Kathleen Y'Barbo (3 page)

His companion, a horse-faced widowed heiress with a reluctance to
marry that merely challenged Father to try even harder to wed her, lifted her glass and offered a toast to the newlyweds.

Not-yet-weds, Millie was wont to remind Mrs. Freda Ward-Wiggins. And yet she remained silent, mute to words that wished to bubble forth like the effervescence dancing to the top of a glass of champagne.

“Indeed, to my bride.” Sir William slid her a look that promised a warmth they had not yet achieved in their brief moments alone. “Or, rather, to the woman who shall be my bride very soon.”

Her father added his sentiment, brief and emotionless as usual, before downing his entire glass in one lengthy gulp and then motioning for the nearest servant to fill it again. As he lifted the champagne flute once more, he was speaking now of London, of something he recalled from a visit he made some years ago.

Mrs. Ward-Wiggins joined in, offering glimpses of some anecdote that caused her to smile. With the smile, the woman lost a little of her harsh features, and for a moment looked almost as if she might be pleasant. Which she was most decidedly not.

It was the one thing Millie and her father did agree on regarding her. The difference being that he quite enjoyed being seen with someone whose bank balance would long outlast any remnants of beauty or personality.

She is exactly who she says she is, and you could learn much from her, Mildred.
The statement ended every conversation on the woman. Millie tuned out the conversation swirling around her and thought about her father’s statement. Was she the woman she said she was?

Most decidedly not. Not as long as she lived in Memphis.

But in England she could be the woman God made her to be with no expectation of simpering silences or sipping sweet tea on a stifling afternoon without any hope of allowing so much as a bead of perspiration to dot her forehead.

Perhaps she would be branded as unusual there as well, but weren’t most Americans thought of as just a bit off center?

She glanced past Mama’s Waterford candelabra, the embroidered linen tablecloth, and Limoges platter that held the as-yet-untouched Christmas ham. The topic had moved past England to tackle some sort
of travel debacle involving Father missing a train on the way to a safari.

Mrs. Ward-Wiggins listened with what appeared to be single-minded attention, and yet Millie had the distinct impression she was being watched from across the table as she set her napkin beside her plate.

“Mildred, do pay attention. It is Christmas and we’ve not yet begun to celebrate.” Her father offered a glare than held no trace of holiday cheer. “Freda was just telling us of her trip down the Nile. Interesting stuff. Perhaps you and Sir William might want to accompany us someday. If you’re thinking of pleading an early exit, do think again.”

And so Millie picked up her napkin along with the remembered thread of her internal discourse on the benefits of leaving Memphis for greener and decidedly more northerly pastures.

Unfortunately, much as England was her solution, England was also her punishment. It was her penalty for surviving to look at Father across the breakfast table each morning and know he had done nothing to save Mama, Julia, and Sarah. For knowing he had gone off with yet another of his women the night Mama pleaded for him to stay. Pleaded for him to call for a doctor for her girls.

Being shipped abroad like a parcel mailed off to a distant relative was Millie’s penalty for being the one to greet him at the garden gate as the sun was only just beginning to glisten upon the Mississippi to tell him his wife and two of his three daughters had succumbed to the fever during the long dark night.

Indeed, England was her punishment for surviving. A punishment she readily accepted, for she should not have escaped the fever that took the others.

Instead, she sat beside Father in the family pew and knew she was more like him than them. She would forever be reminded that God had chosen to usher Mama and the girls to their heavenly home while leaving Millie with Father.

So to England she would gladly go, for she knew something her father did not. Knowledge Mama had been entrusted with by her mother-in-law early in her marriage. For Grandmother Cope knew the
son she had raised, and she knew Mama might need something more than what he could offer.

So she told Mama, and with her dying breath, Mama told Millie.

About the treasure.

Cook knew too, though she refused to confirm this. But Millie had heard snatches of conversation through the fireplace grates, a trick of the flues in their home that allowed a person in one room to hear someone speaking a floor or even two beneath.

When the time was right, when Father thought her well and truly gone, Millie would return from exile to claim her treasure. To live the life she promised Mama she would live.

“Just think, Mildred,” Mrs. Ward-Wiggins was saying. “Next Christmas you will be having dinner in Sir William’s ancestral home in the English countryside.” She batted eyelashes that were almost nonexistent at Sir William and then turned what was likely intended as a charming look toward Father.

“A brilliant idea,” Millie’s future husband said. “Do you not think so, Mildred?”

“Brilliant,” she echoed.

Mrs. Ward-Wiggins returned her attention to the Englishman. “You have a London home, do you not? Country life is wonderful, but I so adore the city.”

“Of course he does,” Father said. “A grand place near Kensington Gardens, if I recall correctly. Three levels and a garden where he once hosted the Prince of Wales and his entourage. Isn’t that right, my boy?”

Sir William nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Father’s companion beat him to the punch.

“Oh, my. I hear such naughty things about that group. I do hope our Mildred’s delicate sensibilities will not be shocked by their behavior, should she be introduced.” She gave Father a playful jab he pointedly ignored.

“A rumor, I promise you,” Sir William insisted. “Nothing but top-notch, those fellows. Quite the educated bunch of chaps.”

“Top-notch, indeed? Perhaps our girl here could discuss cryptology with the prince,” Father offered. “Mildred is a student of the topic and she longs for further education.”

Millie looked up sharply. That her father knew even this much about her interests came as quite a surprise.

“Cryptology?” Mrs. Ward-Wiggins looked to Millie as her thin lips formed the word. “What is that exactly, dear?”

“It is the study of—”

“Puzzles,” Father interrupted. “The girl has an affinity for solving puzzles. I blame my mother for it. I should not have allowed her to give Mildred that infernal cypher charm. It was the start of what has become an obsession.”

Cryptology was nothing of the sort, though Millie could not deny that her interest came from the lessons she learned at Grandmother Cope’s knee. She reached to touch the chain that held her most precious possessions, though she was careful not to allow the pair across from her to notice.

Sir William reached under the table to grasp Millie’s hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Personally, I find the science of puzzle solving fascinating.”

“Is that so? Well, I must warn you. She has a few other affinities, all nonsense.”

Mrs. Ward-Wiggins turned her attention to Millie. “Such as what, dear?”

“Things no woman should concern herself with,” Father responded, his expression giving no doubt as to his feelings on the matter. “If I let her, she would sit on that blasted balcony out front all night and stare at the stars.”

Many nights, especially when the absence of Mama and her sisters fell hard around her in the awful silence, she had counted the stars and wondered which ones they could see from heaven.

Perhaps that is why the maids had offered up a tiny corner of their domain for her use. Why Father’s valet and his underlings kept their silence on the matter, even when they ought to be tattling to Father about the furnishings she had borrowed to cozy up the room.

“Oh, but the prince.” Her father’s voice interrupted Millie’s thoughts and thankfully stole Mrs. Ward-Wiggins’ attention. “Mildred had best keep clear of him. Not that she is one to lay claim to coquetry or any of the feminine arts. That, my dear,” he said to Freda, “is your
specialty, and skills you have definitely mastered.”

Father laughed first, a loud guffaw that shook the champagne flutes and caused the turtle soup to ripple in the tureen. His companion joined in, leaning across the distance between them to grasp his forearm with her bejeweled fingers.

Millie bit back on a retort that she only allowed voice as a sigh. England was a small price to pay. A choice and not a banishment.

She is exactly the woman she says she is, and you could learn much from her, Mildred.

Indeed, she intended to do just that.

Two

December 31, 1888

Memphis, Tennessee

T
he Cotton Exchange would not open until two days hence, but owing to his position as a cotton trader of some importance, Father already had a key to the building downtown. And thus so did Millie.

She made her way around the corner of the roof and then back again, certain now she was alone. Two days ago she had braved a visit up to this rooftop in search of a better vantage point in which to sketch the stars. She had expected that construction debris might impede her, but what she had found instead was a space clear of all but a few clusters of materials stored in stacks, barrels, and boxes.

Along with these she had also found a most interesting crate. Opening it had been a chore, and she had been careful to replace the lid exactly as she found it.

Inside was a most interesting collection of items, along with a drawing that seemed to show that these things were part of some sort of grand experiment. Possibly some sort of machine. What sort she had yet to ascertain. She returned tonight to see if perhaps she might have another look. Or better yet, might find the owner of this crate and ask a few questions.

Millie inhaled deeply the crisp night air and thought for just a moment of what it might be like had she the ability to explore the world of science without fear of being called an embarrassment to the Cope family. Without
fear of being sent away penniless or, worse, to some far-flung relation who would pay far closer attention to her and her scholarly interests than Father ever did.

The thought of her father made Millie frown, but he would not find her here tonight. Not until she was ready to be found.

Far below, the intersection of Second and Madison Streets looked dizzyingly small. The stars above, however, seemed quite close thanks to the lack of a moon to dim them. Tonight the sky was clear, the weather just cold enough to need more wrap than she had thought to bring. It wasn’t as warm as Christmas Day, but a great improvement, nonetheless, from last year’s tornado and torrential downpour.

Millie had always hated the rain, but never so much as that awful night when the wind turned deadly and lives were lost, though those under the Cope roof were miraculously spared.

Millie squared her shoulders, allowing the reminder of memories of last year’s New Year’s Eve to slide off like raindrops down the gutter. About now Father would be wondering where she had gone.

Making an appearance at the Peabody Hotel was all she had promised, and she had kept her word. Even now, though the hotel was several blocks away, she could hear lively music drifting up toward her rooftop perch as partygoers awaited the countdown to the new year.

All that remained was to arrive at the gala tonight and make the announcement of their impending nuptials. Well, she
had
arrived. She had smiled and made polite conversation while offering an occasional attentive glance at her husband-to-be.

Millie frowned again. She had left before Father could take the stage and beg the attention of those assembled. Before he could claim his spot as the future grandfather to nobility.

Her escape from the ballroom did not mean she would refuse to keep her end of the deal. She would, though she preferred a more private announcement. She had come to the roof to think, not to hide. To remind herself of why she must go through with the marriage. To sit under the stars and pray and remember Mama, Julia, and Sarah.