Twenty

Supper was a good hearty pot roast with plenty of root vegetables, followed by an apple betty and fresh cream. I ate enthusiastically.

“So did you find the old Johnson place?” the landlady asked as she brought in a pot of coffee.

“I did. It seems such a shame that it’s being left to fall down.”

“A waste, that’s what I’d call it,” she said. “Sarah here recalls what it was like in its heyday, don’t you, Sarah?” She addressed this remark to the large, red-faced woman who was clearing the dishes from the table.

“I do,” Sarah confessed.

“Sarah was a maid there, you know.”

“Really?”

She smiled. “That’s right. I went to work for the Johnsons when I was fourteen and I stayed with them until they left. I helped look after Miss Lydia when she was a girl. Sweet little thing she was. Sweet and gentle and eager to please.”

“I heard she didn’t take any of her servants when they moved to New York. She didn’t ask you to go with her?”

“No, miss. Didn’t take a single one of us, not even Cook, who had been with the family all those years. But then it wasn’t Miss Lydia’s decision, I’m sure of that. He ruled the roost from the moment he showed up, didn’t he?”

My landlady nodded. “Pity that the Johnsons had to go and die.”

“It was. It was a grand place to work at one time,” Sarah said wistfully. “The house always just so and the gardens were really lovely. Old Mr. Johnson loved his garden, didn’t he. Employed a pack of gardeners—mostly foreigners . . .”

“I remember you were sweet on that one Italian gardener,” my landlady said, giving Sarah a nudge in her amply cushioned side. “What was his name? Antonio?”

Sarah snorted, then chuckled. “Go on with you. That was just girlish fantasies. He never looked at me twice, even though I have to say I was a good deal slimmer and better-looking in those days. If you ask me, it was Miss Lydia he was sweet on. Not that anything could have come of it, given the difference between their stations. But I remember how he used to push her on the swing and she’d look up at him, just so. . . . My, but he was handsome, wasn’t he?”

“What happened to him?” the landlady asked. “Did he go back to Italy?”

Sarah’s face clouded. “No, don’t you remember? He was killed. They reckon he drank too much at the saloon and fell off the bridge on his way home. His body was found floating in the river. Poor man. So young, too.”

She picked up the tray of dishes. “I dare say I’m better off with my Sam. Even if he’s not a barrel of laughs.” She chuckled again as she carried out the tray.

The landlady and I exchanged a glance.

“So would you know of any families around here who were friendly with Miss Lydia and the Johnsons?” I asked. “Someone must have stayed in touch with her when she moved.”

She stood, the coffee pot poised in one hand, and a cup in the other, thinking. “I never had dealings with the family personally, you understand, but Miss Lydia and I were around the same age, so I did hear of her from time to time. Those Johnsons kept a close rein on her, I can tell you. She wasn’t allowed to parties and dances like the other girls. And any young man who showed up on the doorstep was deemed unsuitable. Old Pa Johnson thought the world of her. No man was going to be good enough for her.”

“But she chose Horace Lynch,” I said, thinking of the unpleasant, bald-headed face and the sagging jowls.

“After her father died,” my landlady said. “I think she needed someone to boss her around the way her father used to. It’s funny how we women make the same mistakes over and over, isn’t it.”

“But as to friends around here?”

“The Johnsons were not what you’d call social people,” she said. “He was caught up in his work and she was a shy thing. I suppose they must have given dinner parties and ladies’ teas like anyone else but I can’t tell you who they invited to them. I wasn’t of that class. And as to the daughter—well, she went to the ladies’ seminary with the other girls of good families. Miss Addison’s, it’s called.”

“It’s still in operation?”

“Oh yes. Miss Addison—she’s an institution around here. On Buckley Street. That’s to the right off Main. I’m sure she’s kept a list of past pupils and will be able to help you.”

I drank my coffee, nodded to fellow guests, and went up to my room. That night a fierce storm blew through, rattling the window frames and howling down the chimneys. I lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, trying to think things through. What was I doing here? What did I hope to discover? I had heard the basic facts—Lydia’s parents died. Any remaining family was in Scotland. She had married Horace Lynch and moved to New York to be near the bright lights and high society. End of story as far as Williamstown was concerned. My thoughts turned to Fanny Poindexter, and her friend Dorcas. If Fanny’s husband had killed her, we’d have no way of proving it. I was glad Dorcas looked as if she was on the road to recovery, or my life would become impossibly complicated.

By morning the wind and rain had abated and a lovely spring day awaited me as I came out of the inn, my stomach full of hotcakes, sausage, and maple syrup. The hotcakes and maple syrup were a new experience for me, one that I looked forward to repeating. I soon realized that it was Saturday. The college was not bustling with students as it had been the day before. No doubt they were enjoying sleeping in after a hard week of study, or a harder night at the taverns!

I turned off Main Street as directed and found myself on Buckley. Miss Addison’s was announced on a painted sign swinging outside a dignified old white clapboard house. I went up the path and knocked on the front door. A maid opened it and immediately I heard the sound of girlish laughter coming from a back room. I explained my mission and was admitted to a parlor, where I was soon joined by Miss Addison herself—a venerable old woman with upright carriage, steel-gray hair, and steely eyes. I explained my visit.

“You remember Lydia Johnson?” I asked.

Her face softened. “Indeed I do. A bright girl. Very bright indeed. Loved to read. Absolutely devoured books. And not just light, fluffy novels that most girls of her age love. She’d wade through the biographies and the histories, finish them in no time, and beg for more. She wanted very much to go to college but her father wouldn’t hear of her going away. We tried to persuade him that a ladies’ institution like Vassar or Smith would be suitable and safe, but he wouldn’t bend. It’s always a shame when a good brain goes to waste, I think.”

“I agree,” I said. “So would you happen to know of any women who were Lydia’s friends while she was here, with whom she might have kept in contact after she moved away?”

“I couldn’t tell you with whom she corresponded,” Miss Addison said, “but I could take a look at her class records. Let me see. She would have been the class of seventy-seven, wouldn’t she? Please take a seat.”

She went and I amused myself by looking at graduation pictures of past years—all similar young girls in white, holding sprays of flowers like brides, their faces alive and hopeful, also like brides. How many of them went on to use their minds and pursue their dreams, I wondered. There was a squeal outside the door and a girl rushed in, her red-blond curls tied back in a big bow, a gingham pinafore over her dress. She saw me, started with a look of alarm, and turned bright red.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize anybody was here. We were just—”

“I’m going to get you, Mary Ann,” another girl’s voice shouted outside. “You just wait and—” It fell silent.

“Letitia. Young ladies never raise their voices. How many times do I have do tell you?” came the headmistress’s deep voice.

“Sorry, Miss Addison,” came the muttered response.

Mary Ann slunk out of the room as Miss Addison reentered. “I apologize for that little outburst,” she said with just the hint of a smile. “It is Saturday and the girls do need to let off steam occasionally.” She came to sit beside me on the sofa. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Here we are. Lydia Johnson. Now let me see. Rose Brinkley—she’s still in town. Married a professor at Williams. What was his name? Sutton. That’s it. And Jennie Clark. She married locally. Herman Waggoner. He’s a doctor. Went into partnership with his father here in town. And Hannah Pike. I seem to remember that she and Lydia were good friends. She hasn’t married but she became a professor at Mount Holyoke ladies’ college. A proud moment for me, as you can imagine.”

I was rather afraid she’d go down the whole list, giving me the history of each graduate, so I interrupted. “So were any of these girls Lydia’s particular friends, do you recall? How about Rose Sutton, née Brinkley?”

“Yes, I think she and Lydia were tight. And Lydia and Hannah Pike, of course.”

“Would you know how I could locate Rose Brinkey?”

“He’s a professor of history here at the college, so the history department should be able to give you that information. And Doctor Waggoner has his practice on South Street, if you wish to speak to Jennie, his wife.”

“Thank you for your time.” I stood up and shook hands. “This should give me something to go on. If I learn nothing from the women here in Williamstown, then maybe I can write to the professor at Mount Holyoke.”

We shook hands and she looked at me with that piercing gaze. “A woman in business for herself. I like that. Maybe I can persuade you to come and address our students one day. They tend to accept the role of wife and mother all too compliantly.”

“I will certainly come if I am able,” I said and walked out, tickled pink at the thought of myself as a role model for young ladies at a seminary.

I went to the history department at the college first and came away with Professor Sutton’s address. As I opened the gate to their front yard the door opened and a woman of about the right age came out, followed by several boys ranging in age from teens to six or seven.

“Come along, Wilfred. Don’t dawdle,” the woman looked back and called.

I introduced myself and stated my purpose.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time to talk at the moment, as you can see,” she said, separating two boys who had started to scuffle. “We’re off to buy new boots for the boys. They get through them in no time at all. But you can walk with us, if you’ve a mind to.”

We started down the street, the boys running ahead, kicking rocks and generally behaving like boys anywhere.

She turned to me with a tired smile. “I never thought I’d be the mother of seven sons. Not a daughter in sight. And they eat us out of house and home.”

I turned the conversation back to Lydia.

“Yes, I remember her well,” she said. “We were good friends in school. Everyone was friends with Lydia. She was just that sort of person. She loved to laugh and dance and have fun. Of course her parents forbade that sort of thing so we’d have to sneak her to our parties under false pretenses.” Her face became quite young again and she giggled.

“Miss Addison says she was a good student, too.”

“Very bright. She and I talked about going to Vassar—we thought that would be so glamorous to be near New York and on the Hudson—but her father said no and mine couldn’t afford it. I did the next best thing and married a professor. I thought we’d have long, intellectual discussions, but most of our time seems to be spent separating fighting boys. William, Henry, stop that at once,” she yelled.

“When she moved away, did you keep in touch with her?”

“I didn’t, and I’ve since regretted it,” she said. “Of course it was all done rather suddenly. One minute they were here, the next packed up and gone.”

“Any idea why that was?”

“I heard a rumor that she became sick. From what I gathered she developed consumption and her husband was sending her out west to a hot, dry climate to try to cure her,” she said. “But then later I heard that she had died anyway, poor thing.”

“Consumption? Do you know where he sent her?”

“They usually send them to Pasadena, don’t they? Or to the Arizona desert. But, no, I was busy with a baby at the time and you know how it is—you intend to stay in touch but you don’t.”

So that was why Lydia had turned from a fun-loving, vibrant young person into the invalid that Emily remembered. She had never fully recovered from her illness.

I left Mrs. Sutton shepherding her brood down the street. I wondered if I should also contact the doctor’s wife to see what she had heard about Lydia’s disappearance. It was easy enough to locate the offices of Drs. Waggoner and Waggoner, in a solid square brick house, just off Main Street. There I learned that Mrs. Waggoner was not home but that the doctor could maybe see me between patients. I was shown in. Dr. Waggoner was a tall, rangy man with a shock of graying hair. We shook hands and I explained my mission. He nodded seriously.

“Yes, I remember Lydia Johnson well. An attractive young person. My father used to be physician to her family. I was surprised when she married that Lynch fellow, and even more surprised when I heard that she’d been sent out west, apparently diagnosed with consumption.”

“So your father wasn’t the one who made the diagnosis?”

“No. I’m trying to remember if Lynch used the services of another doctor in town. I don’t believe we ever treated him, or her after her marriage. But maybe they were never sick until that moment. She certainly always seemed full of life when I saw her. And I understand that the stay out west didn’t cure her, either.”

I shook my head. “She died a few years later.”

“Such a terrible wasting disease,” he said. “As a physician one feels so powerless. Essentially we can only let it take its course.” He looked up as his nurse indicated the next patient was waiting. I got to my feet and shook his hand again.

“I’ll let my wife know that you stopped by to visit.”

I wasn’t sure what to do next. It all seemed rather cut-and-dried here. Lydia had married Horace, contracted consumption, and moved away. But the thought did cross my mind that it was rather a risky undertaking to bring a baby into a home with consumption, because she obviously hadn’t been cured by her stay out west.

I debated as I walked down the street and decided that the next thing to do would be to visit the county seat and see if any Boswells might have lived in the area within living memory. If Lydia had never been to Scotland, she was hardly likely to take on the child of relatives she had never met.

I was on my way to the courthouse, thinking gloomily that Boswell was a common enough name, as was Johnson, when it suddenly hit me. I stood stock-still on the sidewalk, oblivious to the pedestrians who had to walk around me. How could I have been so completely blind? When I started to put together the facts, suddenly they all added up. Lydia Lynch, née Johnson—the fun-loving girl who loved to dance and go to parties but was overprotected by her strict parents. The girl who was described by her school principal as a gifted student, always with a book in her hands. And the handsome Italian gardener who had pushed her on a swing and then had so conveniently fallen off a bridge and died. And she had been sent out west in a hurry. And I knew that I probably wouldn’t find any Boswells at the courthouse. As I had suspected all along, the only person who could clear up this matter for me would be Horace Lynch. I didn’t look forward to facing him again, but I had to try out my hunch on him.

I marched straight back to the station and caught the next train home, having bought a copy of the New York Herald to keep me occupied during the long journey. I sat impatiently as the train steamed southward and tried to read. Then suddenly I saw an article that caught my eye:

YOUNG OPERA STAR’S TRAGIC DEATH.

THE NEW YORK MUSIC WORLD IS MOURNING THE LOSS OF ONE OF ITS BRIGHTEST YOUNG HOPES, THE SOPRANO HONORIA MASTERS. MISS MASTERS, SCION OF A SOCIETY FAMILY WHO LEFT THE GLITTERING LIFE OF THE FOUR HUNDRED TO PURSUE AN EXACTING CAREER ON THE OPERA STAGE, DIED YESTERDAY OF A BRIEF, UNEXPLAINED ILLNESS. THE TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD MISS MASTERS MADE HER DEBUT AT THE METROPOLITAN OPERA A YEAR AGO AND WAS SCHEDULED TO SING WITH THE GREAT ITALIAN TENOR ENRICO CARUSO WHEN HE COMES TO AMERICA LATER THIS YEAR.

There was something about the article that bothered me and at first I couldn’t think what it was. Then I realized it was the name Honoria. Not the most common of names, and it had come up in conversation recently. Of course. Dorcas had said that Honoria had been to visit her and Emily had said that she hadn’t been in touch with Honoria since she became famous. It had to be the same person. And she had visited Dorcas and she had died.