A Lack of Temperance (3 page)

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Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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“Un, deux, trois . . .”
Counting in French to relax was a trick I’d learned as a child.
“Trente-huit, trente-neuf, quarante. ”
Reaching forty with no effect, I gave up.
In a burst of frustration, I flung my key, purse, gloves, and jacket to the floor. I unpinned my hat from my hair, and then tossed it on the bed. With her kindness, Mrs. Piers had touched a nerve.
I don’t need a vacation. I don’t need the spas. I need to get to work.
But Mrs. Piers had informed me that Mrs. Trevelyan was at a sermon and would be indisposed until morning. I dropped into a nearby chair, hung my head, and sighed. When I looked up, the room had grown dark. Still feeling petulant, I tried to remember what the bellboy told me to do. Fumbling, I felt for the brass plate next to the door and pushed a button on the wall. Brilliant electric light from the Edison lamps illuminated every inch of the small, airy room, reaching into the corners of the lofty ceilings and tiled fireplace.
Instead of the simple, white-walled room I had been expecting to stay in, this room was full of color and opulence. I was suddenly humbled and ashamed of my outburst. It was the nicest room I’d ever stayed in. Though smaller and decorated in shades of warm burgundy, gold, and green, it was almost a duplicate version of Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, down to the large oak desk and crystal vase on the tea table overflowing with ivy and azalea blossoms. In this room, though, a mound of unopened correspondences marred the desk’s polished surface. No care had been taken. Telegrams, letters, and parcels had been thrown haphazardly in a heap. A few letters had fallen to the floor.
I picked up the letters, collected up my things from the bed, and added the newest correspondences to the pile. I arranged everything into neat stacks and set up my typewriter. I opened the desk drawer and found ample supplies of stationery, pens, and ink. I unpacked my luggage and put everything away. In the bath assigned to me, two identical small mahogany washstands stood side by side. One, labeled
222,
was already covered with ladies’ toilet articles. The other, labeled
220,
was empty except for a bottle of water marked
Basin Spring
. I opened the drawer; it was packed with thick, plush green towels. I pulled one out and held it to my cheek. I relished the softness, a stark contrast to the rest of the room, the necessary porcelain features of modern plumbing, the hard, bright white tiles covering the walls, the black and white mosaic tile covering the floor. Only the sword fern on a stand rivaled the warmth of the towel.
At least Thomas was right about the baths. This is extravagance itself.
Next to the towel I tentatively set out the contents of my toilet case, a pitiful few items, on the right corner edge of the expansive washstand top, in case this space wasn’t all meant for me. I aligned the bottles in a row and straightened my hairbrush.
There,
I thought
. Now all’s in order.
With nothing left to do, I returned to my room to eat. Despite my rushed departure, Mrs. Larson had packed me a lunch: sliced cold chicken, bread, butter, pickles, and several pieces of her specialty, ginger snaps. I’d only eaten half the meal on the train. A velvet burgundy drape, pulled back to one side, revealed a French door, which led to a second-story balcony I’d seen from the carriage earlier. I tried to open it. The door swung open, letting in a breeze that dispelled the stuffy air in the room. I took my dinner out on the balcony and, espying a bench, spread my meal out on my lap. I took a deep breath of the crisp, clean air. All around me, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun, was a wide expanse of mountains and valley and sky. The evening should’ve been lovely. But then that eerie glow had appeared down the hill toward town, in the darkest part of the valley, in the saloon district. I had risen to my feet, and leaning on the wrought-iron railing, I’d heard a shout. As soft as an echo, I’d heard it again:
“Fire. ”
I hadn’t known yet where my curiosity would lead me. I hadn’t known yet that Mrs. Trevelyan was at the center of the bedlam below. But considering how extraordinary everything about this job had been so far, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
C
HAPTER
4
“A
re you injured?”
His warm, gentle voice surprised me. I tore my focus away from Mrs. Trevelyan’s retreating figure to see not one of the saloon men, covered in soot from the extinguished fire and smelling of beer, but a gentleman holding his top hat. He was handsome and sparkling clean from his shining, polished shoes, to his tidy mustache, to the glisten on his teeth as he smiled. My heart skipped a beat. But wasn’t this the man who had come to the injured woman’s aid when the window shattered? Shouldn’t he be at least disheveled?
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Blue laws don’t mean much here,” he said. He glanced back at the men stomping out the flames in the doorway. “It seems the temperance ladies took offense.”
“I was told they were attending a sermon.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Was the lady by the window badly injured?” I asked.
“Mrs. Turnbull? Luckily, no, though she did have several glass slivers in her face. Are you certain you’re okay?” He lightly touched my sleeve at the point of two finger-shaped smears. “There’s blood here.”
“Oh, no.” I pointed to Mrs. Trevelyan and her companions. “One of those women grasped my sleeve. It must’ve come from them.” He looked in the direction of my gaze, absentmindedly dusting dirt from his shoulders and sleeves. Of course he was covered in dust from the road. How could I have ever thought otherwise? He smiled again, and I knew.
“I hope we meet again, lovely lady,” he said, tipping his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” I covered my burning cheeks and watched as he ran up the road.
 
Upon returning to my room, I was anxious to get to work. I was exhausted, befuddled, and reeling from the events of the day. The long climb up the hill had helped, but nothing cures mental pandemonium like work. So with my ivory-handled letter opener in hand, I tackled the mound on the desk, slicing open envelopes and wax seals with an unusual zest. Sorting through every piece of correspondence, I separated the telegrams from the letters, the personal from the business. I always felt a thrill the moment before I opened that first letter for a new employer or took that first dictation.
What will I find?
I wondered.
The first letter I read was from Florence Hawkings, of Little Rock, explaining why she wouldn’t be able to attend the Eureka Springs meetings. The second was from one of Mrs. Trevelyan’s daughters. I started a new pile. From long practice, I sorted through all of the letters, heedful to read only enough to determine whether it was private or should be placed in the growing stack of business papers. I prided myself on being able to pick out key words or a form of address in order to sort the letters without consciously being aware of their contents. It’s a skill past employers have appreciated.
And yet I still learned a great deal about Mrs. Trevelyan. She had at least two daughters, was a resident of St. Louis, had visited four states and thirteen cities in the past three months, corresponded with pastors, politicians, and businessmen. Many of the correspondences mentioned issues that concerned the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, often referred to as the AWTC, such as the promotion of temperance education in schools, the status of an upcoming prohibition vote, and the success of a recent membership drive. Mrs. Trevelyan was its president.
I also learned more than I wanted to. As I myself had witnessed, she was a vocal advocate of violence toward “housebreakers,” her word for saloons, and tonight was not the first time she had used canes, bricks, axes, and the like to attack them. Although some praised her, one gentleman’s letter calling her work “righteous, legal, and reasonable,” most condemned her, calling her vile names and, on occasion, threatening her. One such letter was particularly disturbing. It must’ve been hand-delivered to the hotel, having
Give to Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary
scribbled on the outside. I’d opened it with high anticipation, having thought it was meant for me. But the hotel’s notation was to direct the letter only. Addressed to
Mother Trevelyan
and signed
J.M.,
the entire message consisted of a few short sentences.
Aren’t satisfied, you self-righteous hypocrite? You better be, I’ve paid your price and you’ve bled me dry. There isn’t any more. I never meant for her to die. Leave me alone, or I won’t be able to say the same for you.
The previous letters had made my stomach churn. But blackmail? Death? My hand was shaking when I placed it in the appropriate stack.
With my mind spinning, my fingers took over automatically as I typed a list of correspondents and placed it next to the stacks of letters, telegrams, and envelopes (which often yield additional information not included in the letter) lined up in a row on the corner of the desk. I pushed myself away, the chair scraping against the grain of the carpet, and stood. I paced the room several times, wringing my hands, trying to catch my breath. This wasn’t what I’d expected. The satisfaction I normally felt after a good day’s work eluded me. But why should I be surprised? I’d answered an urgent telegram from an employer who only hours ago tried to burn down a saloon. Among her papers I’d found threats, repugnant language, and a cryptic note referring to murder and blackmail. Was this what the driver at the train depot was warning me about? Should I have heeded what I’d taken for hearsay and taken the 6:18 back to Kansas City? Chills went down my spine. I snatched up my hat and gloves and headed for the door. I didn’t care how late it was, I needed some fresh air.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
“I won’t stand for this, Edwina. Open this door!” A woman in a black velvet evening gown hammered on Mrs. Trevelyan’s door with her fists. The chandelier in the hallway and the ostentatious jewels about her ears, wrists, and throat rattled with each knock. Small tendrils of her jet-black hair fell down the back of her long neck.
“Margaret said you were in there,” she said. “You’re going to have to face me sometime.” She pounded on the door again. “I’m not going to stand by while you ruin everything, do you hear? Unlock this door this instant!” The woman yanked on the doorknob, then slammed her hand against the door. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see that you account for your actions. I’m right, and you know it. I’ll take charge and run this meeting. Do you hear me, Edwina? I’ll call for new elections.”
The woman put her ear to the door. She stepped back and hesitated for a brief moment. “Very well, I hope you
never
come out.”
She pivoted on her heels and stormed down the hallway. Within moments we stood face-to-face in my open doorway. She loomed over me. The creases around her grimacing mouth and squinting eyes suggested that she was in her late forties. But her face was so red and blotchy I couldn’t guess what her natural complexion should be.
“And what are you staring at?” she said.
I apologized, retreating back into my room. However, as she glanced inside in the direction of the desk, she grabbed a hold of the door. “You’re that new secretary, aren’t you?” She craned her head around to see more of my room. “Trevelyan said she was expecting a new secretary this afternoon, ‘the best money can buy.’ You don’t look like much to me.
“Did you see her come back?” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she shouted over my shoulder, “You can’t hide forever, Edwina.”
I started, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the temperance leader hiding behind me. “Yes. I’m Mrs. Trevelyan’s new secretary. I’m Hattie Davish.” I offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. . . . ?”
She straightened her back, put her nose in the air and, putting her hand to her throat, touched a gleaming triple-strand diamond collar. “I’m Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood, vice president and humble servant of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Anglewood.”
“Well?” She peered down at me. I didn’t know how to reply. “Well, girl, have you spoken to her yet or not?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Anglewood, I’ve yet to talk to Mrs. Trevelyan. When I saw her, she was . . . preoccupied.”
“Ha! Such incompetence.” She flicked her hand in the air. “I always knew Edwina was a fool.” And with that, she stomped away.
 
Why hadn’t I taken that hike? Instead I’d lain awake most of the night, ruminating on yesterday’s events. Only after typing a list of troubling questions was I able to get some sleep. What I’d read in my typewriter this morning was the rambling of a sleepless mind. Nonetheless, many of my questions were valid.
1.
Who is this Mrs. Trevelyan? Does it matter?
2.
Why would she send me an urgent telegram? She hasn’t even spoken to me yet.
3.
She paid for my train ticket, room, board, and a week’s wages in advance. What does she expect me to do? See to her correspondences? Throw bricks at saloon windows?
4.
Should I resign from her employment? What would Sir Arthur say?
5.
Are all of the temperance women here vandals and anarchists?
6.
Who would send such vile, threatening letters? Why? Who is J.M.?
7.
Who was that dashing gentleman I met tonight? Why was he there?
8.
What’ve I gotten myself into?
Long before the sun rose above the mountains, I dressed in my walking clothes. The long hot bath I’d taken earlier, pumped in from Congress Spring, had relaxed my muscles but had done nothing to soothe my restless mind. But I knew what would—a hike through the town and its hills. With a clear mind and a satisfied curiosity, I’d be prepared to confront Mrs. Trevelyan.
I tucked my white blouse into dark brown ankle-length culottes. Over this, I put on a tan hip-length jacket. I put on my jersey gaiters, not knowing what terrain I might encounter, and slipped my hand lens, secure on a gold-plated chain, over my neck. As the sun filled my room with warm autumn sunshine, I pinned my hat onto my head and slipped on my gloves. Outside, the air was brisk and fresh. My first stop would be one of the springs.
In my room, I’d found a map and description of each spring provided by the hotel. There were over sixty of them, scattered over the hillsides. Several were in the valley that ran through the center of town. One, Crescent Spring, was straight down the hill from the hotel. I scurried down the long wooden staircase that I’d seen the day before. It had hundreds of steps and ended in an elaborate four-sided gazebo, with arches, columns, and carved molding. It loomed above Spring Street, one of the main thoroughfares of the town. A few more stairs and I was standing on a broad platform sidewalk. It still smelled of freshly cut wood. Crescent Spring, less than a block north, was surrounded by a rock wall and another ornate gazebo. Across the street, a small but stately church made of limestone with a single steeple on one side cast its shadow over the spring. I knelt beside it, scooped up cold water with my hand, and drank. It felt good to be outside.
Due to the early hour, there were few people on the street. I practically had the town to myself. The occasional rooster or rattling of the streetcar accompanied me as I followed the winding street as it descended southward down the mountain, passing Congress, Harding, and Sweet Springs. Each spring was a few steps from the street, nestled below a curving wall of rock, with water that had a slight metallic taste.
The entire town was built on various levels of these steep, rocky hills, nothing like the open, rolling plains I was used to. How the invalids that flock to this mountainous town navigated its steep terrain was hard to imagine. Many homes and businesses had ground-level entrances on the first, second, and sometimes third floors. One hotel, eight stories tall, claimed to have six ground floors. Like a crazy quilt, the streets seemed built with no pattern or order, a labyrinth of winding roads intersecting steep paths, without a single street crossing another at a right angle and all at various inclines. To maintain this terraced architecture, the town had erected miles of rock retaining walls. I passed brick, wood, and limestone shops, homes, and hotels lining Spring Street in both directions, most sharing a wall with a neighbor. A few showed the signs of fire damage while many more were under construction.
Every block or so, there was a break between the buildings. Here the town had built steep, narrow alleyways of wooden or stone stairs, allowing the townspeople to walk from one level of the town to the next. Hanging signs, variously positioned down the length of the stairs, indicated businesses’ side entrances. One painted mural, of a hand pointing downward, indicated that Steinbach & Sons, cabinet and coffin makers, could be found on the flight of stairs between the fifth and sixth blocks of Spring and Center Streets.
A man in a blacksmith’s apron stepped up from one of these stairwell alleys right in front of me. We nearly collided.
“Watch it, lady,” he grunted, his breath visible in the cool morning air.
Without looking back, he stomped up the hill. Eager to see what was around the bend, I was grateful for his rude behavior; it saved time exchanging apologies. I continued down the hill.
From time to time I dallied in front of a shop window. The wares in Mrs. Cunningham’s Millinery and Dress Shop distracted me for over a quarter of an hour. I pulled myself away from the latest styles of hats when an array of sumptuous cakes displayed in the window of a bakery two doors down caught my eye. Waiting for the shop to open, I read two posters pasted inside the window of Heisendorf ’s Grocery next door. I had noticed various other posters on my walk. One advertised a health clinic at a bathhouse; another announced an upcoming public ball at the Crescent Hotel. Though several had been torn in half, both “Vote No for Proposition 203” and “Vote Yes for Proposition 203” posters had been plastered on trees and poles throughout town. And like the one in the window, I’d seen many presidential campaign posters; tomorrow was Election Day. Although most had been for Grover Cleveland, I had also seen one or two for James Weaver of Iowa. The one before me was for President Benjamin Harrison.

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