Words Spoken True: A Novel Read online

Her father’s editorial made no mention of the murders. Instead he expounded on the qualifications any voter needed in order to make an intelligent choice in an election. Colonel Storey’s letter attacked the Know Nothing party for its secretive ways and asked what possible reason a political party could have for keeping its aims and purposes unknown to the general public. The letter carried just the slightest hint that something illicit might be going on.

  Her father had fired off a response to her Colonel Storey letter, claiming it to be a sacred right of Americans to assemble as they pleased and to promote the good of the country in whatever manner the assemblage deemed best. She read his words with a slight smile.

  This editor has attended some of the “secret” meetings our dear Colonel Storey refers to, and I can attest to my readers that the members of the Know Nothings, more correctly called the American Party, are simply working to preserve the special God-given freedoms to which all true Americans are entitled. Note that this editor speaks of true Americans. That means those men who were born here on our sacred soil and have fought and bled for the freedoms we hold so dear. I have to wonder how the good Colonel came by his military title. From his words it doesn’t seem as though he knows the value of serving his country.

  Her father had responded to her Colonel Storey letter just as she’d expected. In fact she could probably have written the words for him. Sometimes she did. She knew how he would think. She knew how her imaginary Colonel Storey would think. What she sometimes didn’t know was how she herself thought.

  The words in front of her eyes faded away as she remembered again the party that night. She couldn’t allow this to go any further. With a deep breath for courage, she stood up to go face her father. She could not marry Stanley Jimson. At least not so soon. Perhaps she might be able to learn to care for Stanley in a way that might lead to marriage, but she needed time to develop such feelings. Surely her father would understand.

  Her father was holed up in his small office off the pressroom with the door closed. That meant he was working on a story, but Adriane knocked anyway.

  “Come back in half an hour,” her father shouted.

  Risking his anger, Adriane cracked open the door and said, “I need to talk to you now, Father.”

  His voice changed, lightened. “Adriane, of course. Come in.”

  She pushed the door the rest of the way open and carefully sidestepped the stacks of old papers, books, and flyers to stand in the narrow bit of free space in front of her father’s desk. Makeshift shelves full of more books and papers lined the wall behind his desk. Boxes of old type and who knew what else gathered dust behind the door. There was one ladder-back chair intended for visitors, but it too was piled high with papers. Her father had tossed the rumpled copy of the Herald on top of the pile, and just seeing it sent a strange little jolt through Adriane.

  She couldn’t think about Blake Garrett. Not now. She needed to come up with the right arguments to convince her father she wasn’t ready for marriage. To Stanley Jimson or anyone. She stared at her father as she tried to organize her thoughts.

  Wade Darcy’s desk was an island of neatness in the midst of all the other confusion of paper in his office. The last week’s issues of the Tribune were stacked neatly on the right-hand corner of his desk as always. Blank paper waited on the left corner. His pens and ink were laid out and ready in front of him just above the dark green blotter. A couple of New York papers, some telegraph messages, and a few letters lay within easy reach as he worked on a story.

  Even the page full of handwritten words in front of him was neat with few scratch outs. Adriane had always been awed by how her father was able to get his stories and editorials the way he wanted them the first time, while she had to rework anything she wrote at least twice before she could bear to think of seeing it in print. He told her he’d learned to write it right the first time through practice and because of deadlines, and that someday, with practice and dedication, she might have the same control over her own written words.

  Adriane had been writing long enough to doubt that, but she did need to be sure she got these words she was about to speak right the first time. As she looked at her father, smiling up at her from behind his desk, she wished she’d taken time to practice what she needed to say. For a minute she considered racing upstairs to her room to argue her case in front of her mirror or perhaps even try the words out in her journal before she spoke them aloud to her father. She sent up a quick prayer that the words she needed would find their way to her tongue.

  “Forgive me for interrupting you, Father,” Adriane started.

  “That’s no problem. This story is practically writing itself.” Her father waved at the paper in front of him and then smiled at her. “Have you come to talk about the party tonight? Lucilla’s woman, Nora, showed me your dress. It’s very elegant. You’ll have to be sure to thank Lucilla properly.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh yes, and I was supposed to tell you that Lucilla will send one of her maids over to help with your hair. I am to send one of the hands to fetch her.”

  “That’s hardly necessary. I’m quite capable of fixing my own hair.” Adriane had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The conversation was not starting out well.

  “If you prefer, but you do want to look your best.” He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “So you may need to be getting ready soon.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Father.”

  “Don’t worry if you didn’t get something done. Beck can handle whatever it is.”

  “I know he can,” Adriane agreed. “And everything’s running on schedule in any case. The quotes you got from the mayor and chief of police were just what the murder story needed and should reassure the townspeople.” Adriane’s eyes strayed to the Herald. She thought about telling her father about meeting Blake Garrett, but bit back the words. She had to concentrate on getting a reprieve from this sentence of marriage.

  “That was my aim,” her father said. “The Tribune doesn’t print stories just for the sensational value but for the good of our readers. The citizens of our town need to be assured that the authorities have things under control.”

  “Do they?” Adriane couldn’t keep from asking.

  “You aren’t concerned, are you, Adriane? I mean for your own safety.” Her father took off his reading spectacles and peered up at her face. “Chief Trabue tells me the murders are localized in the immigrant areas of the town and that none of our ladies have any reason to doubt their safety. Besides, you shouldn’t be worrying about anything but your own happiness today. I assume Stanley did speak with you.”

  “He spoke with me. It appears someone else has already spoken to the rest of the town. Everybody at Mrs. Wigginham’s gathering was whispering about us.”

  “Such good news is hard to keep secret.” A smile spread across her father’s face again.

  In the face of his obvious happiness over the whole affair, Adriane hesitated. She had no desire to disappoint him. Ever since she could remember, she’d always tried to please her father whenever she could. After all, he was the one who had rescued her from the dark closets and Henrietta. He was the one who had taught her history and encouraged her reading. He was the one whose love she’d never had to doubt.

  And yet there had always been a kind of reserve between them. She couldn’t remember him ever swinging her up in the air when she was a little girl. He never complimented any of her stories in the Tribune. Indeed he hardly seemed aware of the work she did on the paper or to keep the household running smoothly. Until Lucilla had come along and perhaps pointed out the value of having an attractive daughter to make a proper marriage, Adriane doubted her father had given the first thought to her appearance.

  Now as he sat waiting for her to speak, he fingered his spectacles and let his eyes stray back to the page in front of him. She knew she’d best hurry out her arguments before she lost his attention altogether. “Father, I wonde
r if it might not be possible to wait awhile on the announcement.”

  He looked puzzled, unsure of her meaning at first. “Which announcement is that? No candidates have officially filed for office yet, have they?”

  “No, Father. I mean the announcement of Stan’s and my engagement.” The smile fled his face, and Adriane rushed on before he could speak. “I need time to get used to the idea.”

  “What is there to get used to, Adriane? You’ve been seeing Stanley for months. He’s a good man from a fine upstanding family, and he’ll be able to provide well for you. Your future will be secure.”

  Again the word “secure” echoed hollowly inside her head. Her heart was beating too fast and her hands felt clammy, but she made herself put forth her best argument against the union. “I don’t love Stan, Father.”

  Her father frowned and with his hands on the blotter pushed himself up to a standing position. He leaned across the desk to stare straight at her. “Love? What romantic nonsense is this?”

  Her heart began pounding even harder, but Adriane stood her ground. “Marriage should be a union of love.”

  “You’ll learn to love Stanley,” her father said.

  “I’m not sure that I can, Father.”

  He pushed away from his desk and tried to pace back and forth, but there wasn’t room between the shelves of books and stacks of papers. So instead he stood still a moment and stared at the wall.

  Adriane had seen him do the same thing a thousand times when he was searching for the right way to word his arguments in an important editorial. When at last he began speaking again, it was slowly and with great care, as though she might not be capable of understanding. Adriane had heard him speak to opposing editors in the very same tone, and her heart sank. He was going to refuse to understand.

  “My dear, I think you have some misconceptions about the union of marriage. You mustn’t believe what you read in those ladies’ magazines or the silly novels some women are writing these days. Love is not the most important factor in a marriage. Far from it, in fact.”

  Adriane started to say something, but her father cut her off. “You can’t argue with me on this, Adriane. I have more experience than you. I’ve been married twice.”

  “I know,” Adriane said quietly. “I lived through one of those marriages. I saw how it destroyed Henrietta.”

  They had not spoken of Henrietta since her funeral over ten years ago, and now her father’s eyes burned into Adriane even as he answered in his calmest voice. “It was not the lack of love that destroyed poor Henrietta but the lack of babies. And there was nothing I could do about that. The fault was with her.”

  Adriane wanted to ask what it was that had destroyed her own mother, but she dared not voice the question, even though Henrietta’s words that her mother had wanted to die echoed in her head. Instead Adriane said, “And do you love Lucilla?”

  Her father met her look directly. “I am very fond of Lucilla. She’s a lovely woman, but love is not the most important consideration in our decision to marry.”

  “What is, Father?”

  “Comfort. Security. Lucilla has both to offer me. Stanley Jimson has both to offer you.”

  “I’m happy with my life the way it is.”

  At last his eyes softened on her. “But you can’t stay my child all your life, Adriane. Lucilla says it’s not proper to have you working so much on the paper and neglecting the more important things a young lady your age should be doing. She says it’s time you married.”

  “And what do you say, Father?”

  “Lucilla is a woman. She knows more about these sorts of things than I.”

  “I am a woman too.”

  Her father came around the desk to take her hands. “You are. A very beautiful woman, but Lucilla tells me I have neglected your proper upbringing. That you know more about being a man than you do a woman and that you are very fortunate to have someone like Stanley Jimson who adores you as you are.”

  “I’m not at all sure that is true.”

  “But it is. He thinks you’re the most wonderful girl he’s ever known.” Her father was smiling again now. “Remember, he talked to me yesterday.”

  “He doesn’t know the real Adriane Darcy.”

  Her father squeezed her hands a bit and laughed gently at her. “There is only one Adriane Darcy, my dear. And since he’s been keeping company with you for a good while, I’m certainly sure he’s aware of the type of person you are. He respects and admires your talents and individuality.”

  “His mother has taken to her bed.” Adriane wasn’t sure why she brought up Meta Jimson except that she was running out of other arguments.

  “Meta has always been too possessive when it comes to Stanley. She would be upset no matter whom he had chosen to marry, but given time, she will learn to love you.”

  “It appears we all have a lot of learning to do.” Adriane squared her shoulders as she looked directly into her father’s eyes. “I’m not sure I can go through with it, Father. Not unless I have time to adjust to the idea.”

  “The marriage won’t have to be right away. You’ll have plenty of time to appreciate all the advantages of marriage to Stanley Jimson, and by the day of the happy event, you’ll be eager to join with him in holy matrimony.”

  Adriane pulled her hands away from her father’s touch. She studied his face a moment longer before she said, “What if I refuse? What if I say I cannot marry Stan?”

  “Cannot?”

  “All right.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “Will not.”

  He looked at her sadly for a moment. “You’re twenty-two, Adriane. There are decisions that I suppose I cannot make for you anymore. This may very well be one of them, but you know how I feel. I want you to marry Stanley. I think he will make you happy, and I know it would make Lucilla and me very happy to see you in such a good situation before we marry ourselves. I don’t think you should make any kind of foolish decisions just because of a silly, romantic notion about love.”

  “And what happens if I do make the ‘foolish’ decision not to marry Stan?”

  Her father’s sadness now was mixed with a bit of anxious concern as he began to realize how serious Adriane was. “I really don’t know. I suppose I might be able to help you obtain a position as a teacher in one of the female academies in the North, although that wouldn’t be what I would wish for you, my dear.” Again he frowned. “And the Jimsons will naturally be upset. Coleman Jimson might withdraw his support from the Tribune, perhaps even insist on replacing me as editor.”

  “How could he do that? The Tribune is your paper.”

  Her father went back to stand behind his desk. He stared down at the papers there for a moment before he answered. “A little over a year ago we were short of cash and Coleman loaned me some money. I haven’t been able to repay him as yet.” He looked up at Adriane. “I will, of course, but he has been very considerate and has allowed me to take my time gathering the necessary funds. You understand, don’t you, Adriane?”

  And at last she did. The words came hard, but she said them. “Yes, Father. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I am being too romantic.”

  “You are fond of Stanley, aren’t you, Adriane?” Frown lines wrinkled his face as he peered across the desk at her.

  “Of course. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  So much relief washed over her father’s face that Adriane feared he hadn’t told her everything, but she didn’t ask any more questions. She simply listened as he said, “I feel very sure Stanley will make you very happy, Adriane. I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this, no matter what, in any other case.”

  “I know, Father.” Adriane forced a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best begin dressing for the party tonight.”

  Again he came around the desk, this time to lay his hand on her cheek. It was the most affectionate gesture they ever exchanged, and Adriane wished for one crazy moment that he would hug her. “You will look beautiful in your new dress,�
� he said.

  Adriane turned away from him and fled the office before he could see the tears in her eyes.

  Upstairs in her room, the beautiful blue dress spread across her bed mocked her. Adriane blinked away her tears and ran her fingers across the sleek fabric. She had to wear the dress. She understood that now. Slowly her hand moved up to touch one of the small bows decorating the neckline. Adriane had wanted Nora to take the bows off, but the dressmaker had assured her they were the latest rage on all the most fashionable dresses.

  Adriane brushed away the last trace of tears and found her small sewing scissors on top of her bureau. With great care she snipped the threads holding the bows and pulled them off the dress. She might have to wear the dress. She did not have to wear the bows.

  7

  Blake Garrett sat at his desk and stared at the blank paper in front of him. He should have had the piece about Mrs. Wigginham’s little benefit written an hour ago. All he had to do was wax eloquent about Mrs. Wigginham’s noble desire to expand the holdings of the library and the fine support the ladies of the community were giving her efforts. He ought to be able to write the piece in his sleep, but thoughts of Adriane Darcy kept pushing everything else out of his mind.

  He’d stayed at Mrs. Wigginham’s far longer than the half hour he had planned, talking to a dozen pretty young things who tried to enlighten him on the meaning of the flowers a gentleman might send a lady. Silly little Cordie Fricklan had even found a copy of a book detailing this gentle art of expression in Mrs. Wigginham’s parlor to show Blake. He feigned interest, all the while secretly watching Adriane Darcy.

  He kept thinking he must have seen her somewhere before. Something about her was so familiar, especially those wonderful eyes, but he would remember if he had. No man was likely to forget meeting such a beautiful woman. While his eyes were pulled to her like iron filings to a magnet, she ignored him completely as she worked her way through the guests with young Jimson dancing attendance on her.

  Every time Jimson caught Blake’s eyes on Adriane, he glared across the room at Blake. Blake merely smiled back, half taunting the man. Stanley Jimson was a milksop, a mama’s boy. The talk around town was that even his father had little use for him in spite of the fact Stanley was his only son.