“Miss Gibson!” Mr. Anderson chortled that morning, stepping aside to allow the nurse to pass with my tray. “I trust you are feeling better than yesterday.”
He was a peculiar creature, full of effusive praise for me yet unabashed contempt for others. I personally did not appreciate his treatment of the attending physician and his lack of civility for the nurses was—how shall I say?—inappropriate and undeserving of a Pinkerton agent.
Mr. Powell concurred.
“His mask certainly slips when he thinks no one is looking.” Mr. Powell said we should leave St. Louis at the first opportunity. And that meant waiting for my lung exam results. “If all goes well, I will purchase the train tickets. Try to get a berth for you to lie down.”
I could hardly wait.
Mr. Anderson, though courteous and obliging, always waited for my companion to leave before using his chisel to pry information from me about the sari. He would pull up a chair and help himself to what was left on my tray. I was not only disgusted, but insulted as well. “So, tell me,” he said, glancing around the room. “Where is the good sergeant? Flirting with the nurses, no doubt.”
“No,” I replied slowly, watching him dispatch my half-eaten slice of toast. “He’s gone to get me a toothbrush, actually.”
“Why didn’t you ask me? I would have gotten you a bottle of toilette water if you had requested it. The drugstore is having a sale on witch hazel, too.”
“Er… that’s quite all right, Mr. Anderson. I require little in my regimen.”
“You don’t say?” He wiped his hands on my napkin and went after the rest of my orange. He noticed my startled look. “Are you finished with this? I didn’t have breakfast.”
“Help yourself,” I muttered, growing increasingly uncomfortable with him in the room. “So, what brings you to my bedside? Have you located the sari?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He eyed my lukewarm coffee with interest. “Is there cream and sugar in that?”
“Yes.”
“Pity. I take it black.”
“About the sari—”
He seemed more interested in the plain porcelain cup rather than divulging information. I gave up, sensing he was toying with me as a cat might with a mouse. I didn’t like it and knew I would have to choose my words carefully. “How do you like St. Louis, Mr. Anderson? Quite a change from Michigan, I gather.”
“Not really. Though the streets are narrower than I would like.” Mr. Anderson picked over my tray with such fastidious care a vulture would be envious. He wiped his hands with a careful smile. “About the sari, Miss Gibson—”
Mr. Powell burst through the door loaded with packages and hurried to my side, as if to claim me as his property. “Miss Gibson is under a physician’s care,” he growled, his tone an implicit warning. “Back off.”
“Is this what they teach at Oxford, sergeant?” Mr. Anderson mocked softly. “I was just inquiring about Miss Gibson’s… ankle.”
“That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”
“Sergeant Powell, your affection for Miss Gibson is showing.”
“Why you—”
Mr. Anderson chuckled and said to me, “We shall continue this conversation later. Preferably, without your attack dog.” He snatched up his hat with a bow and left. Mr. Powell was so angry I swear steam was blowing out of his ears. “Why, that good-for- nothing!” he muttered, handing over a box of blueberry muffins. “Did you tell him anything?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” He set the packages down and indicated what each held. “I didn’t know your size,” he said, informing me he had purchased a few personal items as well. “I know you only brought enough for a day or two.”
“Thank you, Mr. Powell,” I said, appreciating the nightgown. “But you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”
“I wanted to.”
He glared at my tray. “Did Mr. Anderson do that?’
“I’m afraid so. And I intended to finish my oatmeal.”
“Well, have a muffin.” He doffed his jacket as the room was stuffy and told me he’d gone to the university to inquire about saris. “They have a lovely language department,” he said, helping himself to a muffin. He chewed slowly before telling me the professor advised him the only way to locate a proper wedding sari was to have one made.
In India.
“India!” I cried, nearly choking on a blueberry. “Are there none available here?”
“Most saris are locally made, Miss Gibson. There has been very little immigration in the last decade. I daresay our search for a replica or experienced weaver would be in vain.”
“Why India?”
“The fabric,” he explained, proceeding to tell me that the fabric was difficult to source. “Anjuli’s sari is made of silk. Kanchipuram silk saris are made in the Kanchipuram region in Tamil Nadu. They use mulberry silk thread.”
“Do you know how far away that is?” I held up my cast. “I’m in no condition to go anywhere, much less India!”
“I know. That’s why I’m trying to track down fabric that is as close to the original as possible.” He gave me one of those looks. One I was coming to dread. “If we are unsuccessful in our search, then we may have no other recourse but to return to England.”
“Over my dead body!” I cried, grabbing my crutches and hobbling to the other side of the room. England was the last place I wanted to be. “I swore I’d never return to that awful place!”
“But you must.”
“I do not think so, Mr. Powell.”
“The colonel would very much like to see you.”
I snorted. “I’ll just bet he would.”
“Miss Gibson…”
“No!” I shouted, not caring who heard me. I wasn’t supposed to be on my feet, but I didn’t care. “I’m not going back!” I cried, near hysterics. Something about seeing the colonel again made my flesh crawl. “I don’t want to be in the same room with him!”
Mr. Powell stood up and spoke to me as if I were a frightened child. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he promised. “I’ll be there.”
“You?” I scoffed. “You couldn’t even save me from being hurled to the ground by Mr. Anderson!”
“You’re being unreasonable,” he chided.
“I am being perfectly reasonable!” I shrieked, bringing the attending physician and three nurses. They shoved Mr. Powell out of the room and had to convince me they wouldn’t let him return until I was ready to be released.
Reluctantly returning to my sickbed, I lay there, wishing I had never laid eyes on Anjuli’s sari.
* * *
I slept most of the way back to New York. I did not want to return to a life of shadowy figures and cursed saris. I just wanted it out of my life and spoke little to Mr. Powell, resenting the fact he’d rather listen to a deranged old man than do his job.
Which was to protect me.
His protection extended to making sure I ate three meals a day, and that I brushed my teeth. He also refused to leave me alone with Mr. Anderson. Though I appreciated the gesture, I thought forbidding the Pinkerton from traveling in our compartment was a bit much.
“Why is he tagging along?” I asked as we left the train station. “Couldn’t he conduct his investigation on his own?”
“Miss Gibson,” Mr. Powell said raggedly. “You are the investigation.”
“Does that mean he’ll—”
“It most certainly does.” Mr. Powell tucked me into a waiting cab and handed me my bag. “He’ll be along shortly,” he said, sliding in beside me. “Mr. Anderson is staying at the Waldorf.”
“How can he afford that on his salary?”
“He comes from ‘new money’, Miss Gibson.” Mr. Powell rolled his eyes. “He’s quite fond of listing his father’s accomplishments. Not to mention bragging about the size of his bank account.”
“Aren’t you wealthy?”
“My father is. I am not.”
“I don’t think I like him,” I confessed, peering through the window as though I had just returned from a long holiday abroad. “He’s rather—”
“I know. He gets under your skin.”
I let out a wistful sigh. “Eileen always wanted to see New York. She had her heart set on running through Central Park barefoot.”
“Will you write her?”
“What for? She’s probably thrilled. “
“You cannot know that, Miss Gibson.”
“I know my sister, Mr. Powell. And she has lived with my aunt long enough to develop an affinity for the finer things in life. That dollhouse was custom made, as are her clothes.” My eyes watered, forcing me to look for a handkerchief. I had one balled in my pocket. Dabbing at my tears, I said, “I am no longer of any use to her. Might as well get used to it.”
“She’s your sister.”
I nodded. “And she grows more like my aunt every day. Her letters may attest to that.” I always felt my parents spoiled Eileen. Indulged her every whim. “My father borrowed money to buy her what she wanted for Christmas.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. At least she was happy.” I tucked the damp handkerchief back into my pocket. “My mother was the only one she listened to. When she died, it was as if a piece of Eileen died with her.”
“How did your mother die?” He quickly apologized. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”
“That’s all right. My mother died a year after my brother’s untimely death. They say she didn’t take care of herself. But I think she died of a broken heart.”’
He agreed. “They say it’s more common than you think.”
“My father tried his best. That’s why he moved us to London.”
“Did he ever try to contact Scotland Yard?”
“Probably. He never would tell me.”
Somehow, I sensed my answer upset Mr. Powell. He was silent on the way to Mr. Perez’s laundry and only spoke up when I revealed where I lived. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell Mr. Gadot the truth,” he grunted, helping me down from the carriage. He handed over my bag. “And you’re in the attic?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “But I did not wish to be alone in the apartment he showed me.”
“Why?”
“I believe it’s haunted, Mr. Powell.”
“You’ve been around that sari too long,” he warned. “Why not let me hand it over to Colonel Havelock?”
“I told you why,” I huffed, frowning at the sign in Mr. Perez’s window. “That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“Mr. Perez never closes his laundry on Saturdays.”
“Maybe there was a death in the family.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you have a key?”
“Yes.” I fished it out. “But the stairs—”
“I’ll carry you.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“Miss Gibson…”
“At least let me open the door.” I hobbled up to the entrance and tried the key. I had a difficult time inserting it. Mr. Powell took the key and struggled for all of five minutes before he gave up. “Would Mr. Perez have reason to change the locks?”
He returned the key. I inspected it closely, dumbfounded. “He had this one made for me,” I said, afraid something had happened while I was away. “You don’t think—”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“But the trunk is in the basement!”
“Is there another way in?”
“There’s a window in the back,” I told him. “But it’s too small.”
“You’re small enough,” he said, escorting me through the alley. We paused near a pile of overflowing trash bins. “Is that it?” He nodded toward the rectangular pane of glass. “Mr. Gadot also gave me a key. I say we let ourselves in and wait until nightfall.”
“But that’s breaking and entering, Mr. Powell!”
“Not if you were locked out of your home.” He tapped his temple. “It’s all how you look at it.”
“Not that again!” I groaned, limping after him. We let ourselves into Mr. Gadot’s shop and rifled through what used to be my pantry for bread and cheese. A kettle boiled while we argued over breaking into Mr. Perez’s basement to retrieve my trunk. “I thought you were averse to committing a crime!”
“It’s your trunk,” he said, bringing out two cups and mismatched saucers. He held one with a questioning look.
“I bought them at a rummage sale,” I mumbled, trying to rationalize smashing Mr. Perez’s window. “What if we’re caught? You, of all people, should know better.”
“You forget we’re not the only ones after that sari,” Mr. Powell reminded me gently. “And I’d rather have my teeth pulled than let Mr. Anderson beat us to the finish line.”
“All right. What happens when we get the trunk? I keep it locked for a reason.”
He set the cups on the table and fetched the kettle. I sat numb to the world as he poured. Steam wafted from my cup, and I was suddenly assailed by an image of Anjuli in a similar pose. I saw a wooden table, two chairs, and a large picture window. Several people milled about, taking their steaming cups to other tables. Finally, recognizing the place as a coffeehouse, I could sense her distress as she waited for someone.
Her slender fingers drummed a familiar rhythm as she waited for her companion. For hours she waited, to no avail. She finally stood up to leave, dreading the walk home. Joseph had been overly violent that morning, beating her for not having breakfast on the table. Anjuli was pregnant, and he simply did not understand how ill she truly was. I cringed along with her as she walked the narrow, cobbled streets back to the flat.
Joseph was waiting for her.
“Where have you been?” he growled, having spent the morning drinking himself into a stupor. His eyes were red-rimmed and glazed with hate. “Well? Answer me, woman!”
“I—I went to have a cup of Darjeeling,” she said in a quavery voice. “You know it settles my stomach.”
“With what? Do you know how much a cup of that tea costs?”
“I had some money.”
I cringed.
It had been the wrong thing to say. Joseph gave Anjuli money for household expenses and accounted for every shilling. Her answer only confirmed his suspicions she had been unfaithful. “Who is he?” he demanded, grabbing her by the arm. “I’ll cut his tongue out!”
“N-no one, Jojo!” she cried, wincing as he shoved her to the floor. She could not bring herself to fight back, too sick, and too tired to offer much, but a tearful denial. “The baby makes me ill. I just wanted a cup of Darjeeling. Just one!”
He towered over her, reaching for a handful of hair. Giving it a painful tug, he interrogated her as one might a condemned criminal. He badgered her for hours, demanding to know the gentleman’s name. Face swollen from crying and lips bloodied, Anjuli finally gave him the answer he sought.
“Michael!” she sobbed when she could bear no more. “He gives me money!”
Joseph was so enraged he dragged her into their bedroom and locked her in there.
Two days later, Anjuli miscarried.
Shuddering at the sight of bloodied sheets, I let out a startled cry when Mr. Powell shook me to my senses. “Anne!” he cried. “Anne!”
“What?”
“Where were you just now?”
“Dublin,” I said with a certainty that was alarming. “Anjuli showed me a coffeehouse in Dublin.”
Mr. Powell urged me to drink my tea, his hands shaking when he stirred sugar into his cup. “Does she do this… often?”
“Not recently. She seems to have grown restless in my absence.” I sipped thoughtfully. “She lost the baby.”
“She was pregnant?”
“It was Colonel Havelock’s, if you must know. The next time you see him, ask if he ever regrets beating his unborn children out of that poor girl.” I set my cup down on the table and eyed Mr. Powell closely. “Sometimes, I get the impression you don’t believe me when I say he did those things.”
“Miss Gibson—”
“Oh, we’re back to formal names. How… droll.” I pushed my chair back. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lie down for a while.”
I limped through the shop, slipped past the dividing curtain, and curled up on the folding bed. It was warm and familiar, and as I curled into a ball, I could see Anjuli doing the same in Dublin sixty years ago.
We both covered our heads with a pillow and wept like a baby.
