In Every Heartbeat (17 page)

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

L
ibby held the fine china saucer on her palm, lifted the teacup to her lips, and sipped daintily. Although she’d balked against Mrs. Rowley’s etiquette lessons at the orphans’ school, she now appreciated the woman’s insistence that she learn proper manners. She knew how to conduct herself appropriately in Alice-Marie’s family parlor. And after meeting Alice-Marie’s mother, she was certain she’d have been put in the kitchen with the servants if she’d proven incapable of following the dictates of polite society.

Throughout the ostentatiously decorated parlor, women, all topped by oversized feathered, flowered, and beribboned millinery, perched straight-spined on the edges of chairs. They sipped tea, pinky fingers high, and engaged in quiet conversation. Alice-Marie had been put to work refilling cups from a silver footed teapot, so Libby sat alone in the corner, waiting for the author to speak. On her right, two women discussed the memorial fountain being erected at the United States Barge Office in New York. She listened, trying not to giggle, as the conversation became heated.

“I simply think the money could have been put to better use. Perhaps as educational funds for the children of the operators,” the one with an ostrich-plumed hat said. The feather bobbed, nearly dipping into the woman’s teacup.

“I’m sure the owners of the
Titanic
are providing for any survivors of those lost at sea,” the second responded, her lips pursed so tightly Libby was amazed any sound managed to squeeze out. “But this fountain’s funding was provided by wireless operators to recognize one of their own. I see it as quite a complimentary gesture.”

“A
gesture
? Gracious, Myrtle, they’re erecting a twelve-ton white granite fountain!” The ostrich plume quivered indignantly as the woman tsk-tsked. “Isn’t that a bit . . . well, excessive?”

“I hardly see that it’s your concern. Did you contribute to the funding?” The second woman’s tone became severe, and the ostrich-plumed woman squirmed. “I personally think it’s lovely that a memorial is being established. The loss of the
Titanic
was such a tragedy.” Suddenly she leaned forward and pinned Libby with a penetrating look. “What do you think, young woman? I’m certain you heard every word of our exchange.”

Heat flooded Libby’s face. Had she been so obvious in her eavesdropping? “I . . . um . . .”

The woman with the ostrich-feather hat put her glove-covered hand on Libby’s knee. “Oh, ignore Myrtle. She’s a rabble-rouser. Always has been.” She bobbed her head up and down, tickling Libby’s cheek with the tips of the feather.

The purse-lipped woman leaned in, her eyes sparking. “And just ignore Stella. Everyone knows her entire family pinches a penny until Lincoln howls. Besides that, she’d argue with a table leg.”

Libby decided she preferred to ignore both of them. “Excuse me, please.” She rose and weaved her way through the room, searching for another empty seat. The only open chair sat beside a tall, thin woman with a very long, thin nose. Her features might have appeared less austere had she not parted her hair down the center and combed it smooth over her ears to the nape of her neck, where a tightly twisted bun stuck out like a doorknob. The austerity ended at her neck, however, where the high ruffled collar of her suit touched the underside of her pointy chin.

Libby couldn’t help staring at the woman’s suit; she’d never seen so many ruffles. Layers of ruffles marched from the woman’s chin past her narrow shoulders to her hips. The suit gave way to an expanse of smooth fabric that fit closely to her thighs and then exploded in a second abundance of wider ruffles from knee to ankle. If the ruffles weren’t enough to call attention, the color— bold turquoise—seemed to pulsate. A peacock would have been less noticeable.

Even though Libby wanted to sit rather than stand in the midst of the group, she hesitated at joining the flamboyantly dressed, dour-faced woman. While she stood, contemplating what to do, the woman in the peacock suit raised her hand and quirked her fingers at Libby.

Libby placed her hand against her chest, raising her eyebrows in silent query. The woman smiled and nodded, then patted the empty seat beside her. To refuse now would be rude, which would certainly displease her hostess. She crossed the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the embroidered chair seat.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The woman held out a startlingly slender hand. Libby hardly dared take it, the fingers looked so fragile. “I’m Catherine Whitford. And you are . . . ?”

Libby gasped, jerking her hand free. She nearly tipped her teacup. Carefully, she set the cup and saucer on the closest table and stared into the woman’s plain, impassive face. “You’re the author!”

Catherine Whitford laughed, showing small, straight teeth. “Yes, I am. And I must also be a pariah.” Her gaze swept the room, and she released a soft, throaty laugh. “You’re the first person who’s had enough courage to approach me since I arrived and Mrs. Daley placed me in this inconspicuous corner.”

Libby gulped. Had she known this woman was the author invited to share her experiences with Mrs. Daley’s society friends, she would have waited for Mrs. Daley to introduce her. She searched her memory for the etiquette rules concerning introducing oneself to a celebrity, but she couldn’t recall Mrs. Rowley covering the topic. She gulped and scrambled for a way to appear self-assured. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitford.”

“Miss.” The woman raised her chin. “I’ve never had the pleasure of matrimony, and at my age it’s unlikely.”

Libby studied the woman’s face and tried to determine how old she might be. Silvery strands lay amongst her otherwise brown hair, and fine lines feathered from her eyes; Libby believed Miss Whitford might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. She almost seemed ageless with her Spartan hairstyle and outlandish suit. Uncertain how to respond, Libby offered, “Perhaps you’ll still marry one day.”

Miss Whitford raised one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, it hardly matters. I have my career, and I find it very satisfying.”

Libby licked her lips and let her excitement surface. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Miss Whitford’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “But you haven’t yet told me your name, young woman.”

“Oh!” Libby swiped her palm along her skirt and offered her hand. “I’m Lib—Elisabet Conley. And . . .” Her breath caught in her throat. “I’m a writer, too.”

Miss Whitford tipped her head, her gaze penetrating. “What is it you write, Miss Conley?”

“Stories. For magazines. I’ve sold two so far.”

“Really? That’s quite an accomplishment for one so young.”

The compliment filled Libby with pleasure. “Thank you.”

“I assume you’re referring to fictional stories involving love affairs between unlikely partners?”

Libby, recalling the title of her first story, nearly gasped at the woman’s astute assessment. She nodded in reply.

Miss Whitford examined Libby by inches, her deep-set brown eyes drifting from Libby’s hair all the way to her toes and then up again. “And have you drawn from your own experiences to aid you in the construction of these stories?”

“W-what do you mean?”

The woman laughed. “Oh, come now, Miss Conley. A young woman as beautiful as yourself must have been the recipient of male attention. They say to write what one knows. Do you know of love affairs . . . personally?”

Libby thought her nose might catch fire, her face burned so hot. “No, ma’am! I’ve used my imagination . . . honestly.”

Another laugh trickled. “Now, don’t be offended. Writers are an obnoxious lot, as you’ll discover if you continue in this ridiculous occupation.” She smoothed the ruffles that fluttered across her bodice and arched one sparse eyebrow. “So tell me, Miss Conley, do you intend to continue writing love stories for magazines, or do you aspire to novels one day?”

“Actually . . .” Libby paused, half afraid of what the woman would say. “I hope to become a journalist. I’d like to record world events rather than make up stories. I’m using the magazine stories to establish my name as a writer.”

Miss Whitford flipped her hand outward and made a little
pffft
sound with her lips. “Journalism . . . a complete waste of time.”

Libby jerked backward. “Excuse me?”

“Can you recall for me, Miss Conley, the name of a popular author?”

Although Libby believed she might be walking into a trap, she swallowed and offered a short list of authors. “Frances Hodgson Burnett, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Zane Grey . . .” Petey was particularly fond of Zane Grey. She pushed that errant thought aside.

A smile curved Miss Whitford’s thin lips. “Excellent choices. And I’m quite positive those names will be recognized by readers twenty, thirty, even fifty years from now.” The smile turned conniving. “Now give me the name of the writer of the headline story for today’s edition of the
Missouri Courier
.”

Libby stared at the woman in silence.

Miss Whitford nodded, her expression smug. “Precisely what I presumed.”

Libby surprised herself by arguing with the author. “I might not know the man who wrote today’s headline, but I do know the names of several renowned journalists. William Stead, for example.”

“Yes, and look what happened to him,” Miss Whitford countered evenly. “I won’t deny he was a more-than-decent reporter, but part of the reason he’s well-known is because of his untimely demise in such an unusual manner. How many ships sink on their maiden voyage? The situation lent itself to infamy.”

Libby was beginning to feel like a passenger on the
Titanic
, going down with no hope of survival. “But—”

“Miss Conley, if you want to make a name for yourself, you need to become a novelist. Considering the success you’ve already experienced, I would say your chances are quite good.”

Libby held out her hands in supplication. “But I want to write serious stories.
Real
stories.” She’d already had to give up her dream of becoming the daughter of Maelle Watts Harders. She wouldn’t allow her dream of becoming a journalist to die without a fight. “I want to change the world!”

Libby nearly cringed at her own emotional outburst, but to Miss Whitford’s credit, she didn’t even blink. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and took Libby’s hand. “My dear, if you want to discover your place in the writing world, then you must explore. You’re a college student?”

She nodded. “At the University of Southern Missouri.”

“In the journalism program, I presume?”

She nodded again.

“And you’re finding it agreeable?”

Libby held her breath. Very slowly, she shook her head from side to side.

Miss Whitford’s lips twitched. “And why is it not agreeable?”

“Because I’m rolling over and crawling instead of running.” The author’s forehead furrowed, and Libby rushed to explain her cryptic answer. “So far, the articles I’ve written aren’t terribly important on a large scale. I want to write something bigger, something important. But I haven’t yet had the chance.”

“Then seize the chance!” Miss Whitford’s eyes sparkled with intensity, her plain face taking on a liveliness that made her look more attractive. “You’re writing love stories on your own. So write an article on your own. Continue in your coursework—you’ve paid for it, and the instructors will provide important guidance. But don’t limit yourself to their instruction. Do more. Choose a topic that interests you or adopt a cause that makes your blood boil. Write something of
meaning
. It’s the only way you’ll know for sure that this dream you’re harboring is worth pursuing.”

She leaned so close, her breath brushed Libby’s face. “Writers must write. You’ve discovered that by venturing outside the bounds of journalism to create fictional stories. But where does your true passion lie? Do some seeking, Elisabet Conley, and discover your passion—fictional stories or real-life events?” She sat upright, her face relaxing into the unperturbed, almost bored expression she’d been wearing before Libby came to sit beside her. “Some dreams are meant to be that—only dreams, dissipating with the morning light. But you won’t know for sure until you’ve tasted them.”

Libby nodded thoughtfully. She started to thank Miss Whit-ford for her advice, but Mrs. Daley bustled over and caught Libby’s hand. “Elisabet, go sit with Alice-Marie now. The program is about to begin.”

Libby rose and scurried to the far side of the room, where Alice-Marie had pulled two chairs close together near the parlor doorway. She listened to the author’s presentation, but nothing the woman said during her prepared talk on the world of publishing held as much intrigue as what she had shared privately.

The moment Miss Whitford finished, Libby slipped out of the parlor and headed for the study, where she’d seen the Daleys’ maid lay the morning paper for Alice-Marie’s father’s use. Eagerness to put the author’s advice into action propelled her down the hallway.

Closing the raised-panel pocket doors behind her, she bustled to the carved oak desk in front of the heavily draped windows on the far side of the study. Feeling like an intruder, she sat at the desk and opened the newspaper. She scanned the headings, exploring, as Miss Whitford had recommended, waiting for something to capture her attention so thoroughly it made her blood boil.

And on the seventh page—nearly the very end of the newspaper— a tiny block of print on the lower right-hand side sent her pulse racing.

Sixteen-year-old convicted of robbery and murder of drugstore clerk. Sentencing took place October 16, 1914, by the honorable Judge Merlin Simmons. The youth will be hanged by the neck on the 18
^th
of December in the basement of the courthouse. The judge said, “Perhaps his death will serve as an example to other street ruffians to abandon their lives of crime.”

Libby dropped the paper and stared straight ahead, her heart beating so hard and fast her ears rang. Sentenced to hang—and only sixteen years old. What kind of boy committed murder? Suddenly she had to know more. These simple lines couldn’t possibly tell the entire story.