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Authors: Alyssa Maxwell
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help with Brady’s legal fees. I also hoped Mother, if not both of them, would board the next America-bound ship.
My errand completed, I picked a direction at random and started walking, my stride so brisk several pedestrians sidestepped anxiously out of my way. Never mind that the evidence against Brady was shaky at best, and anyone with an astute mind and open eyes should see that. The only people who mattered believed him to be guilty: the police and Uncle Cornelius. The drizzle had let up for the moment, but I shivered nonetheless. If Cornelius Vanderbilt decided to pressure the courts into convicting my brother, he would be convicted. Plain and simple.
I needed a plan to prove Brady’s innocence without a doubt. With each step I took names paraded through my brain—potentially 300 of them. How would I ever sort through all those people and discover which of them might have held enough of a grudge to commit murder? Where would I start?
The answer, I realized, was to start at the beginning. For that I needed to get back to my carriage. With a start I realized I’d drifted up to Spring Street and had covered quite a distance in the opposite direction from Washington Square and, just beyond on Marlborough Street, my waiting buggy. I turned around to start back, but a sight about a half a block away stopped me cold.
It was the man from the police station.
Had Jesse told him who I was? I could hardly imagine him doing anything of the sort. But maybe it hadn’t been too hard to guess the identity of the one woman visiting the police station today.
Our gazes locked for an instant. Quickly, I schooled my features to reveal no hint of recognition and darted a look at the building fronts beside me and across the street, pretending I was looking for an address. Molly’s Dress Shop stood two doors down. I headed there and darted inside.
“Good morning, Emma! How nice to see you,” the proprietress, Molly herself, exclaimed upon spotting me hurrying into the shop. She looked about to say something more, the knowledge of what everyone in Newport had already learned this morning written plainly on her features.
Molly had been my mother’s favorite seamstress here in town, and I’d known the woman forever. Like my mother, she was tall and trim and youthful despite her forty-plus years. Unlike my mother, she dressed modestly in a white shirtwaist with leg-a-mutton sleeves and slim charcoal skirt. When I walked in she was helping a customer, a Mrs. Peterson, and bolts of colorful muslin lay unrolled across the cutting table. “Are you . . . er . . . looking for something in particular today?” Molly asked. Sympathy tinged with uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“I’m . . . ah . . . just passing through today, if you don’t mind,” I said a little breathlessly. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson,” I hastily added, wishing I could have avoided the prying eyes of one of the town’s biggest gossips. But it couldn’t be helped. “Molly, would it be all right if I ducked out the back?”
Mrs. Peterson raised her silver eyebrows in comprehension. “Avoiding someone, Miss Cross?”
“Uh, well, you might say that.” I pointed toward the back room. “Molly, may I?”
“Of course. Back door’s unlocked. It’s trash day, though, so don’t trip over the bins in the alley.”
With Mrs. Peterson’s inquisitive gaze burning into my back, I hurried on. I exited through the alley without any trash-bin mishaps and came out onto Mary Street. Another quick rounding of a corner brought me onto Clarke. I hastened northward, past the old Artillery Company, and then back across Washington Square, where in my preoccupation I nearly collided with the oncoming trolley rumbling its way toward Long Wharf. A shout of “Watch yourself!” from an unseen female pedestrian somewhere behind me virtually saved my life.
By the time I reached Marlborough Street I was huffing for breath and tugging at my collar. I’d left Barney and my rig in
My errand completed, I picked a direction at random and started walking, my stride so brisk several pedestrians sidestepped anxiously out of my way. Never mind that the evidence against Brady was shaky at best, and anyone with an astute mind and open eyes should see that. The only people who mattered believed him to be guilty: the police and Uncle Cornelius. The drizzle had let up for the moment, but I shivered nonetheless. If Cornelius Vanderbilt decided to pressure the courts into convicting my brother, he would be convicted. Plain and simple.
I needed a plan to prove Brady’s innocence without a doubt. With each step I took names paraded through my brain—potentially 300 of them. How would I ever sort through all those people and discover which of them might have held enough of a grudge to commit murder? Where would I start?
The answer, I realized, was to start at the beginning. For that I needed to get back to my carriage. With a start I realized I’d drifted up to Spring Street and had covered quite a distance in the opposite direction from Washington Square and, just beyond on Marlborough Street, my waiting buggy. I turned around to start back, but a sight about a half a block away stopped me cold.
It was the man from the police station.
Had Jesse told him who I was? I could hardly imagine him doing anything of the sort. But maybe it hadn’t been too hard to guess the identity of the one woman visiting the police station today.
Our gazes locked for an instant. Quickly, I schooled my features to reveal no hint of recognition and darted a look at the building fronts beside me and across the street, pretending I was looking for an address. Molly’s Dress Shop stood two doors down. I headed there and darted inside.
“Good morning, Emma! How nice to see you,” the proprietress, Molly herself, exclaimed upon spotting me hurrying into the shop. She looked about to say something more, the knowledge of what everyone in Newport had already learned this morning written plainly on her features.
Molly had been my mother’s favorite seamstress here in town, and I’d known the woman forever. Like my mother, she was tall and trim and youthful despite her forty-plus years. Unlike my mother, she dressed modestly in a white shirtwaist with leg-a-mutton sleeves and slim charcoal skirt. When I walked in she was helping a customer, a Mrs. Peterson, and bolts of colorful muslin lay unrolled across the cutting table. “Are you . . . er . . . looking for something in particular today?” Molly asked. Sympathy tinged with uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“I’m . . . ah . . . just passing through today, if you don’t mind,” I said a little breathlessly. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson,” I hastily added, wishing I could have avoided the prying eyes of one of the town’s biggest gossips. But it couldn’t be helped. “Molly, would it be all right if I ducked out the back?”
Mrs. Peterson raised her silver eyebrows in comprehension. “Avoiding someone, Miss Cross?”
“Uh, well, you might say that.” I pointed toward the back room. “Molly, may I?”
“Of course. Back door’s unlocked. It’s trash day, though, so don’t trip over the bins in the alley.”
With Mrs. Peterson’s inquisitive gaze burning into my back, I hurried on. I exited through the alley without any trash-bin mishaps and came out onto Mary Street. Another quick rounding of a corner brought me onto Clarke. I hastened northward, past the old Artillery Company, and then back across Washington Square, where in my preoccupation I nearly collided with the oncoming trolley rumbling its way toward Long Wharf. A shout of “Watch yourself!” from an unseen female pedestrian somewhere behind me virtually saved my life.
By the time I reached Marlborough Street I was huffing for breath and tugging at my collar. I’d left Barney and my rig in
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