foyer, thrusting me aside as he came over the threshold. When I let out a cry of protest and attempted to seize his arm, his other arm came up, a crowbar gripped in his hand. “Get out of my way, Miss Cross, or I’ll crack your skull.” He pointed the tool toward the back of the house. “And then I’ll go smash the brains of those other two hens that live here.”
My hands fell away and I lurched a step backward. At the same time, Patch came barreling into the hall. He showed no alarm; his tail wagged in his eagerness to see who had come to visit. Perhaps he believed Derrick had returned. Donavan scowled down at him and raised the crowbar.
“Patch, quiet,” I commanded in alarm, fearing what Donavan would do to him. While his twitching nose and wagging tail told me his excitement hadn’t abated, he backed away from the coachman and came to my side.
Donavan strode into the parlor. Miss Riley surged to her feet. “John? What are you doing here? And what is that for?” She pointed to the implement in his hand.
“I’ve come for you, Olivia. To take you away from here. I’m going to help you.” He held his free hand out to her.
She didn’t move. “How did you know I was here?”
He hesitated before admitting, “I followed you. Now let’s go before it’s too late.”
She held her ground. “I don’t understand.”
“The police are looking for you, Mr. Donavan,” I said to his back. “You’ll never get off Aquidneck Island.”
He half turned toward me and slapped the end of the crowbar against his other palm. Patch jumped, and I leaned to place a firm hand on the back of his neck. “I’ll find a way.”
I longed to send Patch to the kitchen, out of harm’s way, but I knew he’d put up a fuss and refuse to budge. Better, then, to keep him beside me, where I could grab his collar to prevent him from doing something that would end in his being hurt. Nudging him to move along with me, I walked through the parlor doorway and circled John Donavan to stand beside Miss Riley. Patch sat directly in front of me, his rump resting on the tips of my boots. He was on the alert now, albeit he didn’t quite know why. He watched John Donavan with wary interest.
My other foremost concern was whether Nanny or Katie might return to the parlor. True, Donavan knew they were in the house, but I considered them safer where they were in the kitchen. Better still, I wished they’d flee through the kitchen door and go for help.
“I’ve protected you so far, Olivia,” Donavan was saying in a pleading voice. “You can trust me to go on protecting you.”
Her pale, tearstained face turned whiter still. “What have you done?”
He didn’t answer. In a flash of understanding, I supplied the answer for him. “He killed Clarence. For you, Miss Riley. He must have seen you push the Hartley Steamer into Baldwin—” I broke off, stunned by a single detail that suddenly burst, like lightning, across my brain. “Except that you couldn’t have . . . you didn’t.” My mouth fell open as I continued to work it out.
“What? But I did. I just told you how I did it.”
I grabbed her hand, almost jubilant. “There’s a root in the grass that would have stopped the Hartley before it reached the tree. Unless you heaved hard enough to send the tires over it—”
She shook her head vigorously “I don’t remember any such thing.”
“Because you’d hurried inside. But he”—I pointed at John Donavan—“he was outside, and he pushed the Hartley when it stopped. Pushed it hard enough to send it over the root and into Baldwin with such force he died of the injuries.”
Every last drop of color drained from Miss Riley’s countenance. “Is this true, John?”
“I killed him for you, Olivia. For what he was trying to do to you.”
“I never asked you to help me. And why Clarence?”
“He saw you hurrying back into the house. He’d gone looking for Baldwin when he didn’t come back to serve in the dining room. And after everyone discovered what I’d . . . what happened to Baldwin, he assumed you did it, although he had no proof. And then he found that boxing-match ticket—from the fight Baldwin bragged about. Baldwin said the poor fool left behind a wife and daughter. Clarence was clever. Once he saw that ticket, he figured you were that man’s daughter and that was why you killed him. He planned to go to the police. I couldn’t let him do that to you. Or to us.”
“I believed I killed Baldwin, too,” she shouted at him. Then, quieter, “How could you let me believe that?”
“What does it matter? Baldwin is dead.” Donavan held out his hand as if he expected Miss Riley to take it. “That’s what you wanted. I only did what you wanted.”
“Dear Lord, no . . .” Miss Riley glared at him, loathing and sorrow warring across her features.
He once more held out his hand in supplication. “That’s why I had to kill Clarence. After the police let me go, I went back to Kingscote to collect my things. Clarence saw me and told me that he found the ticket while they were clearing out Baldwin’s room. He said I would be exonerated and you jailed in my place. He thought he was doing me a favor. But I couldn’t let him turn you in. Who would believe in your innocence? But without him, you’re safe, and so am I. No one need ever know what really happened.” He shifted his attention to me. “Except you. Now, what do we do with you?”
“You’re not to do anything with Miss Cross, John.” Miss Riley spoke firmly, even forcefully. “Baldwin committed more sins than you know, but even he didn’t deserve to be murdered. And Clarence was innocent. He certainly didn’t deserve to die. How could you ever believe two deaths could help me?”
“But it will, Olivia. We’ll go far from here and get married. You and me. Maybe we’ll go as far as California. Just think of it.”
Miss Riley shook her head at every word he spoke. “Never.”
“But . . . I love you. Can you not see that? Haven’t I proved it? Everything I did was for you.”
“Vile, all of it. I could never love you. Even if you hadn’t done these things, I never would have loved you.” She raised a hand to gesture toward the front door. “Go. Get away if you can. I’m not going with you.”
He didn’t move to go. “I won’t leave without you.”
She walked past me, turning her face away from him and staring out the front window. “Then you’ll be taken into custody along with me. After all, I did have a hand in Baldwin’s death. If I hadn’t started the motorcar rolling, if I hadn’t gone outside that night, you wouldn’t have done what you did. I realize that. I do bear some responsibility, and I won’t hide from it. Miss Cross, I believe I saw a telephone beneath your staircase as I came in. You may as well summon the police.”
She sounded so calm, so resigned, but the tips of her fingers trembled, while her breathing became labored and audible. I marveled at her courage, her calm acceptance of all that had happened, and what it could mean for her and her daughter’s futures. The police and the courts could very well hold her partly responsible. They might charge her as an accomplice, and with only her word to attest to what happened that night, she could end up spending years in prison.
“I don’t believe this.” Mounting anger replaced the pleading in John Donavan’s voice. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
Miss Riley made no reply.
“Look at me, you guttersnipe.” He took a step toward her. Miss Riley flinched but maintained her resolve. Patch growled deep in his throat. I bent to place a hand on his collar while, with my other hand, I reached for the brass paperweight, the closest object within reach that could be used as a weapon. “Baldwin was right about you, Olivia,” he said. “You aren’t worth it. You never were.” He spun toward me and raised the crowbar. “Put it down or you and your dog won’t see another day.”
I grabbed the hunk of brass anyway; he’d already hinted at killing me, so why go passively? My fingers closed around the cool metal. The weight of it filled my hand as I lifted it from the pile of newspapers. I watched in horror as the crowbar swung high over my head. My senses swam as Patch’s fierce barking filled my ears. I braced for the agony of the blow, equally determined to strike a blow in return.
And then John Donavan’s eyes rolled back in his head. His hand opened and the crowbar plummeted, landing with a sharp and heavy thwack on my shoulder—but not my head. The coachman’s collapsing form revealed the figure of Miss Riley standing directly behind him, wielding the conch shell I had so recently considered using as a weapon, her fingers curled snugly inside it.
* * *
I barely had time to comprehend what happened when the front door burst open. Patch barked furiously as he jumped and darted around Donavan’s prone form. Miss Riley had hardly moved, except to lower the conch shell to her side. Footsteps came at a run from the hallway: Derrick’s and Nanny’s and Katie’s. They spoke all at once, a cacophony I could make no sense of.
Then Derrick’s arms were around me. “What the blazes happened here? Emma, are you all right?”
“Emma? Emma, that man—” Nanny pointed down at Donavan. Her face became flushed with outrage as she scowled. “Good heavens, who is he?”
Katie said nothing but crouched beside John Donavan and placed her fingertips on the side of his neck, something I had taught her. “He’s alive.”
At that, Miss Riley let out a cry and sank to her knees. Derrick released me and I went to her, prying the conch shell from her hand. A crimson bead dripped from the twisted spire at one end. I set it aside and put my arm across her shoulders. “Can you stand?” I turned to Katie. “Please bring some water for Miss Riley and a rag and ice for . . . for him.”
Katie came to her feet, then hesitated, her hands clutching at her apron. “Shouldn’t I call the police, Miss Emma?”
Over Miss Riley’s head, Derrick’s gaze collided with mine. I shook my head slightly. He made no move, not even a change in his expression, but I knew he understood. Or, at least, he was willing to follow my lead. “Not yet, Katie,” I said. “Please, the water and ice first. And more tea, I think. And then please telephone Dr. Kennison.”
Derrick wasted no time. He followed Katie and returned holding a ball of twine. He tied Donavan’s hands behind his back and then bound his ankles for good measure. With my help, we half dragged, half hauled him to the sofa and stretched him out on it. When Katie returned with a cloth-bound bundle of ice—delivered to me daily from The Breakers, my relatives’ cottage—Nanny first dabbed at the cut on the back of his head and then placed the ice on the wound. He didn’t stir, although his breathing seemed steady, and I hoped for Miss Riley’s sake he recovered. I couldn’t help thinking about Harry Ainsley’s fate . . .
“I’ve done violence again.” Miss Riley still sat on the floor, her hands gripped together. There were no tears now, only a piercing light in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Fiona,” she whispered.
“In self-defense,” I reminded her, though it didn’t smooth the anxious lines from her face. “Actually, in my defense.”
“What happened here while I was gone?” Derrick went to Miss Riley and offered his hand to help her up. She accepted it and rose shakily to her feet. He led her to one of the two armchairs facing the sofa and steadied her as she lowered herself into it. “How did he come to be here? That’s John Donavan, isn’t it?”
His second question needed no reply, but I answered the first. “He followed Miss Riley from Kingscote. He claims he’s in love with her and thought he was doing her a favor by committing murder. Twice.”
“Good God.” Derrick rarely swore in my hearing, much less Nanny’s, and that he did now proved how taken aback he was by this development. “He murdered two men . . . in the name of love?”
Miss Riley shook her head, clearly still blaming herself for the first, and possibly both, deaths. I went to her side, half blocking her from Derrick’s view. “Yes,” I said before she could speak. “You see, Miss Riley is . . . You might want to be seated for this.” I gestured for Derrick to sit in the other armchair. Clearly baffled, he sat across the small oval table from Miss Riley, so that they were both facing me now. “Miss Riley is Harry Ainsley’s daughter.”
Before I could go on, Miss Riley jumped up. “I won’t have you lie for me. Mr. Andrews, what Miss Cross says is true. I’m Harry Ainsley’s daughter, and if not for me, for my actions that night, Isaiah Baldwin would still be alive. Donavan killed him, but he was finishing something I started. I wanted that man dead because of what he did to my father—to my entire family. I’m sorry for it, but I can’t change it.”
Derrick turned his bewildered face back to me. “Emma, is this true?”
I nodded. “There’s much more to it. I believe Mrs. Ross sent that note to me, the one about things being amiss among Kingscote’s servants and Isaiah Baldwin deserving what he got. She knew what he was like—an exceedingly bad man. That much I believe. And Nanny guessed the writer hadn’t been formally educated, and I don’t believe Mrs. Ross was, not in the traditional sense. She’s clever and has managed to acquire the demeanor of a lady, but it’s entirely possible she’s had little classroom schooling, which was often the case in the rural South. But what’s more, Miss Riley didn’t set out to kill Baldwin. She saw him manhandling Mrs. Ross that night and went outside to see if she could help. She leaned against the motorcar to hear what the argument was about, and it started to roll.” I quickly explained the rest, then came to a breathless silence.
He didn’t speak for several long moments, but sat contemplating the unconscious man on the sofa. I gazed around me, half surprised to find Nanny still there. She, too, appeared to be deep in thought.
Finally, I broke the silence. “What are we going to do? Miss Riley didn’t murder Baldwin, but she might be charged as an accomplice, mightn’t she?”
“Yes, and once he wakes up and starts talking to the police, it’ll be her word against his.” Derrick propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and fisted his hand beneath his chin. “And Jesse’s hands will be tied again, no matter which of them he believes.”
“Derrick is right, Emma,” Nanny said. “Jesse will be entirely sympathetic, but once the whole story comes out, he’ll be forced to take Miss Riley’s participation into account. And if he won’t, Chief Rogers will. And we can’t simply omit her part in what happened that night. You know you’re not comfortable with out-and-out lying, especially to a good friend like Jesse.” Nanny spoke the truth; how could I maintain a lie to my friend? But how could I turn Olivia Riley over to a prison cell, or possibly even the hangman’s noose? In my mind’s eye, little Fiona demanded the answer to that same question.
Miss Riley followed the discussion with anguish on her face, yet a glimmer of hope in her eyes. That glimmer tunneled its way through to my core. But she said nothing to plead her case or influence our decision.
“I’ll be right back.” Whirling away from three astonished faces, I darted out of the parlor and up the staircase. It took me only seconds to find what I had gone for. I took another moment to write several lines on a blank sheet of paper, and signed my name to it. Back downstairs, I paused in the parlor doorway. Was I truly going to do this? Would Derrick and Nanny stop me? Would Jesse, once he learned the truth, be forced to press charges against me?
Miss Riley might have intended to harm Isaiah Baldwin, but she hadn’t. She didn’t deserve to suffer and neither did her daughter. At long last, would Harry Ainsley’s family find some semblance of justice?
They would, if I had anything to say about it.
Vaguely, I heard Katie speaking into the telephone with Dr. Kennison, explaining the nature of the wound inflicted on John Donavan. I left her to it. Stepping into the room, I stood before Miss Riley, held out my fist, and uncurled my fingers. She gasped when she beheld what lay in my palm.
“What is this? I . . . I don’t understand.”
The diamond teardrop earrings my parents had given me years ago shimmered in the glow of the gas lamps Nanny had lighted while I was upstairs. With its sheltering shadows, night had fully set in. Miss Riley would need those shadows. “They’re small and won’t bring much,” I explained, “but it will be enough for you to start somewhere new. If you leave now, no one will prevent you from boarding the train or the ferry. Go as far as you can before selling these earrings. I can give you the money for the ticket.”
“Here.” Derrick drew his purse from his inner coat pocket, counted out several bills, and held them out to Miss Riley.
Her eyes large, she shook her head adamantly. “No, I can’t—”
“Take it,” Nanny commanded in her softest, yet firmest, voice. “If Emma thinks this is right, then it’s right.”
“Thank you, Nanny.” To Miss Riley, I said, “Take it for Fiona. And for Harry. Take it and go. In the meantime, we’ll see to it that your daughter is cared for. Once you find a place to settle, write to me. You daren’t contact your aunt, not at first, but I’ll let her know where you are.” I handed her the folded sheet of paper I’d brought with me from upstairs. “I’ve written you a letter of recommendation. And I’ll see if I can get your brooch back from Detective Whyte. I’ll bring it to your aunt.” I pressed the diamonds into her free hand and closed her fingers around them. I gestured at John Donavan. “The police will have their murderer. Eventually, this will all die down and you needn’t look over your shoulder anymore.”
“I don’t deserve any of this.”
“Nor did you deserve what Baldwin did to your family.” I smiled sadly. “Here is your second chance. Take it, Olivia.”
I embraced her, and her arms went around me and squeezed. Then she released me and tucked the diamonds in a pocket in her dress, followed by the letter of recommendation and the bills Derrick handed her.
“Wait,” I said, and quickly ran to the hall. I returned with a shawl and my straw boater hat. “Take these as well, so you don’t appear as though you’ve just run off.”
She put them on, transforming her maid’s uniform into a simple black serge dress that any woman might wear. “Thank you, Miss Cross. My thanks to all of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever—”
“Go,” I said, nudging her toward the front door. “Go before it’s too late. Once the doctor arrives, we’ll have no choice but to telephone the police.” As if on cue, the man on the sofa let out a groan. “Donavan will probably tell them you rolled the Hartley Steamer into Isaiah Baldwin, and then they’ll come looking for you, for questioning if nothing else.”
“Will you lie for me?”
I shook my head. “I won’t lie, but I won’t necessarily offer up everything I know, either. Not all at once, at least. Now, please go.”
I held the front door open, and Olivia Riley hurried off into the night.
* * *
As it happened, I didn’t telephone Jesse that night; I didn’t need to. He showed up at my door at the same time as the doctor to tell me to have a care, for he’d concluded that John Donavan had murdered Clarence and was on the run, but, he believed, still on the island.
“That one detail about the lack of footprints kept nagging at me,” he told us while Dr. Kennison attended to Donavan’s head wound. “At first we simply believed our culprit had dried his feet on the grass and wiped off the mud, but then it struck me that he might have removed his shoes before he left the laundry yard. I decided to check the carriage house, and sure enough, I found traces of muddy water just inside the door to his rooms. He was careful not to leave a trail across the lawn, but I suspect once he’d retrieved what he wanted, he was in too much of a hurry to get away to bother cleaning the floor. He simply put on his shoes and fled.”
“He’ll have a lump the size of a crab apple and one zinger of a headache,” Dr. Kennison pronounced after checking his patient over carefully, “but he’ll be fine. Doesn’t need stitches. The wound will heal on its own.”
Jesse went to stand over his quarry. “John Donavan, you are under arrest for the murder of Clarence Dole, and if I can prove it, the murder of Isaiah Baldwin, too.”
“I didn’t kill Baldwin.” Struggling against his bonds, Donavan slid his feet to the floor and slowly sat up. He let out a groan that did little to win my sympathy. “That little Irish witch did. Ask her.” He indicated me with a thrust of his chin. “Blasted women.”
“Emma?” Jesse folded his arms and lifted an eyebrow in question. “Is this true?”
I shrugged. “It’s complicated, but you can be sure John Donavan murdered both men.”
Jesse directed his gaze in a silent question at Derrick, who laid a hand against his chest with an air of innocence. “I wasn’t here to witness what was said. I’d gone into town to wire funds for Miss Riley’s aunt to be able to call a doctor for her daughter. Poor child’s been sick, so we hear.”
Jesse next turned to Nanny. “Mrs. O’Neal? What do you know?”
“Derrick’s right, that poor child needs a doctor.”
“I don’t mean about that, Mrs. O’Neal.”
“Oh . . . well, Katie and I were in the kitchen for most of the evening. Would you care for some tea?”
Jesse pivoted back toward me. “You and I are going to have a long talk tomorrow.”
Derrick came to stand beside me in solidarity. The back of his hand touched mine. Whatever I faced, I knew he would face it with me. I nodded at Jesse, thinking tomorrow would give Miss Riley ample time to put many miles between herself and Newport. Would it be enough? Would Jesse press matters and issue an interstate search for her?
I had faith he would agree that Miss Riley didn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. Her momentary lapse in judgment had been simply that, and she had stopped herself just short of committing murder. She hadn’t been at all complicit, either, for by the time Donavan had taken over pushing the Hartley, Miss Riley had fled the scene. Yes, she’d fled believing she had murdered Baldwin, and yes, it had been wrong of her to allow Philip King to take the blame—and perhaps for that she did deserve some form of punishment. But hadn’t she already been punished, before the fact? Not to mention the weight of the guilt she would bear for the rest of her life.
But it hadn’t merely been Miss Riley I’d helped to escape. It was her daughter as well, a third generation struggling to outrun the past. I prayed my diamonds and Derrick’s money would help Fiona Rose escape a legacy she didn’t deserve, the result of the actions of a dishonorable man she would never have to know. If any good could come of this, it would be in the person of Fiona Riley—Fiona Ainsley, really—when she grew up to be a healthy, happy young woman.
* * *
After an exhausted, dreamless sleep that night, the next afternoon saw me back at Kingscote. Mrs. King had sent an invitation and her carriage for me, driven by her trusted groom, Brian Farrell.
I arrived to find Derrick and Jesse already there. Mrs. King brought us into her beautiful dining room with its exotic blend of designs, where a luncheon had been laid out. Gwendolen and her brother, Philip, finally released from his room, awaited us there.
“Please, do sit,” Mrs. King commanded in her genteel way. As we all found places around the table, she remained standing. She appeared to be waiting for something—or someone, as it turned out. Moments later Ethan strolled in, his butler’s garb replaced by a summer suit of ivory seersucker. Mrs. King gestured for him to sit as well. Then she folded her hands at her waist. “I asked you all here today to thank you for what you did for my son and for this family. You put yourselves to considerable trouble and endangered yourselves, and for that you’ll have our eternal gratitude.”
“It’s merely my job, ma’am.” Jesse shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with Mrs. King’s praise.
She raised her chin a fraction as she peered down at him. “Perhaps, Detective. But I know you were under pressure to close the case and declare it an accident caused by my son. A lesser man would have done so.”
“And let a killer go free? No, indeed.” A blush crept across Jesse’s face despite the gruffness of his tone.
Mrs. King only smiled at him, then turned her attention to another. “And you, Mr. . . . Merriman, I believe it is.”
Ethan inclined his head.
“You disrupted your entire life to help us. And Miss Cross and Mr. Andrews, you both went to great lengths on our behalf. Miss Cross, I want you to know I will become your most generous contributor to St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence.”
“Thank you, Mrs. King. That’s most appreciated.” Dared I enlist her help for Fiona? Would she ask questions about the child’s origins, or would she be willing to foster her from afar? I decided I would approach her, in time. I frowned and turned to Philip. “I do have one question for you, if I might.”
Philip King raised his teacup to me as if in a toast. “Go right ahead, Miss Cross.”
“How did you become acquainted with Harry Ainsley?”
“Harry Ainsley?” Mrs. King took her seat at the table and flicked her napkin to her lap. Her eyes widened as she turned to me. “The boxer you spoke of when that ticket was found in the laundry yard?”
Philip’s gaze hadn’t left me, as if he contemplated the wisdom of discussing the matter. Finally, and with a show of reluctance, he said, “Yes, the very same, Mother. After Baldwin maimed him in that fight, Harry ended up at Butler—with Uncle William. They were friends . . . of sorts.”
Tight ridges formed above his mother’s nose. “Uncle William? Philip, I don’t understand. Were you—”
“Visiting Uncle William before he died? Yes, Mother, I did. Every spring when we returned from Europe.”
“Why did you never say anything?”
Philip shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought the whole matter would upset you. There were so many hard feelings between him and the family. But he was always happy to see me. He didn’t blame me for his being there and . . . I could identify with him. Being the black sheep and all.”
“Philip,” his mother exclaimed, “you are not a black sheep.”
“Aren’t I, Mother? Haven’t you, in all of this, doubted me just a little?”
“I . . .” She had no answer for him, a fact that brought her considerable discomfiture, if her tight expression gave any indication.
“Oh, come now, everyone.” Gwendolen reached for a platter of roasted squab, and then the silver bowl of shallots and mushrooms in wine sauce and began the task of passing them around. “We’re here to thank our friends, not make them uncomfortable. Philip has been exonerated and the danger is over. Let’s all be grateful.”
“Hear, hear,” Philip agreed. A mischievous gleam entered his eyes. “But where is Francis, Gwennie? Aren’t you grateful to him for helping you through such a trying time?”
“You’re incorrigible.” She made a gesture as if to slap his hand, though he sat across the table from her. “For your information, Francis was a help, and he’s rather a dear, but I’ve had to be firm with him.”
“What does that mean, darling?” her mother asked.
“It means there is no future for us, however much he might want it.” Her cheeks pinked modestly. “He was always simply showing up places, uninvited. Like the other day—the day poor Clarence died—when he drove up in front of the Casino as Maude and I were leaving and insisted he drive us home, though we live such a short walk away.”
I had just cut into my squab, but the morsel remained forgotten on the end of my fork. “Then Mr. Crane wasn’t at the Casino that day watching you play tennis?”
“No. He actually seemed to be waiting outside for us.”
“It’s a good thing we didn’t know that then,” I said to Jesse and Derrick, “or poor Mr. Crane would have gone right back to the top of our list of suspects.” Somewhat chagrined, I explained to the others, “You see, we did have reason to suspect Francis Crane. Mrs. Ross as well.”
“A boy like Francis couldn’t hurt a fly,” Mrs. King said dismissively. Apparently she had forgotten her own insinuations against him. “But Mrs. Ross on the other hand . . .” She shuddered. “I’m sure that woman isn’t finished making trouble for us.”
“I have a feeling she won’t be plaguing us for much longer, Mother,” Gwendolen said. “Eventually a judge is going to dismiss her claims once and for all and she’ll disappear. Probably to find herself another financial victim.”
“One can only hope,” her brother put in in a murmur. Martin, Kingscote’s remaining footman, entered the room to inquire if anything more was needed. To this, Philip said wryly, “Yes. A butler. Mr. Merriman, I don’t suppose we could persuade you to stay on, at least until we’ve found yet another replacement?”
Ethan colored with embarrassment and laughed. “I don’t suppose I’ve done the best job. I’m sorry, Mrs. King, but think I should return to the Messenger. It’s where I belong.”
Mrs. King sighed. “Butler, footman, coachman, and now my housemaid. What has become of Olivia?”
“Um . . .” I looked to Derrick for help. He shrugged.
Jesse came to the rescue. “It seems Miss Riley has a daughter who lives with an aunt, and the child is ill. She has gone home to care for her.”
Thank you, I mouthed at him.
“Goodness, why didn’t I know about this?” The woman appeared genuinely aggrieved by the news.
“She was afraid to come to you, ma’am,” I said. “Most employers wouldn’t approve of their housemaid having a child and . . .” I trailed off, realizing I’d wandered onto an indelicate subject, especially for the luncheon table.
“I would not have condemned her for it,” Mrs. King declared with no uncertainty. “I do wish she had come to me for help. Miss Cross, if you hear from her—”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll convey the message.” I darted a glance at Jesse, who watched me closely. “But I don’t think it will be possible for her to return.”
* * *
The following morning, I returned to the Messenger to discover an unhappy surprise: a resignation letter from Jacob Stodges. In it he explained his frustrations at being set aside, supplanted by Ethan and overshadowed by me. As I sank into my desk chair in front of the window overlooking Spring Street, several undeniable truths wended their way through me, and through my resolve to make a great success of my position as editor-in-chief.
I had not made a success of it. And I had not made a success of myself. This letter proved it. Jacob spoke truly. I had thrust him aside and ignored his professional needs in favor of my own. And my own simply did not include sitting here at this desk, running things, overseeing operations, and making decisions that affected the rest of the staff. My needs—my one need—was so much simpler.
When Derrick had first asked me to run his fledging newspaper, I had jumped at the chance to prove myself in a capacity typically reserved for men. I’d wished to prove to myself, to him, and to the world, that I, a woman, could perform as well as any man. But I had overlooked one very vital point: reporting, for me, had never been about proving anything to anyone. It had been about the search for truth and the ability to convey those truths in a way that allowed readers to draw their own conclusions. The fact of my being a woman had only become significant when men refused to take me seriously, and refused to allow me to put my talents and enthusiasm to good use. I had wished only to report, not to prove anything other than that I had the ability to do the job.
I still wished to report. Somehow, reporting had gotten into my blood, became part of who I was, and now the greatest obstacle to my goals was not the men who stood in my way, but myself, because I’d come to see my goals as a competition.
They were not a competition. I need not compete at all, except with other reporters to see who could break the story first—who could unearth the most intimate details, analyze them, and present them in the clearest and most unbiased way. That was my passion and my calling. Not sitting at a desk and directing from behind the scenes.
Outside my window, a trolley rumbled by, raising clouds of dust behind it. Pedestrians ducked their heads and shielded their faces with their arms. As the swirls settled, the patrician features of a familiar face took shape. Derrick hurried across the street, sidestepping a vegetable cart and a pile of manure the street sweeper hadn’t yet attended to. The bell jangled as he opened the door and stepped inside.
“Good morning,” he said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. How could I, when I had a disagreeable task before me? The light in his eyes didn’t fade even though he lowered his voice when he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’ve had word from . . .”
“No, not yet. But I didn’t expect to this soon. She’ll contact me when she’s ready, I’m sure.”
“And Jesse hasn’t pressed you for more details about what happened at Gull Manor that night?”
“We’ve talked, and he trusts me. He believes Miss Riley is innocent.”
Derrick nodded and glanced around the small office. “It’s quiet here this morning.” Not entirely true, as we could hear the printing press rumbling from the rear of the building. “Has Ethan been in yet? I’ll bet he’s eager to get back to the typewriter.”
“Ethan’s at Mrs. King’s equestrian outing and picnic, in the capacity of society columnist. He’s very happy about it.” The event, spoken of that first night at Kingscote after the auto parade, had been put off, of course, during the investigation. Now, all the Kings could enjoy the day without apprehension, including Philip. Especially Philip, who no longer faced either murder charges or the ruin of his reputation for taking a man’s life due to a drunken accident.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Derrick pointed to the paper in my hand, and I realized I had held on to Jacob’s letter the entire time I’d been contemplating my future. I handed it to him. “Jacob is leaving us.”
He read the missive and frowned. Then he let out a hmm. “I’m sorry about this. But I’ve been thinking . . .”
When he hesitated, I came to my feet. Had he been having second thoughts about my running his newspaper? Did he see it from Jacob’s perspective, that I was really no good at being in charge? After all, first I’d had to fire our office manager, Jimmy Hawkins, for attempting to sabotage our operations; and now my news reporter had quit. None of this spoke well of my abilities to keep order. No, and I decided to make this easy on Derrick.
I drew in a deep breath. “Derrick, I think it’s time we both admitted—”
“Emma, you’re fired.”
I gasped in shock, but my startlement quickly abated and was replaced by a cascade of relief. Whatever happened now, wherever I went, I would go as a reporter and nothing else. “Thank goodness,” I whispered.
He slapped Jacob’s letter onto the desktop and reached for me, drawing me close for a moment. When he pulled away, holding me at arm’s length, he smiled down at me. “You’re a reporter, Emma. I truly saw that these past days. You’re at your best when you’re investigating. I asked you to do something that isn’t in your nature, and I apologize for that.”
“Don’t. When you asked me to fill this position, I jumped at the chance. I simply didn’t realize what it would mean. And I’m afraid I’ve made a hash of it—”
“No, you haven’t, not that at all. But . . . I will need to replace you.”
I nodded, and had a thought that might rectify matters. “Perhaps Jacob.”
“I don’t think he’s ready, not yet. I do have a couple of notions, though. But in the meantime . . .”
“Yes, of course I’ll stay on until you can replace me.” And then I would do what? Go where?
“Thank you,” he said with a bob of his head, “I appreciate that. But there is still the matter of needing to replace my news reporter. I understand how poor Mrs. King is feeling, having to replace her house staff. Good people are so hard to find.” He cocked his head at me and grinned. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas as to who might like to fill the position of news reporter here at the Messenger?” His hand left my shoulder and cupped my chin, raising my face as he lowered his and kissed me.
I smiled all through that kiss, and the rest of the day, and that evening when I told Nanny and Katie that at long last, I was going to be what I’d always wished: a hard-news reporter, right here in Newport.