The Widow's Secret

The Bingham family had done their job well.

Micah tucked his thumbs inside the pockets of his vest, struggling to reconcile the enchanting bride with the embittered woman on the sidewalk in front of Clocks & Watches.

Even on a cloudy day her hair still glowed with color, shot through with every hue of red in God’s palette. And the freckles still covered her face, making a mockery of her chilly disdain.

Lord, of all the people in the world, she’s the one I don’t want to be suspicious of.

A raindrop splashed onto Micah’s nose. He tugged down the brim of his hat, and set off across the street. Regardless of his feelings, and her current marital status, Jocelyn Bingham Tremayne required thorough investigation.

She would have children, of course.

Children…

For their sakes as much as hers, Micah hoped his investigation would prove her innocent. Deep in thought, he caught a passing horsecar and rode to the terminus at New Reservoir Park, where, instead of tending to his duties, he watched the sky gradually clear of rain clouds. When sunset turned the western horizon glowing red, he breathed a silent prayer for strength, then caught the last horsecar back to town.

Chapter Two

It rained once more during the night, but the next morning brought enamel-blue skies and the fragrance of fall in the air. As she patiently curled snippets of her hair on either side of her forehead, Jocelyn abruptly decided to take a drive in the countryside.

The spit curls on her forehead were forgotten as she yanked the pins out of her topknot and began twining her hair into a braid instead. Trying to look fashionable while driving an open buggy was not only vain, but ridiculous. She may have turned into an eccentric, but she would not stoop to silliness.

Katya, the day servant she employed to clean house and do the laundry, had just arrived and was filling a pail of soapy water when Jocelyn clattered down the stairs to the basement kitchen.

“Morning, Katya. I’m going for a drive in the country.”

Katya smiled her crooked smile and nodded. The Russian girl had suffered some dreadful accident when she was a child, and though she could hear, she could not speak; the right side of her mouth remained paralyzed, her vocal cords somehow damaged beyond repair. Jocelyn had spent the past two years teaching her to read and write English, so for the most part communication between them remained snarl-free, but Katya was as reticent about her past as Jocelyn was. If sometimes the silence in the brownstone chafed a bit, Jocelyn could always go next door and talk to her neighbors.

“I should be back early this afternoon. I made some hot-cross buns last night, and there are preserves in the larder. Make sure you eat something, all right?”

The girl gestured to the pantry.

“I’ll stop by the market on my way to the livery stable, pick up something for lunch. I can put it in my shopping bag.”

Jocelyn grabbed some extra handkerchiefs to stuff inside the bag, as well, since any drive in the country included dust or, since it had rained the previous night, splatters of mud flying from the buggy wheels and horse’s hooves. When she thrust the extra hankies into the bottom of the shopping bag, however, her fingers brushed against something hard and round. Puzzled, Jocelyn withdrew what turned out to be a man’s watch.

What on earth?

Jocelyn laid the shopping bag on the seat of the hall tree without taking her gaze from the watch case. It was a handsome thing, made of gold, with an intricate design engraved in bas-relief on the bottom half of the lid. But when she flicked it open, instead of a timepiece, she found a piece of paper. When she unfolded it, to her astonishment it turned out to be a ten-dollar bill. Inside the bill was a ten-dollar gold piece.

Jocelyn turned the coin over and over, not recognizing its markings, knowing only that it was not like any coin she’d ever seen, or spent. As for the ten-dollar bill…Carefully she smoothed it out, turned it and saw that the engraving on the back was slightly blurred, the print not as crisp as it should be. Goodness, but she was holding a counterfeit bill! Written in a hurried black scrawl across the blurred engraving were the words “Remember to use…” That was all.

Fear crept into her mind, dark as a blob of ink staining the paper. Trembling, she stared down at the forged bill, the coin and the innocent-looking watch case until her icy fingers cramped.

She couldn’t stuff the thing away in a drawer and pretend she didn’t have it, nor could she pay a visit to the police station.

Nobody in Richmond, or even in the state of Virginia, knew that the widow Tremayne was legally the widow Bingham, whose husband, Chadwick, had hanged himself from the fourth-story balustrade of their Hudson River estate in New York, precisely five years and twenty-six days earlier.

A flurry of telegrams throughout the next two days left Micah exhausted, edgy and exhilarated. Chief Hazen, head of the Secret Service, had been furious over his blunder with Foggarty, yet placated by Micah’s assurance that he had stumbled onto the possibility of the first solid lead in a case plaguing the Service for eight years.

Micah steadfastly refused to divulge names, or details, citing his concern over accusing an innocent civilian in the absence of definitive proof.

An express letter from Hazen arrived while Micah was eating breakfast at the Lexington Hotel. Your obfuscatory explanations are duly noted. A contradiction exists between what you deem a “solid lead,” and your fears of unjust accusations. While strict adherence to Agency policy is required, obfuscation is not appreciated.

As he drove the rental hack toward Grove Avenue, Micah chewed over the implications…and faced squarely that, for the first time in his eight years as a Secret Service operative, he was a hairsbreadth away from allowing personal feelings to interfere with his professional responsibilities.

He might have been alarmed, except for the anticipation singing along his nerve endings over seeing Jocelyn Bingham-now-Tremayne again.

When he arrived at the Grove Avenue address Mr. Hepplewhite had supplied, he spent a few moments studying the place while he collected his thoughts. She lived in a plainly appointed but attractive brick town house with two sturdy white-painted columns supporting its front porch, a much smaller dwelling than he would have expected, considering who her former husband had been.

The door opened. A plump young woman with dark hair and wary brown eyes appeared, swathed in a soiled apron, with a mobcap tilted precariously on her head. She smiled a lopsided smile at Micah but did not speak.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to see your employer. Mrs. Tremayne, isn’t it?”

Recognition flared in the bright eyes. She bobbed a curtsy and stepped back, gesturing with her hand. After a rapid assessment Micah noted the droop in the facial muscles on the right side of her face, the lack of movement on the right side of her mouth when she smiled. He revised any plans of interrogating her; his estimation of Mrs. Tremayne rose at this evidence of charity toward a woman unable to speak, though there appeared to be nothing wrong with her hearing. Few households employed servants with any sign of deformity or, if they hired them, relegated them to menial work, where they remained out of sight.

Mrs. Tremayne allowed her maidservant to answer the door.

“Katya? Did someone knock? I thought I heard—Oh!”

The woman who, along with the telegrams, had disturbed his sleep all night stood frozen on the staircase. Above the frilly lace bow tied at her neck, her throat muscles quivered, and the knuckles of the hand resting on the banister turned white.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. Then, her voice taut with strain, “Who are you?”

At her sharp tone, quick as a blink, the maid darted over to barricade herself in front of her mistress, her gaze daring Micah to take one more step into the foyer. Nothing wrong with her hearing, or her loyalty, he noted with a tinge of satisfaction. Somewhere inside the evasive and haughty Mrs. Tremayne still lived the forthright bride he remembered, whose handicapped servant sprang to her defense.

“I need to ask you a few questions. Nothing ominous,” he answered. “My name, since we didn’t get around to formal introductions yesterday, is Micah MacKenzie. Operative MacKenzie, of the United States Secret Service. We’re part of the Treasury Department, assigned to protect the national currency by tracking down counterfeiters.” After flipping open his credentials, he pushed aside his jacket to reveal the badge, also revealing his .45 Colt revolver.

Though brief, he caught the flash of raw fear before all expression disappeared from Mrs. Tremayne’s befreckled face. “Are you here in an official capacity, Operative MacKenzie? Accusing me of the crime of counterfeiting?”

Hmm. Somewhere over the years, along with a patina of social smuggery, she’d also learned how to reduce a person to the level of an ant. “Depends on what you have to say, Mrs. Tremayne.” Glancing at the maid, he added, “I imagine I interrupted your maid’s work. She’s free to go about her tasks while you and I talk.”

“I’ll decide for myself whether or not Katya remains.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “She’s my friend, as well as my housemaid. You’ve no right to dismiss her as you might a pet dog.”

Claws, as well, and equally protective, Micah noted, irrationally pleased with her. “That was never my intention.” Doffing his hat, he stepped forward, directing all his attention to the wide-eyed maid. “Katya, I’m here to speak with Mrs. Tremayne on personal as well as professional business.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Tremayne snapped. “Katya, it’s all right. Go ahead with your cleaning. Mr.—I mean, Operative MacKenzie and I will talk in the parlor.”

Lips pursed, Katya subjected Micah to a head-to-toe inspection that left him feeling a need to check his fingernails for dirt. Then she nodded once, and whisked out of sight down a hallway. After the maid left, Mrs. Tremayne gestured toward the room behind Micah. “Shall we?”

As he followed her into the parlor, Micah found his attention lingering on the graceful line of her spine, delineated by a seam in her day gown that ran from the back of her neck to a wide band of rich blue velvet at her waist. The glorious red hair was gathered in a severe bun at the back of her head. But she’d cannily arranged snippets of curls to frame her face and cover her ears, which not only softened but distracted.

“You may as well sit down, Operative MacKenzie.” She dropped down onto an upholstered couch, leaving Micah to ease himself into an ugly Eastlake-style chair across from her. He glanced around the room. Like Mrs. Tremayne, it glowed with rich color and a profusion of textures. For some reason the plethora of trinkets and plants and pictures invited intimacy, instead of overwhelming the visitor.

Successful interrogation, Micah had learned, required a deft balance between diplomacy and intimidation. Silence either bridged a gap or spurred a confession. After a comprehensive assessment of the room, still without speaking, he trained his gaze upon the woman sitting across from him.

A pearl of moisture trickled below one of the vivid curls arranged at her temple. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, betraying her nervousness, and a gut-wrenching suspicion grew inside Micah. When the silence in the room stretched to the shattering point, he leaned forward.

“You seem ill at ease, Mrs. Tremayne. Is it because you’re widowed, and a strange man is sitting in your parlor?”

“Perhaps my husband is at work in the city, Operative MacKenzie.”

He admired her audacity even as he shook his head at her as though she were a naughty child. “I gather information for a living, remember? The Secret Service tries to work closely with local authorities, you see. Your police department has been efficient, and cooperative. Better for everyone involved. Except for counterfeiters. Or—” he added, his index finger idly stroking his cheek “—anyone with a guilty conscience.”

“If anyone should have a guilty conscience, it would be yourself, for prying into innocent lives.”

“Usually my prying reveals a depressing lack of innocence.”

Beneath the freckles her skin paled, and she turned her head aside. “I beg your pardon. You’re right, of course.” He watched as one by one she separated her fingers, focusing on the task as though her life depended on it.

Feeling like a heavy-fisted clod, Micah sat back with a sigh. “I like your home,” he announced abruptly. “Though it’s a home without a man inhabiting it. No spittoons, no masculine-size gloves or top hats or canes on the hall tree, no lingering odor of tobacco in the air, no photographs on your piano. You purchased it three years ago, and listed your status as widowed.”

“Again, you’ve made your point, Operative MacKenzie. Yes, I am a widow. What of it?” The tremble in her voice leaked through her stillness; she continued to stare fixedly at the line of silk tassels fringing the drapery that covered the top of her piano. “I should have covered every inch of that wretched piano with photographs,” she murmured. “But…I’ve never mustered the courage. I can’t face the memories, and photographs serve no purpose other than to remind me of everything I’ve lost. And now…” She stopped, swallowed several times.

“I understand,” Micah told her, gentling his voice. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, losing your spouse at so young an age.”

“I will not discuss my husband’s death. Ever.”

“Death, not deaths? So you’ve been married only the one time, then?”

Chapter Three

The lump in Jocelyn’s throat swelled until she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to breathe, much less speak. This man was too quick for her, too intelligent. “Yes,” she finally managed, once again picking her way through half truths. “I…I reverted to my family name, after he died.” She took quick breath that allowed her to finish, “I told you I will not discuss the matter.”

“I’m not asking you to. Yet.” He’d been carrying a leather satchel, and now placed it on his lap. “One of the reasons I’m here today is to ask about Benny Foggarty. I have witnesses who signed affidavits that, after entering the store, he crowded next to you and Mr. Fishburn while you were standing up front, talking with Mr. Hepplewhite.” He withdrew a much-handled photograph and passed it to Jocelyn. “Was it this man?”

With a concentrated effort of will she managed to keep her hands from shaking as she took the small rectangular cardboard and pretended to study its unforgettable likeness of the man who had probably ruined what was left of her life. “Yes.” She passed her tongue around her lips to moisten them. “He made a comment about my watch.” Instinctively, her hand cupped it. She could feel her heart frantically thudding beneath the soft linen of her shirtwaist.

“I can see why. It’s a beautiful piece. A gift from your late husband?”

“My father.” Pressure built inside her chest, crowding its way up her tightening throat. “He gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. I’ve worn it ever since.” Until she’d had to take it to Clocks & Watches to be repaired.

Life was unfair, Chadwick used to remind her. Either learn how to duck—or close your eyes and let it pummel you into dust.

“My father gave me a watch once,” Operative MacKenzie said. “I’m afraid I was more entranced with its internal workings than keeping track of time. By the end of the evening, watch innards were scattered all over the table. I put it back together, but it never did keep good time.” He smiled at her, uncapping the charm as though it were a potent elixir. “Made a perfect excuse to be late for chores or other loathsome tasks I didn’t want to do.”

She was too fatalistic to believe she possessed the strength of will to continue her resistance much longer, not when Operative MacKenzie treated her with a quixotic blend of gallantry and steely determination. Somehow that knowledge helped ease the pressure in her chest a bit. She wondered if condemned prisoners looked with the same tremulous longing upon their executioners.

Jocelyn Tremayne, you are a weak and foolish woman. Postponing the inevitable, she asked, “How old were you?”

“Twelve. So Benny commented on your brooch watch?”

She nodded. “Then the gentleman at the counter made some rude comment, and—you said his name was Benny? Benny left. After I paid for the repairs, I did, too. And before you ask, I’ve not seen him since.”

When was telling the truth a lie? At what point had she become so adept at it that she could sit in her parlor and not tell an operative of the United States government that she had, albeit without her consent, become a receiver of stolen goods?

“Hmm. I believe you, Mrs. Tremayne.” Then he added, “About that, at least. It’s a good thing your father gave you a brooch watch. They’re more difficult to pinch.”

Tell him. Give him the incriminating evidence and be done with it. Why not get it over with? Her thoughts spun in a maddening tornado of lurid visions of her fate, with chain gangs and rat-infested dungeons tilting her toward mental paralysis.

She opened her mouth to confess. “If Benny’s nothing but a thief, why are you chasing him?” dribbled out of her mouth instead.

Perhaps she was a lost soul after all, beyond hope of redemption.

Operative MacKenzie sat back in the chair, his finger returning to trace the line of his clean-shaven jaw while he studied Jocelyn. Unable to stop herself, she stared back. He was tall; even when seated he dominated the room, with those clever gray eyes and thick tawny-brown hair whose prosaic color she envied with all her heart. As before, he was dressed in a gentleman’s day wear: gray-striped trousers that matched his eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat under his black woolen frock coat—a thoroughly masculine man comfortable enough to make himself at home in her fussy, feminine parlor.

This man was going to arrest her—and she was gazing at him as though he were her savior instead of her executioner.

But from the instant they’d met the previous afternoon, something about him had quickened feelings inside her that she thought were as dead and cold as her marriage. His deep voice washed over her, and she drifted in the currents, savoring the fleeting connection.

If only she could pray for strength, and be equally soothed by the assurance of a response.

“We don’t usually chase after thieves,” he was informing her, “unless they also print money from counterfeited engraved steel plates. Benny Foggarty’s one of the best engravers in the business. He’s also a gifted forger, taking photographs of bills, then touching them up with pen and ink. For the past nine months Benny’s been…ah…helping…me track down the principals in a notorious gang of counterfeiters. If we can’t put the ringleaders out of business, last year’s financial woes will look like a picnic in comparison.”

He paused, but when Jocelyn did not respond he shrugged, adding softly, “Life can be complicated. You’re an intelligent woman, Mrs. Tremayne. But you’re also…let’s say, a ‘guarded’ woman. Makes me wonder what’s happened to you over these past ten years.”

She almost leaped off the sofa. Ten years? Ten years? What could he mean—He must know Chadwick, after all. And if he had known Chadwick ten years ago, he must know who she was. He probably also knew—

Rising, she locked her knees and struggled to breathe. “I need to…” The words lodged beneath her breastbone. She pressed her fist against her heart. “Operative MacKenzie…”

Her entire marriage had been a lie; how ironic that finally telling the truth would result in her complete destruction. She could feel the internal collapse, feel her will buckling along with her knees, until ten years of secrets and shame collapsed into rubble.

“Take your time, Mrs. Tremayne. Contrary to what some would have you believe, Service policy prohibits the use of thumbscrews on widows.”

Because he didn’t modulate the tone, it took Jocelyn a second to realize he was actually teasing her, as though he’d peeked inside her soul and discerned what would disarm her the most effectively. Disarm, yet somehow calm. Chadwick had used sarcastic humor as a weapon, but never tolerated laughter directed his way—never.

But Chadwick’s image blurred, then dissipated like a will-o’-the-wisp until she could see only the commanding figure of a man with windswept hair and smoke-gray eyes…who had risen from the chair. Whose hand was stretched out as though he were about to touch her.

Prickles raced over Jocelyn’s skin. She might crave his touch with a force more powerful than the longings for Parham, her long-lost family home, but she had long ago given up girlish dreams.

In a flurry of motion she sidestepped around him, practically babbling in her haste. “I have something for you, something B-Benny dropped in my shopping bag the other day. I didn’t discover it until yesterday morning. I was going for a ride in the country and—Never mind. I should have told you before, but I—but I—”

His hand dropped back to his side. “It’s all right, Mrs. Tremayne. Go ahead, finish it. You’ll feel better for it, I promise.” The kindness in his voice made her eyes sting.

“I doubt it,” she whispered.

It was done. Whatever happened to her no longer mattered. Exposure, shame, condemnation—prison. Nothing mattered but that she had finally gathered the strength to do the right thing, for someone other than herself. No longer could she control her quaking limbs. Fumbling, she opened the doors to the sheet-music cabinet, tugged out the bottom drawer, her fingers scooping up the watch box. Her steps leaden, she walked back across the room to Operative MacKenzie and thrust out her hand.

“Here. This is what I found.” She thrust the object into his hands. “Inside the box there is a ten-dollar bill wrapped around a coin. The bill is obviously counterfeit. I don’t know about the coin.”

As she talked, he opened the box, removed the bill and coin. “I gave him this case,” Micah said. “He was to hide inside it the evidence he promised to bring me. Something, or someone, made him bolt into Clocks & Watches. Mrs. Tremayne, you’re not going to swoon at my feet, are you?”

“Of course not!” She hoped.

“Hmm.” His gaze shifted to the gold coin, and the ten-dollar bill, and Jocelyn watched, fascinated, while he examined them with narrowed eyes and deft fingers. “Excellent workmanship, but someone mishandled the printing on this bill, which indicates an entire set was likely bungled. Coin’s probably bogus, as well…but this just might be the break we’ve been looking for.” Excitement sparked in the words.

Jocelyn sank back down onto the sofa and allowed herself a single shuddering breath.

Operative MacKenzie’s head lifted. “You all right?” She nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak yet; his gaze turned speculative. “In my business, I’ve learned how to distinguish a counterfeit bill from the real one. I’ve also learned the same about people. Sometimes it’s more difficult to discern the counterfeit from the genuine, particularly when you think you know someone. Or, in your case, when you think you knew someone.”

Dumbfounded, Jocelyn lifted her hand to her throat, her eyes burning as she searched Operative MacKenzie’s face. “Earlier…you said ‘ten years.’ We’ve met before, haven’t we?” she asked hoarsely. “Before Clocks & Watches?”

“Yes. We have.” He hesitated, clasped his hands behind his back and contemplated the floor for a tension-spiked second. “It was at a wedding. Yours, to Chadwick Bingham. You were leaning against a marble column, and you’d removed your shoes because they were pinching your toes.”

“You’re that young man? You said Chadwick told you the freckles gave my face character. No wonder I—” Roaring filled her ears, and a vortex sucked her inside its black maw. “Chadwick never said that. My freckles embarrassed him. And I…I wished—”