The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 12

  She heard the pastor praying, then he moved away. All was quiet now. She could hear the wind sighing through the trees. Oh, it had to be raining. She could feel it on her face, her clothes. She held her breath. Then came the terrible thud of the trap-door dropping and the sight of the body twisting and shaking, the legs drawn up, then swinging forward, until finally a shudder and then . . . nothing but stillness.

  “Father!” Kate shot up in bed, perspiration soaking her nightgown, tears drenching her face. She had not had this dream for some time. Why now? Was it because she had been stirring things up? Making everyone relive this past heartbreak? Bringing it to the forefront of everyone’s mind, including hers? Why hadn’t she listened to Mother? Why couldn’t she just leave it alone?

  She covered her face with her hands. “Oh Lord, what am I doing? To myself? My family?” She thought of how Charlotte had wept after breaking her engagement. And Virginia, how she was running wild, aligning herself with danger, and pitting herself against the powerful railroad. And Mother, broken hearted and praying for them all. Oh what had she done? She was destroying her family. How could she have been so selfish? Mother was right. Why did she think she could bring about justice on her own?

  “Oh, Lord, forgive me. Please restore me and my family . . . our lives, our peace. Turn me back to You. Help me walk in Your ways.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlotte knew she had been rash. Throwing her future away like that. Releasing Benjamin from his promise of marriage. She blotted her eyes with her fingers. Oh why did she do it? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could still make it right. She rose from her bed where she had been languishing since finishing her chores, and rubbed her forehead. But how? How could she possibly correct her folly? She walked to one of the small tables and picked up Benjamin’s card, the one he presented to Mother the day before coming to tea. As she felt the expensive heavy paper, the raised lettering of the monogram, the answer came.

  She hurried across the hall to the library, a room she rarely used. It intimidated her. She was sure Father and Virginia, and even Kate, had read most of the volumes housed in the tall mahogany bookcases, while she had barely read a dozen.

  The green Windsor chair felt stiff to her back as she pulled out several sheets of paper, dipped her quill into the inkwell and began her letter. Dear Benjamin . . . . What was she to say? Forgive me? Take me back? It was all a mistake? I was hasty?

  She pursed her lips. No . . . it wouldn’t do. Groveling and fawning was not the way to win Benjamin’s affection. She crumpled the paper and threw it into the nearby leather receptacle. Besides, what was she to ask forgiveness for? For being a Farrell? For having a father who was hanged for murder? For having a tender hearted mother who loved and blessed the people in the nearby patches? For having a clever sister who was unconventional and wanted to enter the male dominated world of newspapers? For having her eldest sister try everything she knew in order to clear the family name? How could Charlotte ask forgiveness for any of these? Yet, they all conspired to ruin her, to ruin the life she had envisioned for herself.

  If only there was a way she could end this nightmare. If only she could remember something Father had told her. Something that would prove important to the case. Something that would bring it to a satisfying conclusion. Then maybe she could forget. Then maybe the town could forget. Then maybe Benjamin could forget. And things would return to the way they were. She rubbed her forehead trying to block out the sound of the nearby clock ticking away the time. It was useless. There was nothing more to remember. She had given Joshua Adams all her information, all her recollections, and though he had carefully recorded them in his notebook there was not one that seemed to impress him as being important.

  She stared down at the blank sheets of paper spread across the desk. If only they had found that note Mr. Blakely sent Father. It would prove Father had not lied. And perhaps he’d still be alive, and she’d still be engaged to Benjamin. Oh, she was so tired of crying herself to sleep! If only . . . . She picked up the quill. What would the note have said? She suddenly found herself writing.

  Dear Mr. Farrell:

  I have an urgent matter to discuss with you. Kindly meet me at my colliery tonight after the breaker whistle sounds.

  Sincerely,

  Roger Blakely

  She put down the pen. The note was simple enough; probably much like the one Mr. Blakely wrote Father. Could such a simple note really have made a difference? She stared at the paper. How easy it would be to pretend she found it stuck behind one of the desk drawers. What would people say then? “It seems your father wasn’t a liar after all.” And maybe if they realized that, they would also realize he wasn’t a murderer, either. It wouldn’t bring him back but maybe it would bring back their reputation, their standing in the community. But of course this was just silly conjecture. All anyone had to do was compare her handwriting to Mr. Blakely’s to know it was a forgery. She was about to throw it away when she heard Virginia’s voice.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here. I came to finish my . . . writing, but I’ll come back later.” She smiling over Charlotte’s shoulder as if pleased to see her employed in this manner. “What are you doing?”

  Charlotte crumpled her page and tried tossing it into the waste receptacle but it landed on the floor by Virginia’s feet, instead. “Give it back!” she snapped, when Virginia picked it up. “It’s . . . private . . . just something silly to pass the time.”

  Virginia frowned. “What’s this? What does it mean?”

  “Honestly, Virginia, why must you always be so full of questions? Can’t I have any privacy? Or time to myself to pursue . . . to write a letter or two?”

  “A letter or two? It looks like you were forging Mr. Blakely’s note to Father.”

  Charlotte grabbed the paper from Virginia’s hand. “I never intended to use it or show it to anyone, truly, Virginia. I was just sitting here thinking what if . . . and then I found myself writing it.” She ripped the paper and watched the torn pieces flutter, like moths, over the polished desktop. “Oh, Virginia. I’m so miserable! Why did this have to happen to Father? And why must we go on paying and paying for it? Everyone hates us. To them, we are all ‘fallen’ women. What’s to become of us? Are we to pay the rest of our lives?”

  “I don’t know,” Virginia said softly, bending over and kissing Charlotte’s forehead. “I really don’t know.”

  Don’t stare, Kate told herself as she wiped down the horsehair clothesline. But she had never seen Charlotte so glum. And it was all her fault. As she secured the ends of the line around two wooden posts, she determined to put the matter to rest. She would stop the investigation. It was the only way. Maybe then Charlotte and Benjamin Gaylord could resolve their differences. Maybe then joy would be restored to their home.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Charlotte place the basket of wet linens on the ground. Her face was pale; her eyes puffy and red. And her lovely blond hair, normally so neatly arranged in curls, was simply pulled back and netted at the nape of her neck. And all morning, as they stirred dozens of linens in boiling water with their clothes sticks, Charlotte didn’t utter a word in spite of the fact that Kate tried to entice her with comments on fashion and parlor games; topics which had always delighted Charlotte in the past.

  “Help me with this sheet,” Kate said, pulling it from the heaping basket that represented hours of work. The weather was hotter now. That meant bedding had to be washed twice a week rather than once. “I’m almost looking forward to winter!”

  Her sister gave no response as she stretched her end of the sheet over the line.

  They hung three sheets in silence before Kate’s patience waned. “You must stop this moping! Honestly, Charlotte, he’s not worth it.”

  “That’s just what I’d expect you to say. You never did like Benjamin. Though he’s truly wonderful, really.”

  �
�How wonderful can he be? If he really loved you, he wouldn’t care what others thought, not even his mother. He would defend you, and not worry so much about his reputation.”

  Charlotte began to cry.

  “I’m sorry.” Kate flung the end of her sheet over the line and turned to her sister. “I don’t want to add to your sorrow, but you must face facts. Don’t you think his coming here and lecturing you was arrogant? Surely it proves he cares more for his reputation than he does for you or your feelings.”

  Charlotte blotted her eyes with her fingertips. “Can’t the same be said of you? Aren’t you bent on clearing Father’s name to save your reputation no matter who it hurts? Truly, Kate, it pains me to say it, but I see no difference between the two of you in that regard.”

  Kate had already faced this truth the night she woke up drenched from her dream. Even so, Charlotte’s words felt like the snapping of a tree branch across her face. “Oh, my darling.” She took Charlotte’s hand, feeling very much like crying herself. “You’re right of course, and what can I say except that I’m sorry? My bullying of you and Virginia has made a complete mess of things. Please, please forgive me. I don’t know how else to make it right except by telling Mr. Adams he must suspend his investigation at once. Let us get back to picking up the tattered threads of our lives.”

  “Do you mean it? Oh, Kate, I think it would be best, truly it would, for all of us.”

  Kate nodded as she watched the rumpled figure of Joshua Adams head down the path toward Main Street. “I do mean it, Charlotte, and I’ll prove it.” Gathering her skirt in her hand she hurried after the Pinkerton. “Mr. Adams. Mr. Adams!”

  At the sound of his name, the detective stopped and turned. When he saw her, he began retracing his steps.

  “I’m sorry to detain you from any business you might have in town,” Kate said, trying to catch her breath, “but it’s important you stop the investigation at once.” When he looked puzzled, she added, “I mean my father’s investigation. Naturally, you may remain here as long as it takes you to conclude your investigation for the railroad.”

  “What brought this on? Why do you want me to desist?”

  “For my family’s sake.” She was determined to abandon all pretenses. Honesty was the only course now. “It’s ripping them apart.” She gestured with her chin to where Charlotte stood hanging a pillow case. “She’s been so glum, so miserable since breaking her engagement with Mr. Gaylord. And Virginia . . . I fear for her. I fear she is courting danger. I cannot search for truth at the expense of those I love.”

  “Perhaps not finding it would be worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kate, it seems that you and your sisters are learning things about yourselves that you need to learn. This entire investigation is perhaps the very process God is using to reveal what’s in your hearts, perhaps forcing you to see things you might not otherwise see. And suppressing the truth would not be wise.”

  Kate frowned. It was the first time he had spoken to her in such a familiar manner. And though inwardly it pleased her, it would hardly do. She had no intention of developing a relationship with a man who would soon be traipsing off to who-knows-where in search of danger. “I’ve . . . never heard you mention God before. I didn’t know you were religious.”

  “There are many things you don’t know about me. But never mind that now. Getting back to your father; I’ve uncovered some important information. I think it would be foolish to stop the investigation. May I speak to Miss Charlotte? Not only about my findings, but about something more personal, as well? And if I can ease her mind about the investigation, will you continue it?”

  “I . . . well . . . there’s Virginia to think of, too. She . . . didn’t believe me about Patrick O’Brien, though I told her everything you told me, without mentioning your source, of course. She’s writing for the Monitor now, and I fear she’s becoming even more involved with that man.”

  “Perhaps nothing I say will alter Miss Virginia’s course. But in the end, the truth will be just as important to her as it is to the rest of you. The question is, do you have the courage to see it through?”

  Kate bristled. “Courage? Who was it that sent for you in the first place?”

  “I’m not talking about vengeance, Kate, or about wanting to restore your family honor. I’m talking about truth. Do you want to find it?”

  “Well . . . of course . . . naturally.”

  Joshua leaned closer. “Because your motives are important to me now. It matters what’s in your heart. For how can you love anyone while you’re seeking revenge? And I’d . . . I’d like for you to consider me a suitor. But even if you never see me that way, for your own sake you should continue the investigation. If you stop now, I think you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

  Kate’s heart jumped. “I hardly know how to answer that, Mr. Adams, but . . . .”

  “Joshua. Please call me Joshua.”

  “but you are presumptuous as usual.”

  “Then you don’t want me to speak to your sister?”

  “That’s not what I was referring to. And . . . yes, if you think it will do any good . . . then by all means talk to her.”

  “And if I make her comfortable about my investigation, will you allow me to proceed?”

  Kate nodded as she headed for the clothesline, shaken by Joshua declaring himself a suitor. And just what was this personal matter he spoke of? And why did he want to share it with Charlotte? Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed. Maybe she should have heard it first, to see if it was fitting. She felt a prick in her heart. No, it wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be. If Joshua Adams wanted to tell Charlotte something personal, who was she to object? But for some reason she did.

  “Mr. Adams has something to say to us, Charlotte.” Kate dodged the sheets flapping in the breeze, and headed toward a large spreading maple and the wooden bench beneath it. Without a word, Charlotte followed. Kate was the first to sit, then Charlotte beside her. Joshua was already settled on a tree stump a few feet away.

  “I’ve tracked down all the previous owners of the collieries that sold out to the railroad through your father’s initiative.” He directed his attention only to Charlotte. “And not one of them claimed they were coerced. In fact, they all said your father went to great lengths to innumerate both the benefits of keeping their collieries and the benefits of selling them. So we can consider, as false, any accusations that your father hired thugs to intimidate Roger Blakely.”

  In spite of herself, Kate heaved a sigh of relief while Charlotte remained as emotionless as a Grecian urn.

  “I don’t know about the other land agents for I’ve not had time to investigate their sales, but regarding Samuel Baxter, my inquiry has revealed him to be reprehensible. Both colliery owners said they were threatened, and told they would see no end of mayhem if they didn’t sell. They said the thugs claimed to be Mollies. But that hardly makes sense since the Mollies oppose the purchase of any more collieries by the railroad; fearing conditions will worsen under their ownership.

  “My next step is to visit Samuel Baxter, but I won’t proceed unless you, Miss Charlotte, feel comfortable with me doing so. And I have, in fact, assured your sister, Kate, that I will drop the case at your say-so. However, before you give your answer I’d like to share something with you. Something personal that you might find interesting. May I?”

  Kate held her breath as Joshua stopped and waited for Charlotte to respond. Charlotte seemed to think about it a lot longer than she normally seemed to think about anything, making Kate realized, once again, how difficult all this had been for her.

  Finally, Charlotte folded her hands that were red and chapped from the morning’s laundry, and glanced at Kate. “Does he mean it? Will he really stop the investigation if I wish it?”

  Kate nodded.

  “And you will agree?”

 
“I give you my word. And there will be nothing more said about the matter or any hard feelings on my part, I promise you that.”

  Charlotte tilted her chin upward. “Then I agree. Please share what’s on your mind, Mr. Adams.”

  Joshua leaned over and rested his arms on his thighs. “My father was a preacher. A zealous man of God. Many would say too zealous. But I understood him. Like the woman with the alabaster jar, one who is saved out of great sin and is forgiven much, loves much.

  “I suppose that’s why I chose my profession, too. Knowing my grandfather’s past, I wanted to fight evil, to write a history I could be proud of. Because, you see, my grandfather was a second son. The family estate was a large one in England, where his father, my great-grandfather, was a wealthy landowner. But because of the law of primogeniture, where the entire estate goes to the first son, my grandfather found himself with a taste for rich living but no means of supporting it. That’s when he came to America, to pursue opportunity and riches. And he found them both in the slave trade.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows knotted. “Pardon me, Mr. Adams, but I don’t understand the purpose of this, or how it could possibly connect to my circumstances.”

  Joshua smiled but there was sadness in his eyes. “My grandfather told us stories about his life as a slaver. He had expected my father to follow in his footsteps, and even made him serve on the slave ships. Through his stories I became acquainted with many of the prominent slavers of his day as well as those in times past. I heard names like Winthrop, Waldo, Fanueil, and . . . Gaylord. And other names too, of prominent families who were among the chief slavers and made their money not through respectable means but through selling rum and human cargo.”

  “The Gaylords?” Charlotte gasped as though his words had just penetrated. “You can’t mean Benjamin’s family.”

  “The very ones. In fact, Benjamin’s grandfather, Richard Gaylord, was one of the most notorious slavers of all. Oh, many of these families are now in respectable businesses to be sure, and far removed from slaver days, but their hands are not clean. Their inheritance is tainted by blood and human suffering. Not like your family, Miss Charlotte, which, I might add, I investigated thoroughly. Do you know what the name ‘Farrell’ means?”