Somehow, I arrived in St. Louis, and Mr. Powell lived. We parted ways on the platform with instructions to meet at a local hotel. He checked his watch. “Let us meet back here around—say—around five o’clock? That will give us plenty of time to conduct our business.” He tucked his watch back into his pocket. “And you are certain your aunt will see you?”
“No. I am not certain.” My carpetbag felt heavier than usual, as if I carried the weight of the world within. “She may slam the door in my face.”
He arched a questioning brow. “And you wish to confront her alone?”
“Not really.” I switched the bag to my left hand, still finding lifting heavy objects painful after nearly two years. “But there is a park nearby. If she should decline to invite me in, then I shall sit until five.”
Mr. Powell let out a strangled oath, unconcerned he was swearing in front of a lady. “Then I cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed on your own. I shall accompany you.”
“Oh, but that’s—”
“You are most welcome, Miss Gibson,” he said gallantly.
“But what about your meeting?”
He frowned. “What meeting?”
“I thought you were meeting some businessmen for dinner. Don’t you have to prepare or something?”
He laughed, his white teeth a startling contrast against the black mustache. “It is of no consequence, Miss Gibson. They will meet me either way.”
I had to think quickly. “My aunt will wonder who you are. Perhaps—”
“Say no more.” He held up a hand. “We shall say we are conducting business for Mr. Gadot. Something to do with acquiring a rare… manuscript.”
“In St. Louis?”
“Humor me, Miss Gibson.” Mr. Powell cocked a splendid brow. “Unless you’d like to say I am your husband.”
My mouth dropped open, to which he responded by throwing his head back with glee. “Oh, this will be fun!”
“Fun?” I choked, outraged he would dare suggest such a thing. “My aunt will never believe such a wild fable. Let us stick to business associates.”
He tipped his hat. “Business associates it is.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“Er…” I swallowed hard. “I suppose w-we must.”
“Don’t take on so, Miss Gibson,” he chortled after I slid my arm reluctantly through his. “I don’t bite.”
“Not yet,” I deadpanned, much to his amusement.
* * *
The ride to my aunt’s made me feel like I was on my way to a funeral. I fidgeted with my bag constantly, opening and closing the latch to see if my brush was still there. I could not remember ever being this nervous. Would Eileen see me? She had been so vague in her last letter when I mentioned I’d like to see her new tea set. As for my uncle, he practically lived in his office. He had a private practice tucked into the side of his three-story Queen Anne house. Aunt Cecilia liked to throw it into my mother’s face that her husband was so successful she could afford both a maid and a cook.
“It’s a such a pity,” she sniffed one Thanksgiving when my mother had the decency to invite her for our annual family feast. “Only one maid, Helen? What is the world coming to?”
My mother, being the lady she was, merely plastered on a smile and soldiered on. “What we have is more than sufficient, Cecilia.”
My father concurred, later getting into a shouting match with his brother-in-law on the front porch, when my aunt made my mother cry. I cannot recall what was said. I only know my father threw both out before we served the pumpkin pie.
“And stay out!” he shouted so the neighbors could hear.
That was the first, and last time we ever invited Aunt Cecilia to our Thanksgiving table. My uncle was rather disappointed. He tried to apologize once. But my father hated to see my mother cry and never spoke to him again.
After he died, it took all I had within me to write to them.
I doubt Eileen knows how difficult it was to set all that animosity aside so she could eat and wear satin ribbons in her hair. “Here,” Mr. Powell was saying, handing over a stick of gum. “Chew that.”
I kindly refused, hating the taste of licorice. But he was insistent. “Take it,” he ordered gruffly. “It’ll help.”
Accepting the gum, I popped it into my mouth with a pained grimace. “I prefer spearmint,” I mumbled, glancing at a neighborhood with immaculate lawns and white picket fences. My resentment grew when the carriage pulled up in front of my aunt’s house. “When did he get an automobile?” I murmured, taking in the polished black chassis and gleaming headlights. “Eileen said nothing about a car.”
“Maybe they had it gift wrapped.”
I turned my head slowly.
Something was not right. Eileen had sent me a photograph of the front yard. The trees were there. The red and white geraniums. The white wicker chairs were in their usual places on the porch. But her toys were missing. There was no hoop. No jump ropes. No balls. The photograph had been taken a month before. “Where are her toys? Eileen sent me a photograph. Her toys are missing.”
Mr. Powell asked to see it and held it up for comparison. “How long ago was this taken?”
“Last month,” I said glumly. “Around Easter.”
He handed the photograph back to me. “That does present a problem, doesn’t it?”
Tucking the photograph back into my pocket, I did not want to set foot out of the carriage. “Maybe this was a mistake,” I muttered, still unable to shake the feeling something was amiss. “It’s not like Eileen to clean up after herself. She usually leaves her stuff all over the place.”
Nodding, Mr. Powell exited the carriage and motioned for me to do the same. “No time like the present, Miss Gibson.” He held out his hand. “Might as well, since the barbarians are at the gate.”
“Are they?” I repeated faintly, not sounding like myself. I took his hand, numb to everything around me, and let him escort me through the front gate and along the brick-lined path. We climbed the stairs to the porch, and I heard myself blurt out, “Would you be my husband?”
The man stiffened, letting out an ungodly oath. “Should I answer as a gentleman might?”
“Er… I think you should answer, as Mr. Powell would.”
“What changed your mind?” He gave me the side-eye, his mustache twitching along.
“My aunt,” I said miserably. “She’s a fire-breathing, taffeta-wearing dragon!” I glanced away, mortified at my cowardice. “And yes, I am afraid of her.”
“You?” he scoffed. “Do be serious!”
“It’s true. So was my mother.”
“And this is your mother’s sister?”
I nodded. “And my uncle isn’t much better. He’s got his practice in the back.”
“How… quaint.” Mr. Powell patted my hand consolingly. “Well, no time like the present. May I call you Anne?”
“Oh.” I peered up shyly. “Should we use first names?”
“She’ll wonder if we don’t.”
“I… see.” I bit my lip. “And may I address you as ‘Jon’?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Stealing myself, I agreed on first names and requested he ring the bell. “Let’s get this over with.”
After several minutes of waiting, we turned to leave. I was rather relieved but also saddened that I had come all this way just to be thwarted by my aunt. “I wonder if Eileen is even here. She may already be in Cape Cod.”
“Got a house there, does she?”
“Hmm? Yes. And a cottage in Martha’s Vineyard.”
Mr. Powell let out a low whistle. “What does your uncle do?”
“He’s a dentist.”
“Of what? Platinum fillings? Dentists make good money, but they can’t afford what you are describing.”
“My mother’s family came from money. ‘Old money’ they call it.”
He grinned. “I come from old money.”
“You do?”
“Certainly. My family is one of the oldest in jolly old England. We’ve got castles and everything.”
I didn’t believe him. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” He rang the bell again. “One more time, then we’re leaving. I’m quite famished.”
So was I, but I still wanted to make certain Eileen was safe. “What is she doing in there?” I pointed to the window. “Can you see anything?”
He peered through the window, commenting on the cluttered state of my aunt’s parlor. “Where did she get that settee? It’s atrocious! I’ve seen better seating in a hearse!”
“Never mind that!” I hissed. “What do you see? Any toys?”
“Toys?” He pressed his face against the glass. “No. I’m not seeing much except a piano, a curio cabinet, and a bunch of hens gathered around a plump partridge in a horrendous purple dress.” Mr. Powell turned to me with a scowl. “Care to see for yourself?”
I picked up my skirts and marched to the window. He had not been telling lies. There was my aunt, seated in the middle of the room, surrounded by her hens-in-waiting. Aunt Cecilia was a renowned gossip who invited her society friends to tea once a week to pick the newest and loveliest among them to pieces. I stared in astonished disbelief as she laughed and sipped her tea as if she had not a care in the world. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”
“Good luck with that.”
Mr. Powell did not know me very well.
Nor did my aunt, for that matter. I calmly walked to the front door and pounded with all my might. “Aunt Cecilia!” I shouted, ignoring Mr. Powell’s horrified expression. “Open this door!”
There was a commotion inside before the knob rattled. A harried-looking maid eyed me as if I were a bag of dog droppings. “Who are you to be disturbing Mrs. Forrester at this hour? Shoo!”
“I will not. Kindly inform Mrs. Forrester her niece is here to see her.” I smiled. “The other one.”
“Mrs. Forrester is not seeing anyone today.”
“Tell her or I’ll rip this door off its hinges.”
The girl’s eyes boggled before she did my bidding. Mr. Powell thought I was insane. “I may be, Mr. Powell. I just may be.”
My aunt appeared in the doorway, an ugly expression lighting her plump features. She had gotten fatter the last time I saw her—by twenty pounds, at least. She had also dyed her hair a bright red color. Henna, no doubt. “Anne!” she cried, as if my name was anathema to her. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to see Eileen. Where is she?”
She shook her head. “Eileen isn’t here.”
“Oh? Where is she? I’ll wait.”
“Er…” My aunt eyed Mr. Powell. “Who is that?”
Mr. Powell did not wait for introductions, instead going in for the kill. “I am Jonathan Powell,” he replied smoothly, tipping his hat. “Anne’s husband.”
I rolled my eyes and confirmed his identity. “We’ve come to visit Eileen. Where is she? Is she staying with a friend?”
Aunt Cecilia was behaving as if she possessed a dreadful secret. She was sweating profusely and kept swallowing as if her throat was dry. “She isn’t here,” she stammered, her eyes taking in every inch of Mr. Powell’s six-foot-two-inch frame. “And you should have sent a cable. This is most—”
I pushed past, calling out for Eileen. I tore up the staircase, flinging doors open this way and that as my aunt yelled at me to get out of her house. “Eileen!” I shouted. “Eileen!” I found what I knew to be her bedroom and stopped in my tracks.
Mr. Powell was beside me in an instant. He tapped my shoulder. “Anne…? What is it?”
Eileen wasn’t here.
The room was hers. I knew it because of the pink wallpaper and a small collection of dolls on the bed. There was the dollhouse and her stuffed animals. A straw hat lay on the floor as if just tossed by Eileen after a day of skipping rope. I turned to my aunt, confused. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” my aunt sniffed.
“Gone…?” I did not understand. “When will she return?”
“We sent her to school,” my aunt informed me cruelly. “In Switzerland.”
They say the first thing you see before losing consciousness are spinning shapes and black dots as your eyes struggle to focus. I had neither of those things.
I let out a strangled cry and simply fainted.
