Chapter One
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
August, 1899
“I’ve brought the remainder of the ledgers as you’ve requested madam, but I fail to see why a lady of your standing should have need of them.”
“I’m sure you do.” Lydia Easton fought off a scowl at Lester Walden as he deposited several books on her deceased husband’s desk. She clenched her fists so tightly the tips of her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm. “And you maintain that all of my husband’s debts have been paid in full?” She sent what she hoped was a stern glance toward the balding accountant.
The rotund man puffed out his chest. “Why, yes. They are always paid on a timely manner.”
“Good.” She folded her arms and narrowed her gaze. “Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why this attorney—a Mr. Jesse Garnet—is suing me for such an exorbitant amount of money? Did my husband owe him the sum?”
“I’m not the one to ask for details, madam.” Walden’s voice dripped with condescension. “That would be Mr. Crubbs’ department. He’s your attorney.”
“I’m well aware of his position and I’ve already sent for Mr. Crubbs.” Lydia began to pace in front of her deceased husband’s mammoth, mahogany desk. “Do you not understand that I cannot return to England until this matter is satisfied?”
“Yes, ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do about it. As I said”—he spoke as if Lydia were a dull-witted child—“you must consult Mr. Crubbs.”
“I will. You can be sure of it.” Another swindler. “Very simply I needed to hear from your lips that my husband’s debts have been paid and all accounting is up to date.”
“They have and it is, Mrs. Easton.”
She tried not to wince at the surname. She rued the day she married Orwell Easton. But Father believed it was a good match and all of Lydia’s friends were happily married and raising families of their own. Spinsterhood lurked, so she accepted the marriage proposal.
Little did she know then the horrors that awaited her in the United States of America.
As if he’d commanded it from the grave, Lydia’s gaze slid upward to Orwell’s portrait. The oil on canvas hung above the mantle like a tribute to a great man. In fact, there were portraits of Orwell throughout the house. Some depicted the man with his favored hounds. Another with his prize race horse, the very animal Orwell shot and killed after the stallion failed to win the Milwaukee Derby.
Lydia often wondered why Orwell hadn’t put a gun to her head.
She set her jaw and refocused on the portrait. She’d ordered all of Orwell’s portraits burned, but obviously had forgotten this one.
She tasted bile. In this particular painting, Orwell sat in an upholstered armchair, his bookshelves in the background. His stormy countenance seemed to mask his contempt of her; Lydia knew the expression well. She closed her eyes, fighting back the memories which threatened to undo her resolve. Nearly seven months had passed since Orwell died which meant she was no longer a victim of his cruel reign.
No. Now Lydia was free. Free from the man’s rants, beatings, and barbarous possessions of her body. It had taken her a good three months to get a grip on her emotions and stop fearing Orwell would somehow return from the dead. Of course, Mother would tell her to read God’s Word, but Lydia could not. The words meant nothing. Where had her mother’s God been when Orwell terrorized her? There was not protection like Daniel the prophet experienced in the lion’s den. Unfortunately, Lydia was mauled by the animal who had been her husband.
She shuddered and turned away so the accountant wouldn’t see her emotion. She had to keep herself together long enough to dismiss this despicable man.
Like the way she’d let go of the rest of Orwell’s dishonest, rude, and insensitive household staff before hiring her own people.
It was long past the time for this accountant to go and Orwell’s attorney was next on her list. Had she possessed the presence of mind before now, she would have discovered their theft sooner. Thousands of dollars had been skimmed from Orwell’s accounts—accounts that now belonged to her. Moreover, certain valuables in the house had mysteriously disappeared.
For the latter, Lydia suspected the previous staff helped themselves to what was legally hers. How dare they steal from her! She deserved every cent of her inheritance after suffering two grueling years of marriage.
“Yes, Mr. Easton would have approved of my systematic accounting,” Walden said. He stared up at Orwell’s portrait. “He always did, you know.”
Lydia cast a glance at Mr. Walden. She had been a fool to trust him and Mr. Crubbs, except she’d been so vulnerable after Orwell’s death and Walden and Crubbs had seemed so…fatherly.
But they’d deceived her.
She pushed back her shoulders. “Your services are no longer required, sir. You are, as of this moment, no longer in my employ.”
“What? You cannot dismiss me like you did Mr. Easton’s household staff! Why, I’ve been his accountant for more than twenty years!” Walden sputtered like a dying locomotive. “Your husband retained me for life.”
“Unfortunately for you”—and quite fortunately for her—“Orwell is dead. Furthermore, according to Wisconsin State Law, I have every right to employ or dismiss whomever I please.”
More undiscernable bluster.
“Besides, it was my dowry that put my husband’s figures in the black, was it not?”
“So what if it was?” Walden ground out. “Once he married you, the money belonged to him.”
Lydia placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve been Orwell Easton’s accountant for…for life, as you stated yourself.”
“Yes, but—”
“Orwell was a liar and a cheat. A miscreant to the nth degree.” The words came out with more venom than intended. Yet, they were true. “You, Mr. Walden, are equally as unjust and I want nothing more to do with you.”
“Now, see here, Mrs. East—”
“If not for your sloppy, scheming bookkeeping, I doubt my estate would have a lawsuit threatening it, and I would be on my way back home to England.” Lydia marched toward the accountant. Remarkably, the man cowered. “Get out of my house, you scoundrel. Now!”
The man fled the study, but paused in the black and white tiled entryway. He shook his pudgy forefinger at her. “You will regret this.”
“I doubt it.” Lydia caught sight of Fanny, her nosy but well-intentioned maid and gave her a nod. Fanny straightened to her full height of nearly six feet, smoothed the skirt of her black dress and straightened the white apron pinned to her bodice and tied around her slender waist.
“Allow me to show you the door, Mr. Walden.”
“I know my way,” the man groused.
“Very good, sir.”
Lydia leaned against Orwell’s sturdy desk and hugged herself. One down. One to go.
Fanny entered the darkly paneled study moments later. “You were magnificent, ma’am. You didn’t let that man take advantage of your good graces.”
“Thank you.” It had actually gone better than expected. Lydia felt somewhat empowered—just the way she’d felt after dismissing Orwell’s household help.
“Do you plan to dismiss Mr. Crubbs too?” A smile crept across Fanny’s thin lips and tiny creases appeared at the corners of her eyes. “I can hardly wait for that.”
Lydia arched a brow. She tolerated much from her hirelings, like her outspoken rotund cook who always seemed to have a thick wooden spoon in her right fist, the muttering butler whose age-lined features would surely crack if he smiled even a little, and the young, vivacious Fanny, with wits as sharp as her tongue. However, Lydia needed to reinforce the boundaries now again. Otherwise, her paid help would surely take advantage of her the way Orwell’s staff had done.
A sigh escaped Lydia as she collapsed into one of the winged-back, upholstered chairs near the hearth. This world was filled with villains and she couldn’t wait to return home to her father’s country estate. When Father learned what manner of beast Orwell Easton had turned out to be, he’d regret ever making the match.
But why had her parents not returned her letters or telegrams?
Lydia’s stomach knotted.
“Shall I watch for Mr. Crubbs, ma’am?” A sparkle entered Fanny’s green eyes. “I’ll be sure to send him right in.”
“No, thank you. I would prefer that you finish with the upstairs cleaning and allow Mr. Stiles to do his job as my butler.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Obvious disappointment washed over the woman.
Lydia regretted her harsh tone. “I imagine my family may arrive any day and, of course, I’d like to present them with clean bedrooms.”
“For company. Of course.” Fanny perked up, inclined her head and left the study. The heels of her shoes clapped against the marble stairwell only moments later.
How Lydia wished she could call Fanny a friend. But circumstances as they were, Lydia could make no attachments here in Milwaukee. Orwell never allowed her to develop acquaintances, so she hadn’t a single friend in this city. She’d been Orwell’s “pet” and never left this house unaccompanied. His staff then reported back to him about every person Lydia spoke to, every shop she visited. As for correspondences Lydia had penned while married, they never made it out of the house without Orwell’s approval first. Her pleas for Father to come and fetch her only enraged Orwell and resulted in severe beatings.
Lydia stood and strode to the lead paned windows and stared into the courtyard. Her former bedroom was on the adjacent side of the house, and almost daily, while Orwell lived, she had considered flinging herself from her second story chamber window to the brick pavement below. Her fear was that she would survive. And then what? She’d be at Orwell’s mercy all the more. Just imagining what he might have done to her if she couldn’t fight back brought up another taste of bile that was difficult to swallow back down.
The only good in her life occurred when her wretched husband allowed her weekly visits to the Milwaukee Public Library. Those outings had been her lifeline. Books were her escape. And in many ways they still were.
Stepping to Orwell’s massive desk, Lydia fingered the borrowed law text. She had studied it. She knew she had rights as Orwell’s widow—rights her soon-to-be former solicitor failed to mention.
A man cleared his throat, giving Lydia a start. For a fleeting moment she imagined Orwell standing at the entryway of his study. He would have pounded her senseless if he’d ever discovered her in his study. This room had been off limits while Orwell lived and breathed.
But those days were over
Gone.
Dead and buried with the horrid man. Now Lydia could begin to live again.
She willed her heart to cease its hammering, and fixed her gaze on Mr. Stiles’ tall, lanky frame filling a third of the wide doorway.
“Mr. Frederick Crubbs to see you, madam.”
“Ah, yes…” With her hand on the law book, Lydia couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Please, send him in.”