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Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

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BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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C
HAPTER
6
I
went hiking again. This time I brought my plant press and made it a collecting trip. I was thrilled to find Ozark chinkapin, Arkansas beardtongue, and two species of goldenrod, amazingly still flowering, to add to my collection. Happy and exhausted, I was making my way back to the hotel when I came upon Harding Spring again. A group had gathered below the outcrop of limestone that jutted out over the spring’s pool. Cordelia Anglewood stood on top of a limestone rock with Josephine Piers stationed next to her on the ground. It was one of the coalition’s testimonial meetings. Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie shared a bench with a woman with a white toy poodle in her arms, and waved to get my attention. Others I’d met were scattered throughout. I was flattered to be asked to join them and found a bare spot on the grass at Miss Lizzie’s feet. Several disapproving faces regarded my plant press.
“What is it with you and dead plants?” Miss Lucy whispered.
Cordelia Anglewood lifted her arms in the air. “Let us pray.” Everyone bowed their heads.
“Lord, we thank you for this water to refresh our bodies and for your love to refresh our souls. May we rid this world of the poisons of man and bring the fallen to your sobering embrace. Amen.” She raised her head and gazed out at the gathering. “On behalf of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, I would like to welcome one and all. We, a gathering of the faithful, stand here today, as every day, as a force against the destructive power of alcohol and its hurtful effects on society and families. Blessed be they who fight for the sanctity of the home.”
Unlike the night before, Mrs. Anglewood was eloquent and welcoming. Her countenance was somber and her gaze radiated the conviction of her words. I listened intently.
“We gather here at the healing waters of Harding Spring to hear the testimonials of those who have suffered from the evils of demon drink. If you have a story to share, please come forward.”
Several women stepped forth, including a reluctant one who was urged forward by unseen hands. The woman with the poodle stood up; Miss Lucy grasped the woman’s hand.
“Cordelia wants testimony of temperance, Edna, not another story about Charlie.”
“Oh.” Edna sat down, hugging her dog Charlie close.
“I was a drunk,” one woman admitted. “But with the help of Sister Cordelia, I was able to go to the sanatorium and get sober.” She smiled at Cordelia, who nodded back. “I haven’t taken a drop in four years. Now I have a husband, two beautiful children, and I’m the one to speak at the meetings. I owe it all to the AWTC.”
When not at their annual convention, members, it seemed, held weekly meetings in towns across the country, serving as support to families of homes broken by alcohol. They produced educational leaflets, such as how to rid alcohol from the home, and provided refuge for women and children in cases of abuse. Moral, emotional, spiritual, and in some cases, financial support was freely given to all those who sought help in the fight for temperance, for themselves and their families.
“That was me once,” Miss Lucy said, suddenly standing and pointing to the previous speaker. “I wasn’t always an old lady and I wasn’t always sober. One day I was so drunk from laudanum that I drove a horse and buggy two miles down the middle of the sidewalk and straight into my in-laws’ house. But I too found salvation in the AWTC. So let that be a lesson to all of you. Temperance works!” A cheer arose as Miss Lucy took her seat. I tried in vain to picture this straight-backed bespectacled old woman wildly riding a horse into someone’s front parlor.
“Old Mr. Fry never forgave her,” Miss Lizzie whispered to me, “but Oliver did, rest his soul.”
Before I could ask more, another woman stood and announced, to applause, that her husband had signed the temperance pledge. She pulled a man into the open space in the middle of the crowd. He held a wide-brimmed Stetson hat in his hands and kept his eyes on the ground.
“This is my man. He used to curse at me and kick our horse. Now he’s going to vote Yes for Proposition 203.” A loud cheer erupted.
“What is Proposition 203?” I asked Miss Lizzie, whispering. “You mentioned it before.”
“It bans the sale of alcohol in Carroll County, dear. We’ve tried to get it passed every two years for the past fourteen, as allowed by law. But we haven’t been successful. That’s one reason we’re in Eureka Springs. It’s on the ballot in tomorrow’s election. We are all very hopeful.”
“It’s one of the most important things we can do, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.
“Do you try to influence the ballot in other places as well?” I asked.
“Everywhere we can, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Everywhere we can.”
With a brave countenance and fresh green and black bruises around her left eye, another woman stepped forward and described her harrowing flight from Omaha to Eureka Springs with her three children in tow and a drunkard in pursuit.
“I’d read one of your leaflets. I didn’t know where else to go.”
When Josephine Piers put her arms around the woman and said, “You’re safe now,” I think even the battered woman believed it.
Cordelia again took the stage.
“Thank you, brave ladies, for sharing your stories of courage and redemption, and you, good man, for your valiant vote.” There was more applause. “Before we adjourn, I’d like to remind everyone of tonight’s vigil in the Summer Auditorium at the Assembly Grounds. For our newcomers, it’s on the north edge of town, down the hill from Grotto Spring. We will pray for President Harrison’s continued guidance and leadership. We will pray that we don’t lose our great supporter in the White House, Mrs. Harrison. We will pray for redemption of this land. May God see fit to pass Proposition 203 tomorrow and rid this valley, this entire county of drink.” Several women cheered. “God bless you all.”
She gave the floor to Josephine Piers, who led the final prayer. Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie stood, leading everyone in song. Their voices were soft but clear. To my surprise, the meeting ended without an appearance by or single mention of Mrs. Trevelyan. Yet the moment the women began mingling, dipping their cups in the spring well and socializing in general, Edwina Trevelyan’s name was on everyone’s lips.
“Cordelia is terrific, but I thought Mother Trevelyan was going to lead the testimonials this year?”
“Where’s Edwina? What’s keeping her? Surely, nothing’s more important than being here?”
“Is it true that Mrs. Trevelyan was arrested?”
I passed through unnoticed as I approached the spring. Josephine Piers spotted me at the edge of the limestone wall encircling the pool. We were both leaning over, filling tin cups.
“Wonderful meeting, wasn’t it, Miss Davish? Sister Cordelia’s confidence has a way of inspiring the most remarkable testimonies.”
“Yes, I’ve never been to anything like it.” And I meant it. The last twenty-four hours had acquainted me with both the best and the worst aspects of the temperance movement. Until yesterday afternoon, I had known very little of what my dear, departed father had called “those teetotalers.”
“I rejoice that you decided to join us and partake of the waters.”
“These,” I said, holding up the cups, “are for Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie. But thank you for your concern.” I hastened back to the sisters without spilling a drop.
“Well, Davish, did you find her?” I handed Miss Lucy a tin cup.
“Find who? Mrs. Trevelyan?”
“No, the vanished crew of the
Mary Celeste
. Of course I mean Edwina.”
“Lucy, dear,” her sister said, “be nice.”
“Well, you saw her this morning. A pack of bloodhounds couldn’t have sniffed out Edwina as thoroughly as this girl. Well, Davish?”
“No, Miss Lucy, I haven’t seen her yet today. Have you?”
“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”
“Nor has anyone else that I’ve spoken to. I’m at a loss as to where she could be.”
Miss Diana Halbert, a schoolteacher from Memphis, leaned over Miss Lucy’s shoulder. “She’s hiding with her tail between her legs somewhere.”
“Others think so too,” I said, “but I’m not so certain.”
“Charlie runs with his tail between his legs sometimes,” Edna offered.
Several others around me cocked their heads, listening. Conscious of the eavesdroppers, I lowered my voice. “Is it possible she was arrested?”
“No, dear, Cordelia or Josephine would know if she had,” Miss Lizzie said.
“What if they aren’t telling anyone? The news could be disruptive.”
“Come now, Davish. You make it sound so sinister,” Miss Lucy said, too loud for my comfort. “I’m sure you type a thousand words a minute and your middle name is Pitman Shorthand, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. Cordelia would never do a thing like that.”
“Lucy’s right, dear. Cordelia wouldn’t keep it a secret. She’d be the first one to crow over the news.”
Miss Lizzie glanced behind her. Several women, staring in our direction, conspired behind fans. One of them pointed at me. Miss Lizzie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe we should talk about this later, dear. It might prove unpleasant if the others think you’re meddling.”
“But someone’s got to—”
“
You,
secretary.” The booming voice, so near, caused me, and everyone around me, to jump. Charlie the dog barked.
“Your meddling has no place here.” Cordelia Anglewood gestured to the gathering. “All are welcome who seek healing and inspiration. But you seem intent on spreading rumors and agitation. This is not the AWTC way. I must ask that you please leave.” She loomed above me from the top of the limestone wall, casting a long shadow over the ground. She raised her arm and pointed at me.
“Now!”
Josephine Piers took me by the elbow and led me away.
“It’s all right, Sister Cordelia,” she said over her shoulder. “Miss Davish didn’t mean any harm.” To me she said, “Edwina’s absence is disturbing everyone. Sister Cordelia lashes out sometimes, but she always has the coalition’s best interests in mind. Don’t blame her for that.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. We were merely talking about Mrs. Trevelyan. Do you know where she is?”
“God will show Mother Trevelyan the way home, I assure you, Miss Davish. In the meantime, take pity on us and let Sister Cordelia lead the way.”
 
“Mrs. Trevelyan?”
I rushed down the hallway in anticipation. The door to Mrs. Trevelyan’s room was ajar.
“Hello, Mrs. Trevelyan, are you there?” No answer.
This was getting ridiculous. I pushed the door open and saw a vacant room. Except for a pile of papers on the desk, the room was immaculate. The bed was made and a fresh arrangement of azaleas adorned the table. Suitcases were stacked on top of the wardrobe. The trunk I’d seen yesterday was gone. It wasn’t my usual way, rummaging through other people’s belongings, but that’s exactly what I commenced doing. Whether Mrs. Trevelyan was avoiding confrontation by hiding somewhere in town or whether she’d been arrested by the police or had absconded in the night, I needed to know. I could no longer afford to have misgivings about being in someone else’s room, uninvited.
I can look and still be discreet,
I assured myself.
I scanned her desk. It took great restraint not to organize and tidy up the mass of paper before me. A large pile of telegram receipts pierced on a bill-spike sat on the shelf above the desk. Several correspondences lay open haphazardly on top of one another. An unfinished letter, presumably in Mrs. Trevelyan’s hand, was set to one side. Beneath the letters was a copy of the poster I’d seen that morning announcing the American Women’s Temperance Coalition schedule. Beneath the poster was a daily calendar. It was opened to Sunday, November 6. The daily schedule of the AWTC had been written in a crisp, printed script. I leafed through the book. There were brief notes in the same handwriting as the unfinished letter on almost every day. For Friday, the entry
Send telegrams, arrange for tickets, GET HD
was written. Yesterday’s entry included a brief note about “sermonizing” at a saloon and the words
Mascavarti’s response?
underlined. However, today’s entry and every other through Saturday, November 12, consisted of the coalition schedule alone. I put the calendar back where I’d found it.
I searched through the desk drawers and found nothing unusual. The large wardrobe, its doors unlatched, contained two capes, a set of slippers, and three pairs of boots. After hanging a jacket that had fallen from its peg, I lingered on her collection of hats: stylish turbans, everyday straw, and one with a Paris label that had a brim larger than I’d ever seen before. It looked brand new. For the number of hats the lady owned, I was surprised by her lack of dresses. Mrs. Trevelyan had fewer than I had.
I checked her nightstand. On top were her Bible, a pair of spectacles, and several remedy bottles: Watkins Liniment, Bromo Vichy headache salts, Radam’s Microbe Killer. Not unusual for a woman of her age. By the number of ring stains, more bottles had once sat on this table top. At first, the drawer appeared empty. Sticking my hand to the back, I felt a piece of cloth. It was a handkerchief monogrammed
ERT
in tight navy blue stitches. Edwina R. Trevelyan. Evoking my botanical collection, it smelled of lilac toilet water coupled with another scent, too faint to place. I put it back and, as I closed the drawer, I noticed half of a calling card sticking out of her Bible. I picked it up. Mr. John Martin, Esq.
BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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