An Untimely Frost (17 page)

Heaven's Gate was not for sale.

“Well, since you won't sell, I have no choice but to let my employer know so that he can contact our client.” She pulled on her gloves and picked up her reticule. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Purcell. And again, I apologize for any grief I may have caused you.”

“There are many kinds of grief, Miss Long,” Prudence said. “As Christians, we must accept it with as much grace as possible and deal with it as best we can.”

Lilly thought of all Prudence had suffered. Strange or not, she was a remarkable woman to have come through her difficulties and still maintain such a wonderful attitude.

“Yes,” she replied, standing. “You're right. I'll see myself out. Thank you again for the tea and hospitality.”

She was almost across the room when she heard her hostess mutter something beneath her breath. She wasn't certain, but it sounded like, “What else, Harry? What else?”

Lilly stepped out onto the porch, filled with conflicting emotions. Her first assignment as a Pinkerton was completed, but her sense of accomplishment was tempered with a bit of dismay for having disrupted Prudence's life and informing her of her husband's misdeed.

She headed down the brick walkway to the street where her buggy and driver waited. As she approached the thoroughfare, she saw an ancient, rail-thin woman with a straw hat tied beneath her chin. Hoe in hand, she was attacking a flower bed near her front fence with more vigor than Lilly would have dreamed possible. As she neared the rig, the woman glanced up. Dropping the hoe, she gave a wild wave of her skinny arms.

“Yoo-hoo!” she called in a quavering voice, hurrying toward the fence as quickly as her legs would take her. “You there! Oh, miss!”

Lilly paused and then walked toward the elderly woman. “Yes?” she asked with a patient smile.

“I'm Victoria Langley. I see you've been visiting with my neighbor.”

“Yes,” Lilly acknowledged with a slow nod, wondering where the conversation was leading.

“I just moved here last fall, and I've barely set eyes on her all winter,” Victoria Langley said, blotting her pink cheek with the back of her hand. “How is the poor thing? I worry about her, her having so much to do and all.”

Lilly felt bad. She had mistaken Mrs. Langley's concern for prying. She wondered what it was that Prudence had to do besides clean the huge house. And, if Lilly were a betting person—which she certainly wasn't—she'd wager Prudence hired that done for her.

“We had tea, and she seemed well.” Lilly smiled. “I'm sure she would love to have you visit. She said she hardly ever had anyone over to share tea with.”

“Oh, I hate to bother her. He takes up so much of her time.”

Lilly's smile faded. “He?”

“Yes, her brother. He's wheelchair bound. Some sort of riding accident years ago, I think she said.”

* * *

Prudence locked the door behind her departed guest. Picking up the tea service, she carried it through the dining room and used her hip to push open the swinging door to the kitchen. Setting the tray onto a long wooden table, she turned a bright smile to the man sitting in a wheelchair, a napkin tied around his mouth and his wrists bound to the chair's arms with strips of leather. A wooden tray sat on the table next to him and a shattered cup lay next to the chair in a puddle of tea.

Lilly would not have recognized the once-handsome preacher. His dark hair was mostly gray and hung to his shoulders. His lean body was nothing but an awkward frame for the covering of papery-white skin. Grooved cheeks had become hollow, and the beautiful mouth was now twisted into a grotesque half smile—when it was not gagged. His good looks were gone, stolen by time and the ravages of a series of strokes. Only the fire in his eyes and the twitch of the fingers of his right hand suggested that there was life inside the cadaverous body.

Ignoring his blistering gaze, Prudence unfastened the napkin from his mouth. She paid no more heed to the hatred that burned in his eyes than she did the drool of saliva that trailed down his chin. Wiping his mouth, she untied the leather restraints. His face contorted with the effort of trying to speak. Nothing emerged from his mouth but garbled grunts and moans.

She gave his mouth another swipe, and said, “There, that's better, isn't it? I'm sorry I had to restrain you, my love. I know you don't like it, but I've told you to be very quiet when we have guests, and now see what happens when you aren't. We both know you knocked over that cup deliberately, to get Miss Long's attention.”

She gave him a loving smile and brushed back an errant lock of his hair. “You're such a naughty boy, and you must be punished. I know you get lonely with just me for company, but we couldn't have Miss Long seeing you, now could we? Not when I led her to believe you were dead, and we've managed to keep your whereabouts a secret for so many years. Just think of what a scandal it would be if people found out you're still alive,” she crooned.

The man in the chair heard and understood every word she said, but he could not respond in any way, imprisoned as he was in his bodily hell. His answer was a guttural grunt.

“No! Don't blame me,” she said in a stern voice. “You brought it all on yourself.” She wagged an admonishing finger at him. “Miss Long said you took from the congregation in Vandalia. Good heavens, Harry! What were you thinking? The good book says ‘your sins will find you out.'”

Stepping behind him, she gripped the chair's back and pushed him out the hall door toward the rear of the house. Sunshine filled the room, which boasted windows on three sides and a plethora of plants. The cheerfulness of the room matched her voice and mocked the man in the chair.

“Are you ready for your lunch?” she asked. “I made some lovely asparagus soup. When I get it warmed up, we'll have lunch and then we'll have our nap. Law! I'm just worn out. I'm not used to company anymore.”

Bending over, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the top of his head, circling his neck from behind. “Oh, Harry, the last years have been wonderful, haven't they? Just the two of us. You know how much I love you, don't you? For better, for worse, in sickness and in health. Till death do us part.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek. Filled with a rage he was helpless to exhibit, Harold Purcell closed his eyes and prayed. If the past seventeen years had done anything, it had improved his prayer life. Death was something he prayed for every day. Death for them both.

C
HAPTER
31

B
ack in her room, Lilly stripped down to her chemise and pantaloons, donned her wrapper, and tried to rest, but after more than an hour of flouncing around on the bed, she gave up, dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, and went down to the hotel restaurant for a cup of coffee.

She sipped at the murky brew and wondered why she was in such a strange mood. Certainly the time spent with Prudence Purcell had not been what one might call an enlightening hour, though she had accomplished what William Pinkerton had asked of her: located the Purcells—or what was left of them—and found out that Heaven's Gate was not for sale. William would have to advise the Stephenses to locate another property for their venture. End of case.

It was not, however, the end of Lilly's questions, questions that had no relevance to the assignment, but refused to give her peace. Prudence wouldn't sell at any price. Why? She'd lost a son and daughter while living at Heaven's Gate. Her husband had stolen from his church, so she would never again be welcome in the area, nor had she any plans to go back and claim any of the many treasures still housed within the crumbling walls. Clearly she wanted no reminders of the place or the time, which was understandable. So why not sell and be rid of it once and for all?

And what of this brother the neighbor spoke of? Where did he fit into this strange tale? According to Victoria Langley, Prudence's brother had been injured when they were in their teens. She had cared for him for years—since their parents passed. Lilly wondered why no one in Vandalia had seen fit to mention a brother. Had it been too much of a chore to take him to town? Had there been so few visitors to the house? Had he only come into her care since she'd left Heaven's Gate? Did the people of Vandalia even know of his existence?

Lilly didn't know if Prudence was the saint Victoria believed her to be, but suffering the indignities and sorrows of life and still maintaining her positive nature made her a good Christian woman in Lilly's book.

A tinkling laugh from across the room banished her worrisome feelings and brought her thoughts back to the present. She glanced at the watch pinned to her jacket. It was high time she started her preparations for the evening.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Lilly regarded her reflection in the cheval mirror. She was bathed, powdered, rouged, and dressed in her best finery, a dress of champagne-hued gossamer satin overlaid with chiffon. She'd found a woman who worked for the hotel to lace her into her corset while she muttered about the misery the undergarment brought. It was amazing how quickly she had grown used to going without it. Now she could scarcely draw a satisfactory breath, but seeing how the fabric of the gown clung and how tiny her waist looked, she allowed herself a rare bit of vanity, deciding that perhaps she could stand the torturous contraption for a few hours.

A swathe of the delicate fabric draped the low-cut bodice of her gown, almost resembling cap sleeves over her shoulders. The narrow skirt was overlaid with sheer fabric in horizontal, swag-like draping down the front of the skirt, and was caught just below her waist in the back. It tumbled down over her bustle in a cascade of lush fabric that fell to the floor in a swooping train.

Her critical gaze moved up. She'd swept her dark red hair away from her oval face and rolled it into a classic chignon at the nape of her neck. Since she had no bangs, she had coaxed some shorter strands around her face into curls with the help of the curling rod Rose had insisted she bring.

A light dusting of powder gave her skin translucence, and her cheekbones and lips had been pinked with so deft a hand that only the most critical scrutiny would detect it.

Since she had no fine jewelry, Rose had fashioned a wide brown velvet ribbon that fit perfectly around Lilly's slender throat and pinned a delicate cameo brooch to it. The brooch was one of the few good pieces she'd inherited from Kate, likely a gift from a lover.

As she stood before the mirror, checking her handiwork, her eyes widened. Rose would be pleased, Lilly thought. Gone was the skinny, plain, red-haired girl and the average-looking woman who'd returned her gaze from the mirror for twenty-two years.

Tonight a stranger stared back at her. She was not fixed up to look like a stage character. She hadn't been made up to look like the Southern belle, Mrs. Cartwright. She looked feminine. Stylish. She looked, she thought on a sharply indrawn breath . . . very much like her mother.

The realization should have been pleasing, and it was, yet the pleasure was tempered by the fear that had plagued her from the time she'd figured out the truth about Kate's lifestyle. She didn't want to be like Kate. Wouldn't.

She reached for her wrap and paused. Was that fear the reason she'd chosen to portray a picture of drabness to the world? Oh, she was always neat and tidy, but her choice of clothing had always been simple, unassuming, and unadorned. Her hairstyle, usually a no-nonsense knot atop her head, reflected that unpretentiousness. Had she downplayed her looks all these years because she was trying so hard to distance herself from her mother? Was she inviting some sort of disaster tonight?

The reminder set her mind at ease. She was going to the theater, and she would enjoy the night, whatever it brought. Grabbing her bronze-toned velvet wrap, she went downstairs and hailed a cab to take her to dinner.

The drive to the restaurant was short and uneventful. As she entered the eating establishment, she decided that Delaney's French Café would be worth whatever it cost. The elegantly appointed restaurant was impressive with its white linens, silver flatware, and gleaming wood. Paintings in the style of the Pre-Raphaelites adorned the wine-colored walls, and strategically placed statuary and hothouse ferns added a touch of elegance.

As she followed the maître d' to the table, she could not deny that many masculine heads turned her way. Neither could she deny that the attention pleased her. She wondered fleetingly what her mother would think of her. Would she be as proud of her grownup daughter as Pierce and Rose were?

Except that somewhere deep inside, it did. Even in death, Kate had the ability to influence Lilly's thoughts and feelings. Still, as long as she was careful to not imitate her mother's behavior, perhaps all would be well.

After perusing the menu's offerings, she treated herself to a veal cutlet in a wine sauce, with tiny baked redskin potatoes dripping butter and sprinkled with parsley, as well as fresh asparagus that had been shipped on a refrigerated rail car. For dessert, she chose a cup of coffee and a slice of decadently rich chocolate cake topped with fresh-whipped cream. Then, feeling as if she needed a nap instead of an evening out, she gladly paid her exorbitant bill, then hired a cab to take her to the theater on Jefferson Street.

Her driver pulled up behind a rig with S
ALZENSTEIN'S
emblazoned on the door and took his place in line so as to let her disembark near the chain-suspended overhang that offered protection to the arriving patrons in the event of inclement weather. Several other hired hacks were lined up, waiting to discharge their passengers in front of the unprepossessing building.

Formerly Rudolph's, the new Chatterton's Opera House was the result of a reconstruction effort by George W. Chatterton, Sr. He had purchased the building after it suffered a devastating fire five years earlier.

With its reputation of being “the finest theater in the middle west” and of showcasing the crème de la crème of the theatrical world, her first impression was disappointment, especially since it was well-known that Mr. Chatterton had used the talents of a New York architect. The building sat in an area amongst several saloons, with one called Sullivan's next door. Most likely, they did a brisk business before and after the performances.

Stifling her disillusionment, she dismounted, paid the driver, gathered her skirts in one hand, and stepped through the main door. Looking around, she saw the ticket booth inside to the left. Thankfully, she was able to bypass it. When she'd first arrived in town, she'd asked for information about purchasing a ticket at her hotel and was told that since she'd waited until the last moment, she should make haste to Chatterton's Jewelry store to purchase a ticket before the performance sold out.

Off to the jeweler's she had gone. Reserved seating was out of the question, and she was thankful to snare one of the few remaining balcony tickets for one dollar, though even that was a bit rich for her blood. She would have been just as thrilled to watch the play from the lower-priced seating in the gallery, as long as she had the opportunity to see Miss Anderson's performance.

When Lilly told the austere female behind the display counter she would take the balcony seat, the odious woman had leaned over the glass encasement filled with expensive baubles and snatched the money from her hand. Then she'd pointed her nose toward the ceiling and told Lilly in a haughty tone that if she should ever hope to attend such a stellar performance in the future, she should buy her ticket well in advance.

At the last minute, on the off chance that the woman might remember, she showed the clerk a sketch she'd made of the signet ring and asked if she recalled anyone purchasing such an item. The answer had been a chilly, unequivocal “no,” which was what Lilly expected.

Now, as she checked her wrap with a young woman who handed her the stub of a claim ticket, she asked if there was anyone who might have worked there eleven years earlier. Maybe someone would remember a man with a signet ring and the letter “T.” The young lady pointed toward Chester Carpenter, the ticket taker.

Along with other theatergoers, Lilly made her way toward Mr. Carpenter. Now was not a good moment to conduct an interview, but she did ask him if they could speak at some other time. Giving her an inquisitive look, he assured her that if she came back after the performance, he would be happy to oblige her. She smiled and thanked him.

She then was pushed along by the crowd, which split into three lines as they made their way to their allotted seats: Lilly to the left and the gallery; the balcony viewers to the right. The patrons bearing tickets for the coveted, reserved, dollar-and-a-half seats went straight ahead.

The sound of the orchestra warming up set her heart racing. Unseen fingertips danced over keys, offering pitch and running through finger-limbering scales. Violin strings twanged and whined, a backdrop for the clear sweet sound of horns of every kind. It was seldom she was on this side of the stage, and never before had she been permitted the opportunity to watch an actress with the accomplishment of Mary Anderson. It was a night she knew she would remember forever.

Lilly's first glimpse of the auditorium brought a gasp of surprise and pleasure. If she'd been disenchanted with the building's exterior, the inside more than made up for it. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling where a scattering of trumpet-blowing cherubs cavorted over the highly wrought expanse. The marvelous, new-fangled wonder of electricity sent dozens—if not hundreds—of bulbs aglow from the enormous chandelier that hung from the center, illuminating the rich and not-so-rich of Springfield society. They were all decked out in their finest, with jewels glittering from wrists and ears and necks while others nestled in the cleavage of plump bosoms.

Red and gilt abounded. Curtains draped the walls, many surrounded by framed advertisements of local businesses: Myers Great Bargain Emporium for men's clothing, hot and cold baths for the whole family at the St. Nicholas Hotel and Barber Shop, fine dining at J. Maldaner's European Restaurant on Fifth Street, and all sorts of grocery items—from plain to fancy—could be found at Connelly's and Wickersham's.

The lights had not yet gone down, and her rapt gaze moved from the figures in the orchestra pit to the double tiers of boxes on either side of the proscenium. She gave a sigh of purest pleasure and sank into her seat. It wasn't long before the lights went down and the audience began to settle in, shifting and whispering, eagerly awaiting the first line. A man wearing just his shirt sleeves and a derby hat peeked around the curtain, and the footlights went up. The curtains swished open revealing the set director's vision of a public place in Verona, Italy.
Romeo and Juliet,
the tale of young star-crossed lovers, began.

Lilly was so caught up in the story that it was intermission time before she realized it. She joined the others making their way to the lobby, more in the hope that standing might ease her protesting ribcage than a desire to mix and mingle.

The area was packed. Soon cigar and pipe smoke floated on the currents of dozens of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. Dark-clad bodies brushed against ivory skin and a shifting rainbow sea of satin, taffeta, and lace gowns. Feeling a bit out of place, she was admiring a framed broadside of Miss Anderson that touted the play, when a gravelly voice said, “Quite lovely, isn't she?”

Lilly turned to see a tightly coiffed, too-rouged woman of indeterminate age, who introduced herself as Matilda Hawthorne and immediately launched into an account of her recent trip to Philadelphia. She gushed over her meeting with Diamond Jim Brady and seeing the incomparable Lillian Russell's performance at The Walnut. Lilly was only half listening to the woman's garrulous praise when she looked up and saw a familiar figure.