Murder on Washington Square (3 page)

“I thought you were paying her rent,” Sarah said, thinking they didn’t have to be understanding so much as broadminded to accept such an arrangement.

“I am,” Nelson said sheepishly, “but they could have still thrown her out and found a more reliable tenant, one who didn’t have to depend on . . . on the charity of others.”

“Charity” was an interesting description of Nelson’s assistance. The landlords could also have thrown her out for immoral behavior. Sarah had to assume that Nelson’s assignations with this Anna had taken place here, since he couldn’t have taken her to his own home, and renting a hotel room for such activities was probably much too daring and scandalous for Nelson even to consider. If that was the case, the landlords were broadminded indeed. Or else they were less than respectable themselves.

Sarah preceded Nelson up the steps of the stoop and allowed him to ring the bell. In a few moments a slender woman laced very tightly into a very fashionable gown of blue and silver plaid opened the front door. Her first reaction was a slight frown when she saw Sarah and didn’t recognize her. Then she noticed Nelson, and the frown become a worried scowl.

“Mr. Ellsworth, what a surprise,” she said, glancing uneasily at Sarah and back to Nelson again. “What brings you here this lovely evening?”

“Mrs. Walcott, this is Mrs. Brandt, a friend of mine whom I’ve brought to meet Miss Blake. We were hoping she would be available,” Nelson explained.

Mrs. Walcott hardly looked reassured. “A friend, you say? I’m sure I can’t imagine why you’ve brought her here to meet Miss Blake.” Mrs. Walcott was taking Sarah’s measure and apparently trying to figure out her relationship to Nelson. Sarah offered her no assistance and merely smiled sweetly. “I’m afraid Miss Blake really isn’t up to meeting anyone right now, though. She isn’t feeling well.”

Sarah thought it was very presumptuous of the landlady to make this decision for Miss Blake, but it was Nelson who replied. “Then all the more reason for her to see us. Mrs. Brandt is a trained nurse.”

Now Mrs. Walcott really was at a loss. If Anna Blake was ill, how could she turn away a nurse who might help her? But plainly, she was loath to admit Sarah to the house under any circumstances. “I . . . I’ll have to ask Miss Blake if she . . . Well, I can’t make decisions for her, now can I?” she concluded somewhat belatedly, satisfied that she had struck the proper note between concern and caution.

“We’ll be happy to wait inside while you consult with her,” Sarah said, still smiling sweetly but moving determinedly forward across the doorsill and forcing Mrs. Walcott to make way or be trampled.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she stepped back and allowed them to enter without making a fuss. Once inside, Sarah noted that Mrs. Walcott was a woman of at least thirty years whose hair was still a rich brown color and styled rather elaborately for a woman who kept a boarding house. A style like that usually required the assistance of a lady’s maid and several hours of preparation, neither of which someone of Mrs. Walcott’s situation in life was likely to have. Then it dawned on her: the landlady was wearing a wig. It was, Sarah had to concede, a clever compromise for a woman vain enough to want to look her best but who had neither the time nor the resources to accomplish it naturally.

Sarah and Nelson paused in the foyer, waiting for instructions, and Mrs. Walcott straightened, or rather stiffened, to her full height. Sarah noticed the woman was several inches taller than she’d realized, as tall as Nelson Ellsworth, in fact, yet still very feminine in spite of her modest curves. “Please, have a seat in the parlor,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward the doorway to their right. Sarah admired the lace mitts she wore. Another affectation assumed to suggest wealth, she guessed. Surely she didn’t wear lace like that all the time. It could hardly survive the labors of normal life. “I’ll see if Miss Blake can receive you.”

She turned and started up the stairs, her back ramrod straight and her stiff skirts rustling discreetly. Even Sarah had to admit she made an impressive picture.

Left to themselves, Nelson motioned for Sarah to enter the parlor. He was familiar with the place—too familiar, Sarah knew. She entered the modestly furnished room and looked around, seeking some clue as to the true character of the occupants of this house. Mrs. Walcott had taken great pains to be as simple yet elegant as she could in her decor as well as in her dress. This could have been a parlor in any middle-class family home. A pair of shepherd girl figurines adorned the mantelpiece along with some silverplated candlesticks and a few other knickknacks. The piecrust table beside the sofa held an painted glass lamp and several more inexpensive ornaments, all sitting on a lace doily. Crocheted antimacassars protected the back and arms of the sofa and chairs. The entire effect was fussy but not overly so. In short, just the impression every respectable family wanted to give.

“Do you think she’ll see me?” Sarah asked when she’d learned all she could from the room itself.

Nelson had already begun to pace. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine why she’s ill. She was perfectly fine yesterday,” he said with a worried frown.

Sarah could imagine many reasons why she might be ill, particularly if she were truly with child, but she said, “Perhaps the landlady was just making a polite excuse for her, in case she didn’t want to meet your
friend.
”

Nelson looked up in surprise. “I should have phrased that differently, shouldn’t I?” he asked with some concern. “I mean, we
are
friends, at least I hope we are, but that might have sounded—”

“It sounded perfectly fine,” Sarah assured him, “and it was perfectly correct. I’m just suggesting that perhaps Anna would like to know more about me before we meet. Or rather, before she decides if she wants us to meet.”

This prospect worried Nelson even more, but Sarah was weary of reassuring him. She took a seat on the wine-colored horsehair sofa to wait while he continued to pace restlessly. After a few moments, the front door opened, and a young woman came into the house. Dressed for the street in a navy blue serge suit and a lovely little hat that Sarah couldn’t help admiring, she had raven black hair and porcelain skin, a classic Irish lass. Not traditionally beautiful or even particularly pretty, she nevertheless was appealing with her youth and blooming health. She seemed surprised to see someone in the parlor and stepped into the doorway, peering at them curiously,

“Oh, hello, Mr. Ellsworth,” she said, her face not quite smiling as she stared beyond him at Sarah.

“Hello, Miss Porter,” he replied with the ease of familiarity. “How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said, still looking at Sarah expectantly.

Nelson reluctantly obliged her by introducing them. Sarah found she was still his “friend,” and Miss Porter, she learned, was another boarder. She seemed just as suspicious of Sarah as the landlady had been.

“Mrs. Walcott said that Miss Blake isn’t feeling well,” Nelson said, a question in his tone.

“She was fine when I went out this morning,” Miss Porter reported reassuringly, “so I’m sure it isn’t anything serious.”

Before Nelson could reply, they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Miss Porter looked back over her shoulder and said, “Here she is now.”

Nelson hurried out into the foyer, brushing unceremoniously past Miss Porter, who gave Sarah one last curious look before nodding her head, murmuring how nice it was to have met her and politely withdrawing.

“Anna,” Sarah heard Nelson saying, “Mrs. Walcott said you were ill. Are you sure you’re well enough to receive us?”

Sarah didn’t catch the softly spoken reply, and then the mysterious Anna appeared in the doorway, clutching Nelson’s arm as if for support.

Well,
Sarah couldn’t help thinking. Now she understood a lot. Anna Blake was a disturbing mixture of innocence and alluring sensuality. Dressed in a simple gingham gown, with her light brown hair tied back from her face with a ribbon and falling to her shoulders, she gave the impression of pure innocence. Yet the gingham dress clung faithfully, if modestly, to very womanly curves, and the face framed by the girlish curls wore a full-lipped, pouty frown guaranteed to stir more than protective feelings in the male breast.

Sarah rose from the sofa, feeling the need to meet Anna Blake on her own level. She tried a small smile to reassure the girl. It had exactly the opposite effect.

She turned on Nelson, her cheeks flaming. “What have I done to be humiliated like this, Mr. Ellsworth?” Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned back to Sarah. “I know why you’ve come here, but you’re wasting your time. I have no intention of forcing Mr. Ellsworth into marriage when someone else has a prior claim to his affections.”

For a moment Sarah had no idea what she was talking about, and from Nelson’s expression, he didn’t either. But then the meaning of her words sank in. “Do you think that Mr. Ellsworth and I are . . . are . . .” Sarah searched for the proper word.
“Betrothed?”

From the way her expression tightened and her lovely brown eyes filled with tears, Sarah knew she was correct.

“Let me assure you that we are
not
engaged,” Sarah said quickly, but again her assurance had exactly the opposite effect she’d intended.

This time Anna Blake’s face crumbled in despair. “Oh, Mr. Ellsworth, you swore to me that you were a free man, and now you bring your
wife
here to shame me!” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to weep piteously into it, her round shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

“Anna, please,” Nelson begged, wanting to take her in his arms but aware of the impropriety of it with Sarah watching. “I told you the truth! Mrs. Brandt isn’t my wife or my fiancée either! Don’t cry, please. There’s no reason to cry. Mrs. Brandt is only a friend of mine, and she came here to help you.”

Sarah thought that might be stretching the truth a bit, but she said, “Mr. Ellsworth is correct. He asked me to meet you because I’m a midwife, and he thought that I could—”

“A
midwife
!” she fairly shrieked, raising her face from her handkerchief and glaring at him in outrage. “Have you no concern for what’s left of my good name? Why don’t you drag me to the village square and have me branded a harlot?”

“Anna, please, I didn’t mean—”

“Miss Blake!”
Sarah said loudly and firmly in the voice she used to calm hysterical relatives who were upsetting her laboring patients. Both Anna and Nelson looked up at her in surprise, silenced for the moment. Sarah took advantage by saying, “I don’t have the time or the patience to argue with you, Miss Blake. Mr. Ellsworth is my neighbor, and he asked me to visit you because he was concerned for your welfare. He thought perhaps you might have mistaken your condition because of your innocence and inexperience. If that is the case, I can reassure you and there will be no need for you to distress yourself further for no reason. If you are indeed with child, then I can advise you how best to care for yourself.”

Anna Blake stared at her for a long moment. Sarah thought she was using the time to comprehend what she had said, but Anna surprised her yet again.

This time her expression was horror when she turned back to Nelson. “You brought this woman here to . . . to
murder
our child! What kind of a monster are you? If you lack the honor to provide for us, then at least have the decency to let your child live! I’d beg in the streets before I’d kill it! How can you have ever thought less of me?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sarah said in disgust as Nelson sputtered and stammered, trying to reassure her. “I’m a
midwife,
not an abortionist, Miss Blake,” she said loudly enough to be heard over the wailing and the blandishments, but neither of them seemed inclined to listen. Sarah gave up. “Mr. Ellsworth, this is plainly a waste of time. If Miss Blake wishes to consult with me, you may bring her to my office. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you alone to sort this out between yourselves.”

“Mrs. Brandt, I’m so sorry,” Nelson began, but he could go no further because Anna was weeping again, sobbing as if her heart would break.

As she stepped into the foyer, Sarah noticed that Mrs. Walcott was lurking in the shadows, just out of sight, listening to everything that was being said. She stared back at Sarah unrepentantly when caught in the act, and Sarah, more than disgusted with all the inhabitants of this house, let herself out.

She paused on the stoop to take a deep breath of the crisp autumn air to clear her head. Nelson Ellsworth had gotten himself involved in a real-life melodrama. The only thing lacking was a villain with a handlebar moustache tying poor Anna Blake to the railroad tracks. Furious with herself for being drawn into the mess, she was almost back at Washington Square before she started remembering details of the scene she had just witnessed that she’d been too busy to register before.

Anna Blake appeared to be the innocent young girl Nelson believed her to be, but Sarah thought back to the moment when their eyes had first met. Anna hadn’t cringed or even seemed the least bit embarrassed, in spite of her protests to the contrary. In fact, she’d seemed almost defiant or . . . Sarah shook her head, certain she must have been mistaken. But no, she recalled clearly the odd impression she’d had that Anna Blake was actually
glad
to see Sarah, or at least relieved.

Why she should have been, Sarah had no idea. After all, if Sarah did have a prior claim to Nelson’s affections, as she’d so quaintly phrased it, she should have been as humiliated as she’d claimed to be. In fact, she’d been determined to make Sarah her rival, in spite of all the protests she and Nelson had made. And for all her weeping and protestations, Sarah couldn’t help recalling that Anna’s delicate face hadn’t grown the least bit blotchy, nor had her eyes gotten red or her little, turned-up nose started running.