The Treasure Box (14 page)

“Take a seat, dear. I'll have the pot steeping in no time.”

Rachel settled into the single chair and folded her hands in her lap. At last a high-pitched whine emanated from the kettle, and Mrs. Tyner removed it from the burner and carefully poured the steaming water into the pink flowered teapot.

When the tea was brewing, the older woman turned and faced Rachel. Her eyes, crinkled at the corners by deep crow's-feet, seemed unnaturally bright. “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, dear.”

“Bad news?” Rachel parroted.

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you about it this morning, but I was waiting for confirmation, and just this noon—” She pointed to a yellow paper that lay unfolded on her worktable. A telegram.

“I—well, you see, I've decided to sell the shop.”

Like an incredibly slow child, Rachel responded, “Sell the shop?”

Mrs. Tyner poured the tea, handed a cup to Rachel, and tucked the tea cozy over the pot. “I fear it's true, dear. I'm simply getting too old to work so hard any longer. Out of the blue beyond, an offer came in. Entirely unsolicited. A very generous offer—” She shrugged and gave a wan smile. “Like a miracle.”

But what about me—what about my miracle?
Rachel wanted to scream.
This job was my only possibility of getting to America!
An image rose up in her mind of Saturday nights at The Judas Tree, fighting to repel the advances of drunken patrons, and something inside her froze into a cold, hard lump. She stifled back tears of anger and dejection.

“The new owner is taking over on Monday,” Mrs. Tyner went on. “A woman from London, recently widowed, who wanted to get away from the noise and press of the city. Her daughter will come with her, so unfortunately she won't be needing a shopgirl.

I would have let you know earlier, of course, but this has all taken place so suddenly.”

Rachel nodded dully.

“You've been such a blessing to me,” the woman continued.

“And as this will be our last day together, I have a little surprise for you.” She went to the corner, where she kept an adjustable fitting mannequin, and removed the sheet that covered it with a little flourish. “I had to guess at your size, but I'm fairly certain it will fit.”

It was a coat of worsted wool, the rich dark hue of ripe cherries, with a notched collar and bright brass buttons down the front.

Rachel had never owned such a fine garment, and despite her disappointment at losing her job, she took in a little gasp of pleasure.

“Mrs. Tyner, how exquisite! When did you—”

“I've been working on it for some time—rather a bonus for all your help, you know. I didn't realize when I started it that it would turn out to be a going-away present.” She removed the coat from the mannequin and held it out. “I stayed late last night to finish it. Let's try it on, shall we?”

Rachel set her teacup aside and stood. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and gathered the folds of dark red fabric around her. The lining was made of quilted satin in a deep vermillion color, and the coat draped around her body as if it had been molded to her form. The collar against her cheek wasn't rough and scratchy like her old threadbare jacket, but exquisitely comfortable, soft as the fleece of a newborn lamb.

“Mrs. Tyner, I—well, I don't know quite what to say. It's absolutely beautiful.” Then her employer's words registered in Rachel's brain. “A going-away present?”

Her employer nodded. “My son Neville has been after me for nigh onto a year now, wanting me to move to Southampton to live with his family. I've finally agreed to live out my final years as an indolent grandmother. He'll regret it; mark my words—I intend to spoil those children mercilessly.” She refilled their teacups and smiled. “But the coat is also a going-away present for
you
. For America, you know.”

Rachel ran her hands up and down the luxurious wool. “It may take me longer than I expected to get there,” she managed around the lump in her throat. “I'll need to find another position.”

Mrs. Tyner wasn't listening. She came over and put an arm around Rachel's shoulders. “I do love this fabric,” she said, caressing the coat the way she might have stroked a beloved pet. “Feel the pockets—I lined them with the wool, too, to keep your hands warm.”

Rachel slid her hands into the pockets, and her fingers closed around something thick and stiff. She carefully worked it free— it was an envelope, folded in half. She extended it in Mrs. Tyner's direction. “You must have left this in the pocket.”

“Look at it.”

Rachel unfolded the envelope and stared at the writing on the outside.
For Rachel
, it said.
Go with the blessing and grace of God.

“For me?”

Elisabeth Tyner's eyes brightened with unshed tears. “That's what it says. Open it.”

Rachel broke the seal—a blue wax puddle with an ornate
T
stamped in the middle—and opened the envelope. Inside were thirty-five crisp, new ten-pound notes.

“Over three hundred pounds?”

“For America, my dear. For your passage, and then some. To get you started. And perhaps to replace a bit of what you've lost.”

Rachel struggled to breathe. “Mrs. Tyner, it's a grand and generous gesture. And I can't accept it.”

“Sit down, Rachel.”

Rachel laid the envelope on the sewing table, removed the coat, and sank into the chair, grateful for the chance to get off her trembling legs. Her knees had gone weak, and she was shaking all over. When she tried to take a sip of the lukewarm tea, her cup rattled furiously against its saucer.

Mrs. Tyner took the cup from her hands and moved the sewing bench closer to Rachel's chair. “Rachel, you must listen carefully to what I have to say.”

“Yes'm.”

“All my adult life, it has been my habit—and my joy—to give back a portion of what I earn to God's work. Normally it goes to the church, or to other worthy causes—” She bit her lip, apparently groping for words. “When I decided to sell the shop, I felt a very strong leading that I should share some of the profits with you.”

“You mean God
spoke
to you? God has never spoken to me, no matter how much I've tried to pray.”

“Not audibly. In here—” Elisabeth Tyner laid a hand over her heart. “More like an inner nudging, deep in my soul.”

“But why? I've worked for my wages, and you've paid me quite generously, more than I might have expected. I certainly don't deserve it.”

“Sometimes we don't get what we deserve, if you take my meaning.” Mrs. Tyner's gaze pierced into Rachel's. “To tell you the truth, I'm not altogether sure why. But I do feel very certain that you are intended to go to America as soon as possible—perhaps for some other purpose than you know.” She picked up the envelope full of money, pressed it into Rachel's palm, and closed her fingers around it. “Take it, please.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “I'll repay you, Mrs. Tyner, every single shilling.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” she responded. “This is not a loan. It's a gift. I have no doubt you'll use it for good. All I ask is that you listen for the Almighty's direction, and when you're given the opportunity, that you pass a bit of the blessing along to someone else.”

Rachel felt the warmth of Elisabeth Tyner's small hands grasping hers, and her resolve faltered. She had been so sure of her purposes in going to America—to track down Derrick and Cathleen, to retrieve the Treasure Box, to make them pay for their betrayal and deception. Guilt began to gnaw at her, but she pushed it aside. This was her one opportunity to get to America, and she had no intention of passing it by.

“You're certain?” she said at last.

Mrs. Tyner smiled. “Absolutely.” She stood up and drew Rachel to her feet, enveloping her in an earnest embrace. “Be true to yourself, my child,” she whispered into Rachel's ear. “Be true to your Creator. Find your dreams. Listen closely, and you'll hear God's call.”

She drew back and smiled, then retrieved the red woolen coat and placed it around Rachel's shoulders. “And stay warm.”

Cathleen paused at the bright green door that stood just to the right of the front entrance to Benedetti's restaurant. The doorway opened directly onto a long flight of stairs leading up to the apartment. It was always kept locked, and even when her hands weren't full, she sometimes had trouble getting her key to work.

She had to pull out a little on the doorknob and then turn the key—a task that demanded both hands. Today, juggling a small bag of groceries, the two sofa pillows she had purchased at Marshall Field's, and the big white box containing the red silk dress, she couldn't even seem to fit her key into the lock, much less get the door open.

“
Buona sera, Signora
. Having a little trouble?”

Cathleen turned to find Angelo Benedetti standing behind her.

“Allow me.” He fished a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and held the door open for her. “You do a little shopping, I see.”

“Yes.” Cathleen returned his smile. “Just a few things for the house—and a new dress for me.”

“Ah. Your Derrick will be relieved. He was concerned for where you might be.”

“He's
here?

”

“
Sì
.” Angelo rolled his eyes in the direction of the stairs.

“Waiting for you.” He stepped back and nodded. “I keep you no longer. You go. I see you at dinner, no?”

“N-no,” Cathleen stammered. “I mean yes, of course. Eight o'clock.”

“Until then.” Angelo bowed slightly and escaped into the restaurant. Cathleen began to climb the stairs. This was not the way she had planned it, not at all. But perhaps if Derrick had finished work early, he would be in high spirits. She needed for him to be in a good mood, tonight of all nights.

She reached the landing, leaned the dress box against the wall in the corridor, and opened the door to the flat. Derrick sat in the armchair next to the front windows, staring out through the dusty, streaked glass.

“Where have you been?” he said without looking at her.

“We—well, we needed some food.”

“It doesn't take all day to buy a few groceries.”

“No.” Cathleen hesitated. “I thought the place could use a little brightening up.” She set the bags down and displayed the two pillows—a bold print, a background of blue and white with a floral design in yellow and green and red. Arranging them on the sofa, she stood back and smiled encouragingly at him. “I thought using the blue blanket would add some color to the room. Now, doesn't that look lovely?”

Derrick did not so much as glance at the sofa. “And what else?”

Cathleen took a deep breath. She reached around the corner into the hall, brought in the white box, and held it against her chest like a shield. “I bought a new dress. You'll love it, Derrick. I got it on sale.”

At last he turned and looked at her. “Where exactly did you get the money?”

“I—I had a little put aside,” she hedged.

“And you filched the rest from me.”

The implication that she was a thief—and even more, the haughty superiority in his tone—set off a spark of anger in Cathleen that quickly flared to a full blaze. “Oh, it's
your
money, is it?”

“Isn't it?” He rose from the chair and reached her in two strides, and as soon as he drew close, she could smell the liquor on his breath. “How dare you steal from me!” He jerked the box out of her hands and threw it onto the floor, then grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. When he released her, the force threw her back onto the sofa.

Cathleen stared up at him. “I thought we were in this together, Derrick. I thought—”

“What? That you had a right to everything that was mine?

Everything I worked for?”

“
Yours?
That's all you ever think about—yourself!” she shouted. “And just what is this important work you do? Delivering packages, like a common street urchin? From the smell of you, I'd wager you spend most of your time in the speakeasy on the corner!”

He jerked her to her feet. “For your information, Angelo will be announcing my promotion at dinner this evening.”

The fire in Cathleen's belly sputtered down to mild annoyance, and a flash of hope streaked like lightning across her mind.

“A promotion? Derrick, that's wonderful. That means we can—”

“What? Get married, buy a house, live happily ever after?”

“Well, yes. I just assumed—”

Derrick clenched his jaw. “If you have any notion of living off me for the rest of your life, you'd best think again.”

“You can't mean it.”

“I do mean it.” He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you believe I would possibly
want
to marry you? I've got grander ambitions than you can begin to imagine—and better prospects.”

“But you love me!” she protested. “You told me so, when—”

Cathleen paused. “When we first—”

“You're a fool, Cathleen. In the heat of passion, a man always says such things to a woman. It means nothing except that he wants her—for the moment. Love you? Marry you? I can barely stand to look at you.” He walked to the windows and stared out into the street.

“But what of all your promises, all your fine words about building a new life together in America? What about me? What about the baby?”

Derrick whirled around. “What did you say?”

“I said, we're going to have a baby, Derrick. I realized it just today.”

“Since when?”

Cathleen fixed her eyes on the bleak tan rug. Her stomach churned, and she feared she might be sick. “About three months, I think. I believe it may have happened during the crossing, on the ship. I don't always keep very close track of my cycles, but when I counted backwards—”