Crimson Snow (10 page)

His tone of voice boded no good for Erik on the morrow.

Hilda's worry gave way instantly to anger. “Oh! I wish he were here! I would turn him over my knee. I do not care how big and grown-up he is.”

“I expect Sven'll do that for you,” said Patrick, and yawned. “We'll be gettin' along now, so's you can lock up and get to bed, but there's one more thing.”

Hilda sighed. “What is that?”

“Well, you'll not be likin' it, but I reckon I'd better tell you, so you can be thinkin' some about it.”

“Patrick!
What?”

“It's only that the young imp says he'll run away again unless you agree to start lookin' into Miss Jacobs's murder.”

He tipped his hat and hurried downstairs before she could muster her wits for a reply.

A short distance in front of her as she left
[her boarding house] was…a leading attorney,
who is lame, and was walking slowly.

—South Bend
Tribune
   
January 23, 1904

 

 

 

9

S
VEN WATCHED PATRICK go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was glad to be rid of him. Patrick had no business to be here in the house with Hilda, unchaperoned, indeed alone for all practical purposes until he, Sven, had come.

On the other hand, Patrick had been useful over the Erik business. And he appeared to be able to handle Hilda, something Sven was no longer sure he could do.

Sven looked at Hilda, hoping to read her face. Would he find anger there? Stubbornness? That ridiculous lovesick look he had caught more than once this evening?

He saw none of those things. Hilda's face was wiped clean of expression, but two tears rolled down her cheek.

“Hilda! Little sister!” The words were in Swedish, and he continued in that language. “What is the matter?”

“I do not know,” she said dully. “I am crying. I do not know why. I am very tired, Sven. I must go to bed.”

“I—yes. Of course. Erik—in the morning—”

“I cannot go to bed until you leave, Sven. I must lock the door.”

She spoke in that same toneless voice. Sven had never heard her sound like that before. He opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more. “Yes. I go now. Do not—try not to worry. In the morning…”

He trailed off and went down the stairs. Hilda followed. He dared not offer any parting words. Her behavior was too strange; he was too afraid of provoking some sort of storm. He kissed her on the cheek, said, “Good night” in Swedish, and left.

Hilda locked the door, turned off the gas, and climbed the stairs to bed. She locked her bedroom door and lay down to rest for a moment before undressing.

The next thing she knew, someone was pounding on her door and shouting.

“Hilda! Maggie couldn't wake you! Are you well? Hilda! It's past six-thirty!”

She roused herself. She was still in her clothes, and she was stiff all over. She made an instant decision. “No, Mrs. Sullivan. I am not well. I have a headache. I must sleep until it goes away.”

And she turned over and put the pillow over her head, ignoring the further shouts and poundings. There was work to be done. Let someone else do it. For once in her life, she was going to do as she pleased. And what she pleased, just now, was to sleep for hours. Everyone in the household, including Mrs. George, knew about Hilda's terrible sick headaches, and knew that she was utterly useless when she was in the grip of one. The other servants would complain resentfully, but no one would disturb her.

But sleep wouldn't come. The upheavals of the day before had left her drained and spent, but once awakened she found that the problems began immediately to assault her mind.

What was she to do about Erik?

You have troubles enough of your own,
a voice in her mind said.
Erik is not your problem.

He was, though. Hilda was an accomplished liar, when lies were necessary, but she was basically honest. And honesty compelled her to acknowledge that she, of all the family, understood Erik best. Mama still thought of him as a baby, and Sven was overly harsh with him. Hilda and Erik had always been the best of friends. If anyone could deal with Erik, it was going to be Hilda.

But he wants you to investigate that murder. And with Mr. Williams ill, you have no time.

She turned restlessly to her other side, with a creak of bed-springs. That was another thing. Her job. When she married Patrick, she would lose her job.

When she married Patrick. She closed her eyes and allowed a tide of joy to wash over her. Patrick's kiss…his arms warm around her…

She lost herself in rosy daydreams that turned to real dreams.

When she woke again, she could tell that it was very late. The sun had come out, a watery, wintry sun, but strong enough to make a small pool of light on her floor, almost directly below her south window.

Reluctantly Hilda abandoned her dreams and got out of bed. Someday she would be mistress of a house and could arrange her work to suit herself, but for now she had responsibilities. Including—she bit back an improper Swedish expression as she remembered—including preparations for a dinner party tonight. She shed her wrinkled skirt and waist and dressed in the freshest uniform she could find. She also took off her ring and hung it on a chain around her neck, hidden under her clothes. She wasn't ready yet to talk about her future, especially not to the family.

“You're a sight, girl,” was the cook's sour greeting when Hilda hurried into the kitchen.

“I know. I am sorry. I will wash my apron as soon as I can. How is Mr. Williams feeling?”

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “No better. He can't hardly eat. What with him sick and you sick, this house is goin' to rack and ruin. If you'd got to bed at a decent hour last night, you'd not have had to lie abed this mornin'. As if we didn't have enough troubles…”

The cook went on in the same vein for some time. Hilda didn't listen. She'd expected the tirade, and she had to admit she deserved it, especially since she'd lied about the headache. She tried to look properly penitent, and when Mrs. Sullivan finally ran down, Hilda nodded. “I am sorry,” she said again. “I will work extra hard to make up for it. Do you have orders for me?”

“Girl, I've trouble enough runnin' me own kitchen, what with cookin' for forty people and makin' trays for upstairs that come down untouched.” She raised her arms to the sky in a gesture of despair. “See what needs to be done and do it. And if ye get hungry come and find somethin' to eat. There's no time today for servants' meals.”

Hilda nodded. “Is Mrs. George going to hire a butler for tonight? I don't see how we are to serve without Mr. Williams.”

The cook nodded, her mind obviously back on the tarts she was preparing. Hilda hoped the pastry wouldn't be tough, but from the way Mrs. Sullivan was thumping down the rolling pin she had her doubts.

For the rest of the afternoon Hilda had no time to think about anything except work. The dailies were upset by the change in routine and had to be alternately scolded and cajoled into doing their jobs. Anton, who was doing many of the butler's jobs in the emergency, was pale and nervous. Mrs. Czeszewski, the laundress who came in twice weekly, resented Hilda's intrusion when she went into the laundry to wash her apron. Of course, Mrs. Czeszewski was always inclined to surliness, so Hilda didn't pay much attention, but it was an additional stress she didn't need on that stressful day.

Hilda hung the apron outside to dry. The air was very cold, but what with the sunshine and a stiff breeze Hilda thought it would dry better than inside. At sundown she threw on her cloak and ran out to retrieve the apron. It still had to be ironed before she could help serve dinner.

The clothesline was tucked away behind the carriage house. John Bolton, the coachman, stood in the drive, unhitching the horses from the sleigh. “Bit chilly for you to be out, dressed in no more than that, isn't it?” he said to Hilda as she hurried by. “Don't you want to come in for a warm?”

He made it sound like the most improper of invitations. Hilda tossed her head. “No, I do not. I am in a hurry.”

“Huh! And too high 'n' mighty to talk to the likes of me, now you're to be married and a fine lady.”

“How did you know…” She stopped short. She had no wish to be drawn into conversation.

John shrugged. “I heard. That Irishman of yours talks nineteen to the dozen. Shouldn't think there's anyone in town doesn't know by now. And speakin' of talk, have you heard the latest?”

“No, and I must—”

“They've got new evidence in the Jacobs case.” He led the horses into the carriage house and began to curry Star, whistling tunelessly. “Thought you was in a hurry.”

“New evidence?” Hilda stayed where she was, her hurry forgotten.

“They're sayin' a big man in town, an important man, knows a lot more about this than he ought to. And they're lookin' at a fella stayin' at the Oliver, too.”

“But who—”

“Hilda! Get in here this minute!” It was Mrs. Sullivan, calling from the back door, and her tone left Hilda no choice. She snatched the apron from the line and scurried back to the house.

John chuckled and led the horses into their stalls.

After a hasty conference with Anton and the hired butler, it was decided that Hilda would answer the door and admit guests while Anton took their coats. Janecska, pressed into staying on for the evening, would show the ladies upstairs to freshen their gowns and hair before descending the grand staircase in their finery.

When Hilda opened the door to Mr. Barrett and his wife, she was shocked at their appearance. Smiling and curtseying, Hilda tried to keep dismay out of her face. Mr. Barrett looked extremely ill, much worse than he had a few days before. Mrs. Barrett, a usually handsome woman in her fifties, had deep lines in her face and bags under her eyes that Hilda had never seen before.

“Good evening, Hilda,” said Mrs. Barrett. “Williams is still ill, then?”

“Yes, madam. He is very ill. We are quite worried about him. Thank you for asking, madam. Janecska will take you up to the powder room, if you would like to sit here for a moment until she returns.”

“Thank you, Hilda, but I know my way.” She touched her husband's arm for a moment and looked him in the eye. The look said much, but Hilda was unable to interpret it. Then Mrs. Barrett gave Anton her velvet cloak and made her way, slowly, up the stairs that wound around the elevator.

Mr. Barrett, leaning heavily on his cane, allowed himself to be divested of his coat and hat and then tried to smile at Hilda. He didn't quite succeed. “My dear, I need to have a private word with the colonel for a moment, and my leg is not so well this evening. Do you think you could find him for me?”

“Of course, sir. Sit down, and I will bring him to you.” She raised her eyebrows at Anton, who shrugged and tacitly agreed to cope with new arrivals until she came back.

It wasn't easy to find Colonel George among the swirl of guests, but Hilda finally tracked him down in the library, where he was enjoying a preprandial cigar with several of the gentlemen. Hilda murmured in his ear. He excused himself and followed her, and after a word with Mr. Barrett, the two men disappeared into Colonel George's office and shut the door. Hilda looked at the door, her mind full of questions, but a large party of guests arrived just then and she resumed her duties.

The dinner went well enough, she supposed. The hired butler was competent but slow, because he didn't know the routines of the house nor the layout of the pantry. Hilda, Anton, and Janecska all helped Maggie and the butler serve. Few ate all of their tarts, Hilda noticed. Evidently Mrs. Sullivan's light hand at pastry had, indeed, failed her.

The evening dragged on. After the meal was over, Hilda and the butler served coffee for the ladies in the drawing room and the gentlemen in the library. In this teetotal household there was no lingering over brandy or port for the men, but they did enjoy their cigars and even the occasional cigarette.

The ladies had finished their coffee and bonbons, and Hilda was ready to go downstairs and tackle the mountain of tasks that awaited her there, when the butler slipped into the drawing room and beckoned to her.

“Mr. Studebaker would like to speak to you,” he whispered.

“His name is
Colonel
Studebaker,” she corrected impatiently. “What does he want?”

“How would I know? He asked me to find you. No, not that way,” as Hilda turned toward the library. “He's in his office waiting for you.”

“His office? When there are guests?” Hilda's eyebrows rose, but she went as directed to the office.

Colonel George was sitting at his desk, Mr. Barrett once more closeted with him. Hilda tapped on the open door and went in.

“Sit down, Hilda,” said the colonel, gesturing to a chair.