The Daring Ladies of Lowell (24 page)

“Yes, ma’am.” Alice smiled in the dark. Like most of the girls, Tilda would have it her own way. There was pride in that for all of them.

S
amuel walked into the parlor of the family hotel suite and froze at what he saw. Every gas lamp was lit, sending restless shadows licking up against the walls; the room shimmered in heat and sweat. Jonathan was crumpled into a chair, face buried in his hands, not looking up. His waistcoat, the fine silk one of which he was so proud, lay in a lump under his feet. Daisy had shrunk into a corner, staring at their father with frightened eyes.

Hiram, still powerful in frame, towered over his younger son, whirling toward Samuel like a striking snake at the sound of the door opening. He raised his fist, a gesture Samuel had never seen directed at him.

“So there you are, you ungrateful scoundrel—my son? My son has done this?”

“Father—”

“How dare you? You had no right to wrench that useless promise from your brother. How dare you risk everything because of your infatuation with some mill girl? How dare you jeopardize this family’s future?
By sacrificing your brother?
Who are you?”

Samuel had to steel himself against stepping backward, away from his father’s wrath. He shot a glance at Jonathan. His brother looked like a boy again, his face ashen as he stared at a stack of documents on the table.

Samuel followed his brother’s gaze. On top of the stack was an unfamiliar deposition. It couldn’t be one of the prosecution witnesses; he knew all their names, and he didn’t recognize this one.

“I’ll set your curiosity to rest,” his father said, picking up the deposition and waving it in Samuel’s face. “This is the statement of some chicken farmer near Cooper Island, name of Turnbull, the result of some overzealous witness hunting by our friend Greene. Fortunately I put a stop to it.” He thrust the paper into Samuel’s hands.

Samuel stared at the page: Charles Turnbull had seen two men with a young woman on the path leading to Durfee’s farm on the day of the murder. One matched the repeated descriptions of the Reverend Avery. The other man had stayed but a moment with the girl and Avery and then quickly walked away. Mr. Turnbull was ready to swear that the man who walked away—often seen at neighborhood taverns—was Jonathan Fiske.

It was exactly what Jonathan had told him. “This is just what we need; it strengthens Jonathan’s story,” Samuel exclaimed, looking up in confusion. “Why wasn’t he called to testify? He’s a perfect backup witness; he’s been there all the time. Jonathan, we have an agreement—”

“Like hell you do,” his father cut in. “If Jonathan testifies, he will be vulnerable to everybody—the newspapers, the mill workers eager for an excuse to attack us, and every damn Methodist in New England. And if they go after him, they do it to the whole family. Are you out of your mind?”

“But Jonathan’s testimony is crucial,” Samuel shot back.

Hiram slammed his fist onto a table next to him so violently it seemed it might break in two. None of his children had ever seen him so angry. “My own son would do this,” he roared, shaking his head.

Samuel looked at his brother, the whole truth dawning. “When did you tell him?” he asked.

“This morning. Samuel, I’m sorry. I had every intention—” Jonathan stopped talking, an image of dejection.

“So that’s why Greene wrapped up the prosecution today,” Samuel said, stunned, looking now at his father. “You told him to.”

Hiram had regained some of his composure. His eyes narrowed; he didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said. “And I will make sure the defense gets no wind of this. Rumors will be squelched; the people mumbling them will be fired or run out of town. Those ignorant preachers will do anything to shift the blame to someone else. We are not going to be smeared by this, Samuel. No matter what.”

“And Greene did your bidding—even if it might mean he loses his case?”

Hiram’s smile was controlled. “Of course,” he repeated. “He may still win. But there’s more to his career than convicting this pathetic excuse of a preacher for the murder of a mill girl.”

The words sank in, leaving indelible tracks as Samuel stared at his father. Hiram’s skin burned with blotchy color, and his eyes were flat as slate. He would have his way, and none would challenge him. Samuel had always been proud of his father’s force and determination. This was the deeper level, served bald.

He had no excuse to be surprised. Without Hiram’s iron control, there would have been no comfortable, privileged life for any of them, no travel, no expensive schools, no servants, no shield against loss and poverty. Oh, something magnificent had been built, quite assuredly. Hiram and his partners had made it possible for people like Alice and her friends to carve out better lives for themselves. Samuel was proud of this, he was still proud of it, but it was going to end. He could see it now. His father thought power was his trump card. He could make men bend to his will, he could threaten ruin for those who didn’t, he could silence Jonathan, he could let Avery escape the law. But he couldn’t stop the shifting ground under the surface, nor the unrest of faceless people at the mill.

“You can’t squelch everything,” he said to his father. “It’s wrong.”

“Just watch me, Samuel.”

“You can’t hold back evidence,” Samuel said. “I’m going to Greene—”

“He does my bidding, and you know it.”

“I’m going to fight you; I don’t know how. But I will.”

“Foolish words. You’ll harm yourself, son.”

“Maybe. But no matter what happens, the blade will cut both ways,” Samuel said.

D
awn was breaking when Alice’s eyes flew open. She turned onto her back, pulled up the covers, and tried to court sleep, but it would not come. She wouldn’t be hurrying to the courthouse this morning, not until Monday. She stretched her toes, enjoying the moment of lazy luxury. She wasn’t sure how it would work, but she felt more hopeful that Samuel would seal the case against Avery. That strange, cruel man would not escape. She yawned and turned again. Perhaps she and the others could go into town today, walk together, visit the store. Maybe they could coax Tilda to go with them.

Tilda.

Alice sat bolt upright. The incessant wheezing from Tilda’s bed had stopped.

She jumped up, shoving her feet into her shoes, which felt cold from the night air. She scanned the room; Tilda’s bed was empty, neatly made, obviously not slept in last night.

Well, of course, she had been so content on the porch; she had probably stayed there all night. Alice pulled on a sweater and, stumbling in her haste, hurried out of the room, through the parlor to the porch. She was there, there she was, bundled tight into her circle of blankets, only tousled hair showing. Really, she should wear a cap, she might catch cold, but she was still asleep, what a relief.

“Tilda?” Don’t yell; she’ll jump, Alice told herself.

No response.

“Tilda?” A second time. She tiptoed forward, a tingle of fear moving down her spine. She reached out her hand. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said.

Nothing. Alice, wondering now if she had slipped back into a dream, carefully pulled back the blanket covering Tilda’s face. She must be deeply asleep.

No.

Alice sank to her knees next to the rocker and began to sway slowly back and forth. She was dimly aware of a wailing, keening sound spiraling upward from the porch, curling into the morning air, shaking the leaves in the trees. Not until she felt Mrs. Holloway’s arms pulling her up, gathering her in, did she realize that despairing sound was coming from herself.

T
ilda was to be buried next to Lovey; that was the consensus. It was fitting, Alice thought, as she stood by the open grave, staring down on the slowly lowering coffin. She was here this time; she had to be. Great piles of rich dark loam lined the edges of the open hole, only a few feet from the curved mound that marked Lovey’s final resting place. Two workmen, standing discreetly back from the small cluster of people around the grave, rested on shovels, waiting for the signal to do their job. An uncomfortable-looking Episcopal minister—recruited by Samuel—hurried through a short service, avoiding the eyes of everyone. Benjamin Stanhope was there, his head bowed over a closed, shabby Bible.

Alice looked around. Jane, Delia, Mary-o, and a sprinkling of others from Boott Hall were here, though none had been excused from the looms. It didn’t seem to matter right now. And what later she would remember, the sound destined to stay in her head and heart, was that coming from the billowing figure of Mrs. Holloway. She was crying openly, wiping her eyes with a kitchen napkin snatched from today’s breakfast table—a lonely, tired sound that served as a sorrowing lament for them all.

The coffin was in the grave. Alice turned away, unwilling to watch the workers shoveling dirt over it, and only then saw another mourner standing back from the group. She stopped in surprise at the sight of Hattie Button.

“I thank you for coming,” she said, reaching out a hand.

“I did it for myself,” Hattie said. She did not take Alice’s hand, choosing instead to tightly cross her arms in front of her chest. “She was the best of all of you, in my opinion.”

“I won’t argue it,” Alice said. She was too tired for anger, for indignation, for any sharp retort or response. “Where are you now, Hattie?”

“I would’ve thought you’d be among the first to know. I’ve been sacked, of course.” The girl’s face looked worn and bitter, her thin lips almost blue.

“Why?”

“Look at that one over there.” Hattie nodded in the direction of Samuel, who had taken Mrs. Holloway’s arm to help her back to the carriage. “Ask him, he knows. I’ll tell you, it doesn’t pay to cross the Fiskes. You’re fooling yourself if you think Samuel Fiske cares about you at all. He’s not an honest man, and he’ll abandon you in a minute to save his brother. I’m telling you, if anybody killed that Cornell girl, it was Jonathan Fiske.” She gave a tired smirk. “Your beau is out to save his own kind. And himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“People wouldn’t like hearing about his fooling around with you; he’s supposed to be the good one. We’ve got them both.”

“We?”

“I warned you; you didn’t listen. If the prosecution tries to call his brother as a witness, we’ll be ready.” She glanced in Samuel’s direction. “I’d like to hear what he has to say to you today.”

“You’ve been working for the defense all along.”

“Of course. Good-bye, Alice.” She turned to walk away and stopped, turning back. “I’ve got something for you,” she said. She dug into her pocket and took out two objects, soft and familiar.

Alice gasped. Lovey’s gray leather gloves.

“Yes, I took them off her coffin. She didn’t need them anymore, and I wanted to try them on, to know how they felt. It was like—like being trapped in rubber, tight rubber. The feel of them made me choke. Not for me, I know my place.” She stared directly into Alice’s eyes. “I don’t think you know yours. You think Samuel Fiske is your ladder up? Think again. Old Hiram will never tolerate that. Then again, maybe you’ll reach the top and feel trapped, that’s it. Tight, no way to breathe. Don’t you understand? We have to stand with our own kind.”

Her torrent of words paused. She took a deep breath and continued. “Alice, you’re going to have to choose. You can’t not want to avenge Tilda, can you? The Fiskes killed her.” She seemed to waver, her slight figure blown by a sudden gust of wind. “I can’t say I wish you well, but I’ll give you fair warning—best for all of you to watch your tongues. No one around here can say what they think anymore.”

Hattie turned away again and trudged off, but not before Alice saw her shoulders heave and heard a familiar cough. It chilled her heart even as she curled her fingers around the softness of the gloves.

“I
have something to tell you, and it is not good,” Samuel said slowly. They were walking together toward the carriages by the road, the soft, damp grass of the cemetery yielding beneath their feet.

She steeled herself.

“Jonathan won’t be testifying he saw Avery and Lovey together. My father won’t allow it.” He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, looking down at the grass.

Two steps, three. He stared at her shoes keeping steps with his own, at their worn brass buckles, which looked to be hand polished by someone who cared. He noted that her feet were small. She stopped, her feet sinking deeper into the wet sod.

“Allow?”

With effort he looked up. “He says bringing Jonathan into it now will ignite the unrest at the mill. The family will be dragged into the trial, and Mason will pile on as much innuendo as he possibly can. Our reputation will be jeopardized.”

“
By the truth?
Do you agree?”

“No, of course not,” he protested. “You know who I am. We’re not in peril.” The rest was hard to get past the lump of fury in his throat. “There’s more. Greene had waiting a deposition from a chicken farmer who saw the three of them that day. He recognized Jonathan and saw him walk away from Lovey and Avery.
It would have corroborated Jonathan’s story.
Damn it all, it could have sealed the case.”

Her face went blank with shock as his anger spilled out.

“They had that deposition all along, and they’re not using it? Is this why the prosecution rested early?”

There were no words to explain; he searched for them, but there were no words. “My father is a powerful man, and I’m not denying his influence,” he said.

“So everything was decided by Hiram Fiske?”

“Alice, what can I tell you? I did not know this, believe me—but the answer is yes.”

“So why aren’t you fighting back?” she said, suddenly furious. More than furious, frightened—remembering Hattie’s parting words.

“I’m trying.” There was no use telling her he had battled with his father. Or that he had confronted Albert Greene, demanding he find a way to call the chicken farmer to the stand, to no avail. Or that he had actually hunted down Turnbull and urged the frightened chicken farmer to step forward and speak up. It was hopeless. Hiram Fiske had reached him first. Legally, his hands were tied. There was nothing else he could do.

“You mean, you won’t!”

Her voice sliced deep into his chest. “I don’t run the mill,” he said. “My father does.”

“Don’t give me such nonsense, you are part of it all, surely you could have fought back,” she lashed out. “So you’re telling me a witness could have confirmed your brother’s story, but your father actually cares so little about the truth he didn’t allow it?”

“We haven’t lost yet; we can still win this case.”

Alice paid him no heed. “Ah, and what happens to the people—the so-called
rumormongers
—who knew Jonathan was involved?”

“They lose their jobs.” He stared at his shoes sinking into the wet turf.

She nodded in the direction of Hattie Button’s disappearing figure. “Like that girl, right?”

“She was one of the people passing rumors and whipping up the mill workers.” He paused at the sight of Alice’s disdainful eyes.

“And poor and in need of a job to boot. Her crime was criticizing the Fiskes.”

What could he say? He wanted to shout out, I’m sorry, it was despicable. He wanted to vomit out the arrogance and power he had lived with so blindly all his life. But he was a Fiske, and he was caught.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s wrong, it’s stupid.” He stopped, balling his hand into a fist, hitting it against a tree.

Alice stood and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She looked at him coldly.

She was dissecting him, that’s what she was doing, he realized. And he had no way to hold back her knife.

“Then I shall say good-bye.” She turned and walked away.

T
here was no moon that night, but Alice settled onto the steps anyway, tightening herself into a ball, trying to hold in her anguish. She fingered her mother’s cameo, worn today to Tilda’s funeral. She traced the line of the delicate profile of her mother, knowing it by heart. But it was futile; there was little comfort in memories tonight.

Samuel, I thought you were so much more. The man who had kissed her had disappeared; reverted to form. Alice pushed back her tears. He lived in a safe world where there was no disaster that couldn’t be avoided or deflected. He was alien to her, that was the truth, and to have begun to think differently was foolish. The air was still; the earth smelled sweet and dry. Her face was not.

T
he next morning in court Jeremiah Mason was in fine fettle, clearly smelling victory for the defense somewhere just around the corner.

“Your Honor, and gentlemen of the jury”—Mason bowed low as he began to speak—“my job here is to lay bare the prejudices of the prosecution’s witnesses, that lame, straggly line of misguided souls you were forced to listen to for all these many days.” He rolled his eyes, eliciting grins from three jurors. The legal clerk, a short man in owlish glasses, briefly glanced up, then went back to reading a copy of the Methodists’ pamphlet defending Avery.

“Now we’ve got people swearing they saw the Reverend Avery, almost sure of it,” said Mason. “Well, they qualify it a little; they
think
he was the man they saw near the site of this woman’s unfortunate—
and self-inflicted
—death. But none can say so indisputably.” He glared at the prosecution table. His cold smile promised a long session.

O
ver the course of the day, five doctors took their turns in the witness chair, each testifying identically. The fetus found in the autopsy was too far advanced to have been produced at any of the times when Lovey supposedly knew Avery. Well, yes, it was true no one really knew what was a standard length, one admitted on cross-examination. “We’d have to peek into a lot of bellies for that information,” he said jovially, sending a nervous wave of titters through the jurors’ box. Mason smiled comfortably, noting that the doctor who had performed the autopsy, an older man named Benjamin Stanhope—employed by the Fiskes, of course—was recruited hastily for the job and was quite lacking in experience, one might say. “Wouldn’t you put less confidence in the quality of work performed by such a man?” he asked.