Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(23)

“Yes, well, a pleasure to meet you.” I nodded my head and turned to go. In a blur of speed, he pounced in my path, and I reeled back.

“I failed to catch your name,” he drawled.

“Because I did not offer it.” I scooted back several steps and pulled my parasol to my chest. “Please stand aside, sir.”

He cocked his head. “Do you perhaps need a detective? Missing persons are my specialty.”

“I-I beg your pardon?” How did he know about my brother? I glanced around, and my eyes lit on the water closet nearby. My jaw dropped, and I spun back. “Do you eavesdrop on the Spirit-Hunters? From the men’s water closet?” My voice was high-pitched with disbelief.

“Nay, nay. I can’t hear a thing in there.” He twirled his mustache and smiled pompously. “I simply made a good guess, and then you confirmed. Detective, remember?”

I swallowed a cry of indignation, yanked up my skirts, and, with my fiercest glare, strode toward him. “Good day, sir.”

He sidled away, and I stormed past, my chin held high and my focus straight ahead.

“You can’t trust them,” he called after me.

Though I hated myself for doing it, curiosity got the best of me. I slowed and glanced back.

He doffed his hat. “If you decide you need my help, just find Nicholas Peger at the Philadelphia Bulletin.”

“Where have you been?” Mama demanded. She was standing in the center of my bedroom when I walked in. My cheeks were still pink from heat and exertion.

I reached up to unpin my hat. “At the Exhibition,” I said, trying for nonchalance. Rather than pretend to run long errands each day, I had decided evasive honesty was my best tactic. As such, I had prepared a story for this eventual question.

I laid my hat gently in its box and turned to face Mama. She wore her silk dressing robe, and her hair fell loosely down her back.

“And what, pray tell, brought you there?” She lowered herself onto my bed and stared stormily at me.

“The Women’s Pavilion.” It housed inventions by modern women—and she knew it was one of my favorite buildings.

“Women’s Pavilion?” Her frown faltered. “Whatever for?”

“They needed volunteers for one of their exhibits.” The words sounded tight. Why is it that no matter how realistic or rehearsed a lie is, it always rings false in the teller’s ears?

She gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Eleanor,” she hissed. “You cannot work! What will people say? They will think you belong to the lower class!”

“But Mr. Wilcox,” I blurted, ignoring her question. “He loves charitable women. In fact, he told me that on Sunday.”

“Really?” She sucked in a pleased breath and puckered her lips. “Did he say that on your drive?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded.

Her lips curved up. “Clever girl.” And with those two words, all my anxiety washed away.

She patted at the bed. “Sit.”

I moved to the bed and plopped beside her. To my surprise, she opened her arms and pulled me into an embrace.

“Mama?” I said. What was this? I couldn’t remember the last time she’d hugged me.

“My dearest daughter has found a rich man.” She stroked my hair. “I am so pleased. Your brother may have abandoned us to poverty, but you can still save us.”

I kept my lips tightly together and my eyes screwed shut. What the dickens was I supposed to say? That no, in fact, the rich man was only bribing me for silence; and no, Elijah was detained by walking corpses? Hardly.

And how long was she going to squeeze me?

“I thought,” Mama continued, “we could receive the Wilcoxes on Wednesday. Perhaps for cards or tea.” She twirled a finger in my hair.

I paused only a moment before saying, “All right.” I could stand Clarence’s glower a bit more for Mama’s sake.

“You know,” she said, “your father would also be proud of you. A rich man to marry and a charitable use of your time. He was such a generous man himself. He used to give all sorts of money to the hospitals, the schools, the poor.... That was why he wanted to run for city council, you know. To revitalize our government.” She sighed, and I could hear the tears that hovered in her throat.

Father had died when I was ten. He had been a busy, bearlike man who ran a supply business for the railroad. Whatever the Pennsylvania Railroad needed, he got them.

But six years ago, a dy***ite shipment he was supposed to provide exploded at our local factory. The railroad company turned to another supplier, and Father lost the contract. It was the start of his ruin, and he died shortly after.

“How I miss him,” Mama whispered. “I will feel much better when Elijah returns.”

My throat clenched. I nodded into her chest. I wanted to say that I was doing everything I could to bring him home. I wanted to promise he’d be back soon and that all our problems would be solved. But I couldn’t, of course.

“Well,” Mama said with a loud exhale, “let us hope Elijah has grown more like your father these past three years—he certainly forgets to write like Henry did.” Her lips twitched with amusement, and she squeezed my shoulders. “We shall see him soon enough, no?”

Tears burned behind my eyes. The sight of my mother’s hope was almost too much. I pulled free from her embrace and turned away. “Yes, Mama. Soon enough.”