A Deceptive Homecoming (7 page)

I
was in no mood to be merry after returning from Ginny's house. Yet when the surrey arrived for me, the gaiety of the three girls crammed in the back seat was infectious. All between sixteen and twenty, the students each wore a broad smile, rouge on their cheeks, and by the plethora of feathers, flowers, and ribbons, their best hats. Before I had a chance to arrange myself properly next to the driver, one of the girls burst into a squeal of delight. They all began speaking at once.

“Isn't this glorious, Miss Davish? A lake party!”

“I heard Mr. Upchurch mention music and maybe even dancing!”

“The rumor is Mrs. Chaplin provided the drinks and they include champagne!”

“I wish I had a beau to invite.”

“Won't the others be green? We get to ride with the guest of honor!” They stared at me as if I were Annie Oakley or the Princess of Wales. “What can you tell us about Mrs. Mayhew, Miss Davish?”

With that the girls all quieted down, leaning forward in anticipation, hoping not to miss a word. I couldn't help but smile. I was still baffled as to why this party was in my honor, but I was beginning to understand the appeal I had with the young students. How naïve I'd been taking the position of social secretary to one of the country's most famous women. I'd never guessed that whatever she did was news, and that included hiring me. As Lady Phillippa had predicted, I'd be forever connected with the name, for better or worse.

“What would you like to know?” I asked the girls.

I spent the majority of the ride beguiling them with the extravagant world I was briefly a part of, the grandiose and gaudy Rose Mont, the “cottage” the Mayhews owned in Newport, the lavish garden parties with live peacocks wandering about, the hats that could cost me a month's wages, and the ball that was attended by royalty. As they should be, being students at Mrs. Chaplin's school, they were attentive to my every word, merely interjecting the occasional exclamation of disbelief. When I was through, I finally had the opportunity to ask them about themselves.

“What do you intend to do after you graduate from Mrs. Chaplin's?”

To my astonishment, all three girls, in unison, answered, “Be a private secretary like you.”

Of course, I couldn't blame them after I'd spent almost a half hour telling them about the glamorous world of the Mayhew household. But I was unique. Girls who graduate from Mrs. Chaplin's work as typists, stenographers, or if they're especially adept, secretaries in offices, factories, or for the government. Few will become secretaries for wealthy individuals. I was extremely lucky to have met and impressed Sir Arthur Windom-Greene. Without his patronage, I wouldn't be heading to a party held in my honor. But who was I to disillusion them? Our fortuitous arrival through the gates saved me from having to do so.

“We're here!” one of the girls announced, sending the azure blue ribbon from the back of her hat flapping in the wind as she craned her neck out the window to see. I took the moment to look about me as well.

I'd been to the lake a few times when I was a little girl. It used to be a quiet place to picnic and fish. But as the surrey approached I saw the area was now a full-fledged resort with two- and three-story hotels, dozens of cottages, and countless rustic cabins. The St. Joseph Boating Association had built an elaborate clubhouse with four round towers and a porch that encircled the entire building. There was now a small amusement park, as well as the Lake Shore Driving Park, which, one of the girls informed me, held horse racing.

Has everything changed?
I wondered.

“Miss Davish is here,” someone shouted as our carriage pulled up to an enormous circular pavilion embellished with false dormer windows and a turret topped with a flagpole. The flag waved in the gentle breeze at least thirty feet above us.

I was aghast to see over a hundred people, perhaps the full complement of Mrs. Chaplin's school: students, instructors, former teachers, and their husbands. And at the forefront of them all was the man with the thick burnsides I'd seen comforting Ginny at the funeral.

“Welcome, Miss Davish.” He offered his hand as I alighted from the carriage. “Asa Upchurch, school president, at your service.”

So that's who he was. I'd heard Mrs. Chaplin had retired but hadn't learned the name of her successor. Not wanting to offend my host, I took his offered hand and stepped down. But Mr. Upchurch didn't relinquish my hand when I was free of the surrey but raised it to his lips. I could feel the blood rising in my cheeks.

“Yes, you're very welcome here, Miss Davish.” He finally released his hold on my fingers. Everyone applauded.

Why was everyone making such a fuss? I had to ask. “Why are all these people here, Mr. Upchurch?”

“To honor you, my dear girl.”

“But why?”

The middle-aged woman with the dimples stepped next to Mr. Upchurch. He introduced her as his wife.

“Because my dear,” Mrs. Upchurch said, “you're what every one of our girls aspires to, a successful, influential, competent, respected, independent woman. You took your education from Mrs. Chaplin's and made yourself into someone we can all be proud of.”

“You're referring to my work with Mrs. Mayhew, aren't you?” I sighed.

I wanted to believe it was due to the efficiency, loyalty, and discretion I accord all my employers, but I'd learned of late that notoriety is more powerful than competency. Of course, it could have nothing to do with Mrs. Mayhew either and everything to do with my successful discovery of two murderers. (I'd uncovered a third, but no one would read about that in the papers anytime soon.)

“Of course. To us you're famous, Miss Davish, and there are many, many people who want to meet you.” Mrs. Upchurch immediately took my elbow and proceeded to introduce me to everyone as we made our way through the crowd. Over and over the scene was repeated to my chagrin.

“Miss Davish, this is Miss McGill, our new office management instructor.” A young woman with thick, jet-black hair, a long, prominent nose, and hooded eyes thrust out her hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss McGill.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Davish.”

Occasionally Mrs. Upchurch would put an added pall over the entire exchange by saying, “And you remember Mrs. LaMont, don't you, Miss Davish? You met her at the funeral.”

By the time I'd made it halfway through the crowd, despite the nodding heads, smiling faces, and well wishes, I was feeling overwhelmed and morose. The frequent references to the funeral and the endless interrogation on the subject of Mrs. Mayhew made me want to leave the crowded party and hike alone along the lake.

Either by design or because she'd sensed my mood, Mrs. Upchurch suddenly announced, “We have another surprise for you, Miss Davish.” I winced at her words. I wasn't fond of surprises and her words reminded me of the disastrous outcome of the last surprise someone sprung on me. “There's someone special here who's eager to see you again.” At that same moment, the band began to play.

Like last time,
I thought, picturing Walter break into a smile the moment he saw me at the ball in Newport.
Maybe that particular surprise wasn't terrible after all.

And then the band began “Buffalo Gals,” one of my favorite tunes. What a coincidence. I hadn't heard it in such a long time and no one here could possibly know how much I'd loved this song in my youth. I smiled.

“Yes, Mrs. Upchurch, who is it?” She pointed toward the stage where the band was playing.

A man, accompanied by Mr. Upchurch, climbed the stairs and walked to the center of the stage to the cheering of the crowd. I couldn't believe my eyes. As handsome as ever with perfectly groomed short, shiny blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a mouth that was always slightly curved up in a smile, his confident deportment matched his self-assured, casual demeanor as he waved at the crowd.

This is why I hate surprises,
I thought, trying to keep my face from revealing the anger and bitterness welling up inside of me.

“Give a warm welcome to a man that needs no introduction,” Mr. Upchurch shouted above the music as he patted the man on the back. The crowd applauded as Mr. Upchurch relinquished his spot to the newcomer who, to the delight of the gathering, sang:

“It's Nate Boone,” Mrs. Upchurch said, stating the obvious. I knew all too well who he was. “He's in town visiting and when Asa told him you would be in town, he insisted on being a part of the festivities. Isn't that wonderful? Aren't you delighted? Aren't you surprised?”

Nate continued to sing:

What cheek,
I thought but said nothing out loud.

“I never knew he was such a good singer, did you, Miss Davish? He's simply marvelous, don't you think? We were very excited when he offered to appear. You were dear friends with Nate Boone, weren't you, Miss Davish?”

Not getting the response she expected, the poor woman continued to try to elicit some positive reaction. But she wasn't going to get it. If anything, it took everything I had not to walk out of the pavilion, disappointing everyone who had come for a pleasant day at the lake, take the carriage back to town, and catch the first train back to Newport.

It's what I should've done in the first place, I thought. Then I wouldn't have had to see him again. And what did Mrs. Upchurch mean, “When Asa told him you would be in town?” No one in St. Joe, with the exception of the person who sent me the funeral notice, knew that I'd be here. Did Mr. Upchurch send me the funeral notice?

Before I could ask, Nate finished the song. Not caring if I offended anyone, I covered my ears. I was not going to listen to the last verse.

“Miss Davish, are you ill?” As I lowered my hands, I saw sincere concern on Mrs. Upchurch's face.

“No, I'm fine.”

“Good. Oh dear, I do believe we missed something.”

She was right. Nate had been talking and all we heard was, “Don't you think?”

People applauded or shouted their agreement. To what, I didn't catch, but as many of the girls were staring and grinning at me, I had no doubt it had something to do with me.

“Now everyone give her a cheer and smile.” The crowd happily obliged. “Hope you liked that last song, Hat. Here's another one you might enjoy.” Nate picked up his trombone and the band began playing the “Washington Post March.”

“Isn't he dashing?” one of the students said to me. “I didn't know you knew Nate Boone too. You know everybody. You're so lucky!” I nodded politely but held my tongue.

Unlike me, Nate Boone was a bona fide celebrity. He was a member of John Philip Sousa's band and had traveled the world, playing to popes, royalty, and crowds of thousands everywhere he went. And since my mother knew his father, we inevitably grew up together. I don't have any memory of a time I didn't know his name, Nathan Orson Boone. We were the same age and we played together as children. We were in the same class at school and walked there together every day. We hiked and skipped rocks on the river's edge together. We read the same books, liked the same foods, and sang the same songs.

And as we grew up, we grew closer. Although I'd never told anyone, he was my first kiss, behind his music teacher's, Mr. Pryor's, house. When we were sixteen and too naïve to know better, we declared our love and vowed to marry. His father was thrilled. My father never got the chance to give us his blessing. Before I could tell him, he got sick. And that's when everything changed. As I struggled to take care of my father and go to school at Mrs. Chaplin's, Nate was thriving in the music world. He played in the local brass band and then joined a traveling band as its top soloist. We continued to write, but his letters grew more and more infrequent and then they stopped altogether. I continued to write but never received a reply. Then one day, bereft and knowing no one else I could turn to, I wired him about my father being sent to the asylum. It was one of the darkest days of my life. He never responded. My father died days later. Soon after, I read about Nate having been recruited by Sousa to join his band in the newspaper. I couldn't rise above my own grief to wish him well, to forgive him for abandoning me, for not even responding to my telegram. I haven't been able to stomach listening to Sousa tunes ever since.