The Wedding Dress(12)

Mother had hired Molly when she was sixteen, fresh from Ireland, with nothing more than a change of clothes in her valise. While shopping downtown one afternoon, Mother overheard Molly inquiring for a job and stood aghast as a transported Bostonian, who had no use for the Irish, mocked and cruelly rejected Molly. Mother hired her on the spot.

That evening at dinner, Mother told Father, “A pretty girl like that would find herself in the dance halls. What would the good Lord charge against me if I let such a travesty happen when it was in my power to do good?”

“Daniel kissed me, you hear.” Emily angled forward to grip the burnished-haired maid by the shoulders.

“Saints and all the angels.” Molly pulled away from Emily, her hazel eyes snapping. “That was Daniel? Where’s he been keeping himself for these past five months, leaving you to wonder and weep in your pillow?”

“I didn’t weep, Molly. Where do you get such ideas?”

“I got ears, don’t I? And Big Mike can hear a bird chewing on a worm, don’t you know.” Molly took her knife to the first tomato, cutting it into quarters and tossing the slices into a bowl.

Molly’s room was just below Emily’s. And Big Mike, Father’s liveryman, came into the stable one afternoon when she’d gone up to the loft to hide her tears in the hay.

“He said he wrote letters,” Emily said, sinking slowly down to the kitchen stool. “He came here today to tell me he’d quit baseball and had secured a job and an apartment.”

“Letters, you say? Ah, look at me mess.” Molly motioned to the soupy tomato juice on the cutting board as she added the slices to a bowl. “This knife must be dull as—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that knife, Molly.” Emily put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Don’t you get the mail every day?”

“Miss, if you want a rundown of my household chores, speak to yer mother. I must be getting to this supper.” Molly averted her gaze, twisting her arm out from Emily’s hand. “What your father won’t say to me if his summer salad and tomato pie isn’t on the table.”

“Molly, spill it.”

She sliced another tomato with quick motion, her lips tight and pale.

“What happened to Daniel’s letters?”

Slice, slice, slice. “Ain’t nothing like a lovely salad on a hot summer evening. I ordered ice cream from the iceman for tonight. Mr. Saltonstall is coming to dinner, you know. In fact, I believe he—”

“Where are they, Molly?”

Molly whacked the next poor innocent tomato.

“Oh—” Emily pressed her hand to her chest. “Father. Did he—tell me he didn’t toss them into the incinerator?”

Now Molly gazed at her, a bit of spit-and-vinegar in her eye. “Think of your father, Emily. Would he do such a thing?”

“I’d think not, but then why did he take them in the first place? Or was it Mother?”

“Blessed saints, no. Not your mother. She’ll be a saint one day for saving me.”

Emily fussed with her slipping pompadour, removing the long hairpins, letting her hair fall free, controlling her ire at Father for hiding her personal property. It wasn’t like him. “Molly, the letters.”

The kitchen door swung open and Father’s man, Jefferson, entered. “Miss Emily, there you are.” Jefferson wore a light-colored suit with a string tie. Perspiration dotted his limp white shirt and bled through his vest. “Your father is asking for you. He’s in his library.”

Emily slid off the stool. “All right. What kind of mood is Father in, Jefferson?” She pinched a slice of tomato off the salad, eyeing Molly.

“Quite jolly, Miss Emily. Has a spark in his eye.”

“Good. I’ll be right there.” Emily turned to Molly as Jefferson backed out of the room with a bow. “I’m not done with you.”

“Let it go, miss.” Molly clutched her arm. “It’s spilt milk. Think of Mr. Saltonstall.” Her tone waxed soft and dreamy. “He’s a fine, handsome man who is suited to you and your station. He adores you, clings to your every word. Mr. Ludlow is also fine, I’m sure, but your father worked hard to give you this life, the very best of everything. Why marry a common man like Daniel Ludlow when Phillip Saltonstall is after your affections? Love only lasts so long when there’s no food on the table or money in the bank and the children are crying. Trust me, I know.”

Emily considered Molly’s words, reaching for the door. “It is better to marry Phillip, isn’t it? He’s kind and charming . . . educated.” As was Daniel, on all counts.

“Educated at a fancy northern university too. Yale.”

“Phillip is handsome and witty.” As was Daniel. But it helped to list Phillip’s wonderful attributes. What a short memory she had. “He’ll make an excellent father.” But Daniel, too, would be a strong, loving father. “Our parents adore one another.” Emily built her argument. “We’ll have his parents’ house up on Red Mountain.”

“I think ye know what to do, miss.”

Yes, yes, she did.

Daniel’s mother had died when he was fifteen. His father was a police officer in Birmingham and often left Daniel and his brother to fend for themselves. But he’d done well. Gone to college, played baseball, secured a teaching position at the city’s most prestigious school, and now rented an apartment at the very reputable Ridley House.