Maggie's Journey (McKenna's Daughters) (5 page)

The small white chest beside where she had been sitting caught her eyes. Quickly she replaced all the items inside, trying to remember what went where. Did it really matter? Finally, out of anger, she just shoved in what was left and closed the latch. She wasn't going to put the chest back in its hiding place, so it wouldn't matter.

A thought pushed its way into her shock-numbed mind.
What am I going to do about what I found out?
The idea of talking to Mother about the picture and adoption paper made her stomach turn. They weren't really mother and daughter. Not by blood anyway. No wonder Maggie couldn't please her.

Maybe that was why Mother kept the secret from her. Maybe she was sorry she ever adopted her. What was it about her that kept the women in her life from loving her? First her real mother, whoever she was, then Florence. Both had rejected her in different ways. The pain from that admission radiated from her heart, burning a trail to her churning stomach.

But if that was true, why was Mother always trying to change her, make her into the perfect daughter? Were her real parents terrible people? Was Mother afraid Maggie would turn out like them? Her head started to throb with all the thoughts bumping into each other. She couldn't make heads or tails of any of them. More tears slid down her cheeks.

And why hadn't Daddy told her anything about the adoption? What did he have to hide? Scenarios whirled inside her brain as if they were alive. Maggie would have to learn to accept all of this on some level before she was ready to hear the absolute truth from the people who raised her as their own. Who was Angus McKenna, and why did he give her up for adoption? From what little she knew about her parents' trip west on the wagon train, the adoption had to have happened close to the time they arrived in Oregon. Was it actually on the trip, or had it happened soon after? And where was her natural mother in all this?

Quickly, to return the attic the way it was before Mother came up there, Maggie rearranged the clothing and boxes. All except for the white chest and the green dress.

She carried those downstairs to her room and hid them in her wardrobe. Thank goodness Mother never bothered with Maggie's clothing anymore. Today was Ingrid's day off. When her maid returned tomorrow, she wouldn't ask any questions about the things Maggie had added to her personal storage space. Because they had become friends, Ingrid understood the importance of maintaining complete trust between them.

When Maggie closed the wardrobe door, she noticed her reflection in the mirrored center panel. She stared at her face, so like the one in the faded photograph, yet so different. Maggie's eyes were red and swollen, and much of her hair hung out of the carefully created style.
Such a mess
. Florence was always trying to get Maggie to keep her hair tamed into a neat hairstyle. Now she knew why that had been such a problem to her.

She went to her washstand and poured water into the bowl, then dipped a cloth in and wrung it out. She dropped onto her chaise lounge and pressed the damp cloth over her eyes.
Just who am I really?
If her last name were McKenna, no wonder she had red hair. Did the woman in the photo have it too? She almost had to be her mother, didn't she?

Why did my real mother and father give me away? And why didn't my mother sign the adoption paper?

Somehow, she had to find answers to these questions.

Chapter 4

Margaret, come see what I found.” Mother’s voice carried up the staircase to Maggie’s room.

The strident tone grated on Maggie more today than it ever had before. The one thing she didn’t want to do was look at whatever it was Mother bought today. She didn’t even want a birthday party, but if she mentioned that, her mother would want to know why. She wasn’t prepared to answer that question yet.

Smoothing the last of the curls into her upswept hairdo, Maggie glanced into the mirror. The cold compresses had done their work. No one need know that she had been so upset. She straightened her shoulders and headed down to the parlor.

Mother stood beside the piled packages and boxes on the divan of the parlor suite. “I bought so many wonderful things.” She picked up a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, then sat on the divan. “Just look at what I found at Pinkham’s Variety Store.”

Mother carefully untied the twine. Pulling back the edges of the brown paper, she revealed a large amount of burgundy-colored moire taffeta. “We can have Mrs. Murdock make the tablecloths for your birthday party from this. Isn’t it the most luscious color? We can put the lace ones we already have over them.”

Maggie stared at the mass of maroon fabric. It almost made her sick to her stomach. How many times had she told her mother that she didn’t really like that shade? More times than she could remember, but Mother didn’t listen to what she said. Before, she really hadn’t noticed just how many times her mother ignored her wishes. Now the fact grated on her. Anger began to simmer deep inside.

Maybe that was what Mother had been doing. Trying to smooth out everything that made Maggie an individual, unique. Maybe trying to erase anything that reminded her of Maggie’s real mother. A bitter taste filled her mouth. She clasped her hands together until her knuckles ached.
I want to be me
,
not someone you’re creating.
It took all her willpower to keep from shouting the words. She didn’t even want to call the woman Mother, because she really wasn’t her mother.
You’ll be only Florence to me now.

“This is such a royal color, don’t you think?” Finally, Florence turned her attention toward Maggie. “Are you all right? You’re kind of quiet.”

“I have a bit of a headache.” Maggie’s words sounded clipped, but she didn’t care.

She really hadn’t told a lie. The stress of the afternoon, coupled with Florence’s complete disregard for her wishes, combined behind her eyes and began a slow, steady throb. At least it wasn’t a full-blown headache.

“I hope it’s not hurting you too much. I have so much more to show you.”

With those words, Florence began opening each package and displaying the merchandise.

Maggie didn’t see a single thing she liked, but she endured the woman’s raving about all the things she’d purchased.

Maggie took the twine from the packages and folded each piece of brown paper. She needed something to keep her hands busy. She answered the questions with noncommittal sounds when needed, all the while trying to decide what bothered her the most. That she’d been lied to all her life, or that no one wanted to know what she really felt about anything. Even Daddy either spoiled her or took sides against her on occasion. But he didn’t even know her. Maybe no one wanted to really know her. No one except Mrs. Jorgensen. What would she have done without that wonderful woman?

“I’ll take these things up to the sewing room for you.” Maggie gathered as much as she could carry and started up the stairs without glancing back.

When Daddy arrived home, they dined together, but no one had much to say. Maggie was glad. The last thing she wanted to do today was keep up a meaningless conversation when so many more things were going on in her head and heart.

After dinner, her father retired to his study, and Florence went upstairs, evidently to make more of her own plans for the party. The event would be more for her than for Maggie anyway. Maggie was probably wasting her time writing plans that would be ignored. But she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. She went to her room and picked up the list she had been working on. After reading a few words, she slammed it down, then paced across the bedroom a couple of times.

Maybe reading a book would take her mind off things. She pulled one from her bookcase, not even bothering to read the title. Her eyes scanned the first page at least three times before Maggie realized she didn’t know a single word she’d read. She tossed the book onto her bed. Her own tumultuous emotions had broken through her concentration, annihilating it.

The events from earlier today in the attic overwhelmed her. Her problems wouldn’t let go of her. What could she do about the information she’d uncovered? All the items had been cleverly hidden below mounds of useless castoffs from the past. She was sure neither her father nor Florence wanted her to see them.

With both parents busy with their own pursuits, now would be a good time to question the housekeeper. And much safer than bringing things up to her moth . . . Florence.

Maggie went down to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot tea. She sat in a chair at the table, warming her icy fingers around the mug.

She watched Mrs. Jorgensen washing dishes for a moment, then glanced back down at the hot brew. “Remind me how long you’ve known Mother and Father.” She lifted the cup for a sip, holding her breath waiting for the answer. She didn’t glance at the woman’s face, afraid to betray her agitation.

“Ja, and I’ve told you this before, for sure.” The older woman went to work, vigorously drying a bowl.

“I know.” Because her hands shook, Maggie set her drink down. She wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt.

“Well, your parents moved into the house beside the one where my dear departed husband and I had lived here in Seattle. When they first came to town, that is.”

When she stilled, Maggie finally looked at her face. With seriousness pinching her eyes, the woman studied Maggie intently.

“I was glad to have such nice neighbors, being a new widow and all. And why would you be wanting to be told all that again?”

Maggie glanced across the immaculate room toward the windows, then studied the clouds scudding across the gray sky. “Just because. So where did they move from? Do you know?”

The water swished in the dishpan. Maggie turned her attention toward the cook.

“They had been in Oregon City since they came there on the wagon train.” Mrs. Jorgensen stopped and stared into space. “I remember your dear mother told me that when they first moved in, but she never wanted to talk about her life in Oregon or on that wagon train.”

“I wonder why?” Maggie hoped her question would prompt other memories from the housekeeper.

Mrs. Jorgensen set a bowl on the table. “I wondered the same thing. Did some event cause them to leave and come to Seattle? The way she reacted when I asked that one time, I knew better than to ask again.”

Even though the woman’s voice had a note of finality to it, Maggie couldn’t let the subject alone. “And I was about five or six years old then?” Maggie puckered her brow. That seemed so long ago, almost a lifetime.

“Ja, I remember your sixth birthday party. Your mother had big plans, inviting every child for blocks around . . . and their parents. A lot of people for such a small house. She always had a knack for entertaining.” The housekeeper opened the cupboard door and placed the bowl in its usual position.

Maggie wasn’t interested in Florence’s parties. She stood and turned toward the housekeeper. “Where did we live?”

Mrs. Jorgensen’s eyes probed Maggie until she was afraid the woman could see the secrets in her heart. “Not in such a grand neighborhood like this one. Closer to the wharves.”

Maggie knew the area. The houses looked like hovels when compared to the mansion they lived in on Beacon Hill. She couldn’t imagine Florence ever surviving in those conditions. Even though Maggie could tell the housekeeper wanted to ask her something, she turned back to the dishpan and started washing a plate instead.

Maggie didn’t want to inquire about so much that she would open herself to deeper questions, but she had to ask this one more. “Did she ever mention an Angus McKenna?”

“Dear me, I don’t think so. The name doesn’t ring a bell with me, for sure.” The older woman folded her arms across her chest. “What’s going on, Margaret?”

When Mrs. Jorgensen used that tone, Maggie knew she had gone too far. And she wasn’t ready to reveal anything more. “Nothing.” She quickly finished the tea and set the cup beside the sink. “The name just came to me, and I thought maybe I’d heard it somewhere.” She knew the words didn’t make any sense the second they crossed her lips, but she wasn’t going to elaborate.

She hastily exited the room. Knowing she’d told an outright lie should have made her feel terrible, but why should she care? Everyone else had been lying to her for years.

A long-forgotten feeling from childhood swept over her like a tidal wave breaking against the wharves on the Sound. Part of her was missing, but she didn’t know what part it was. She’d felt it more often as a young girl, and now the emotions involved were more intense. They sucked the life right out of her. She wanted to crumple to the floor and weep. But she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of watching her lose control. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, holding her spine as stiff as the trunk of a tall pine tree.

So she didn’t really know who her parents were. That shouldn’t give her this kind of emotional upheaval. The first time she experienced the feeling, she hadn’t known that the people she lived with weren’t her real parents. This thing that upset her balance didn’t really have anything to do with the others. Something deep inside her was missing, a piece of her heart, maybe a piece of her soul. But what was it, and where had it gone? And could she ever find it again? Maybe if she could, she’d feel whole, a complete human being. Accepted for who she really was, with no one trying to change her into something else.

She climbed the back stairs and went to her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against the flocked wallpaper. Maggie wanted to be herself, not someone Florence had molded her into, but who was she anyway? Her stomach tightened and a lump settled in her chest, almost cutting off her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with both hands. Why didn’t she carry a handkerchief the way other girls did? Too bad a
lady
never used her sleeve to wipe her face. Dropping her face into her hands, she tried to stifle the sob that escaped.

•••

Florence walked down the stairs contemplating the new developments in her husband’s business. Charles was a nice young man, but she remembered that even as a boy, he had a stubborn streak. So did Joshua. They would make good partners, but who would come out on top if they ever disagreed? She’d like to be hiding in the corner when that happened. It ought to be quite a show.

She went to the kitchen, hoping to find her daughter, but the room was empty. Then she went to Joshua’s study, where she knew she’d find her husband.

“Everything is under control, but I can’t find Margaret.” She settled into one of the chairs beside the fireplace.

Joshua came from behind his desk and sat in the chair beside hers. “I’m a bit worried about Maggie. She didn’t seem like herself this evening.”

“I noticed that.” Florence studied her husband’s face. How could he read their daughter so well, and yet so often have no idea what Florence was feeling? “We have a lot to do to get ready for Margaret’s birthday party.” She straightened the edging of the antimacassar on the arm of her chair. “We haven’t sent the invitations around yet. I wish Margaret would finish writing her guest list.”

Not looking at her, Joshua fiddled with the lace doily on the lamp table beside his chair. “You know she will, in good time.”

What did he find so fascinating with that bit of lace? He’d seen it thousands of times. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

“I didn’t say she wouldn’t. She’s just dragging her feet about everything I’m trying to accomplish.” She huffed out a breath. He always took the girl’s side about everything. Just once, why didn’t he see things from her perspective? “I’ll try to find her and talk to her about it.” She started to rise.

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Just sit with me a bit. We do need to talk about our daughter.”