The Mistaken Widow. Cheryl St.John
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was testing her, purely and simply. And she was failing miserably because of her total unpreparedness. She didn’t have a clue who Stephen or Claire Halliday were. And since it appeared her stay with the Hallidays was stretching into infinity, she’d better do something about her lack of information. Soon.
She could learn about Stephen from Leda. The woman loved to talk about him, and it would seem only natural to discuss and share their loss.
Claire, however, was another matter. The more Sarah thought about it, the more she became convinced that Nicholas would have had Claire investigated to protect the family’s interests. And if that were so, the results of the investigation were in his office somewhere, probably in that enormous, organized desk. If she could read the report she’d at least have an idea of who she was supposed to be playing. She’d know the same things that Nicholas knew.
She learned from Leda and the servants that he went to the foundry each day, and she formulated a plan.
The next day at supper she invited Leda to come to her room that evening, and when the woman arrived, they sipped tea and played cribbage by the fire.
“Tell me all about Stephen when he was a boy,” Sarah begged.
Leda smiled a forlorn smile. “He was as delightful as a boy as he was as a man,” she said. “He got into his share of mischief, mind you, but he was sweet and loving.”
“What about when he was in school?”
Leda told her story upon story, and as Sarah had hoped, she reflected on something in his adulthood from time to time. Sarah hung on every word, asking questions and joining her laughter and her tears. She felt close to Leda Halliday, closer than she had a right to, and she appreciated the time and the concern that the woman afforded her. Being there for solace and companionship was the least she could do.
She dreaded that one day she would have to tell her the truth and see the anguish her masquerade had wrought.
Once the hour grew late, Leda left for her own quarters, and Sarah prepared for bed.
The doctor arrived early the next morning.
“I think you’re well enough to walk on crutches. You haven’t had any dizzy spells or imbalance?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m feeling well.”
“I suggest you seek assistance on the stairs. We wouldn’t want you to take a tumble and break anything else.”
The following morning Sarah discovered her bottom worked quite well to make her way down the stairs. Sliding her crutches ahead, she slowly, determinedly, made her way to Nicholas’s office. She had only William’s nap time to use. Someone would come looking for her if she wasn’t there when he woke.
Nicholas’s filing cabinets were exceedingly neat and organized, but since she had no idea what Claire’s maiden name had been, the search proved tedious. The top drawers were especially difficult to reach because of the need to balance on one leg and rest often, but after nearly an hour she’d systematically gone through each file and folder without success.
In frustration, she discovered his desk drawers locked, and searched the top of the desk and every nearby surface for a key. Of course it wouldn’t be in plain sight. What would be the point of locking something if the key were readily visible?
William would be awake by now. She would have to discover the whereabouts of the key and return.
Sarah grabbed her crutches and left, sliding the doors closed behind her.
Leda and William took their naps about the same time each afternoon. She would risk less chance of discovery then than in the morning when the maids were cleaning. The following afternoon, Sarah left Mrs. Trent dozing in the rocker beside the crib and made her way along the upstairs hall, checking doors, and investigating rooms.
She recognized Leda’s rooms by merely cracking the door. The scent of violets wafted into the hallway. Sarah closed the door silently and continued her search.
The corridor turned into a separate wing. Sarah hobbled along the hallway, listening for servants, but hearing nothing save the steady muffled clump of her crutches on the carpeted floor.
Massive double doors stood at the end of the hall. Leaning on one crutch, she tested one and it opened.
Maneuvering herself as quickly as possible, she entered and closed the door behind her, noting the maid had already been there, for the bed was made and the chamber conspicuously clean.
The enormous room held a heavy grouping of furniture before a fireplace on one side, a writing desk in the corner, and a massive bed with ornately carved headboard and foot-board on a platform on the opposite side. A matching armoire stood against the wall, and one door led to a dressing room, another to a small, unfurnished room.
Where to start? This was all a waste of time and a foolish risk, especially if Nicholas carried the key with him, which he probably did. But the papers she wanted might be here.
The desk was the most likely place to begin her search. The drawers were unlocked, and unfruitful, occupied by neat stacks of writing paper, pens and ink and an assortment of letters.
Sarah shuffled through them, finding they were all from Stephen. She opened the first one, dated several years previous, and read an account of his experiences at a production in London. The next one related a tale of an interesting woman he’d met in the East, and another the excitement of an opening night for a play he’d been wanting to see in New York.
She replaced all but a few and slipped them into the deep pocket of her skirt. Nicholas wouldn’t miss these, and she would return the remaining missives after she’d learned more about Stephen. The knowledge would be useful when Nicholas tested her again.
The other drawers held nothing of any interest and, disappointed, she headed to the armoire. The scent of freshly starched cotton and linens assailed her. The smell triggered the disturbing memory of being held close against his hard chest, and for a moment the recollection was so strong, she could have sworn he was right there. Guiltily, she looked around, but she was alone.
A unique scent, perhaps something he used on his hair, combined with clean linen and a faint trace of tobacco to represent Nicholas.
Quickly, Sarah went through the drawers, careful not to disturb anything and feeling criminal for going through his private things. The top of the cabinet held a wooden chest. A logical place to keep a key. In one compartment she discovered two roses, one dried, one looking as though he’d placed it there within the past few days. But why? Sarah pulled the dying flower to her nose.
She remembered the flowers heaped upon Stephen’s grave, and the answer came to her. Where had the old brittle one come from, then? The portrait over the fireplace in his office came to mind. His father’s funeral? The sentimentality of the idea seemed incongruous with the stern, untrusting man she knew.
Perhaps a woman had given them to him. She replaced the flower.
A garnet ring in a heavy gold setting, several diamond stickpins, a pocket watch and some gold coins were all she found in the other compartments.
The stand near the bed came next, followed by the drawers in the tables beside the chairs.
A soft gong sounded, and Sarah jumped and glanced around. A clock on the armoire ticked a vigilant accusation. She took her hand from her thumping heart.
This was hopeless. If he wanted to hide a key it could be behind a painting or in any of the hundreds of pockets in his clothing. More and more she leaned toward the theory that it was on his person.
It would be inconvenient for him to come up here to use this desk. And he obviously didn’t keep any kind of business papers in his sleeping area. If he had, they would have been with Stephen’s letters. She would never have access to the key if he carried it with him.
Sarah propped the crutches beneath her arms and prepared to leave. The unmistakable