Three
Anna had just finished airing the luncheon napkins when Mrs. Pembroke sent for her. A summons was never good, not that Missus Pembroke was unkind; on the contrary, she was almost distressingly kind. The trouble was, being summoned by Mrs. Pembroke usually meant one of three things: something had gone missing, something had been misplaced, or something had been placed exactly where Mrs. Pembroke told someone not to place it.
On rare occasions, it meant all three.
Anna smoothed her apron, checked her cap, and went upstairs with the unsettled feeling of a girl walking toward judgment.
Could Mrs. Pembroke have noticed her distractions of late? Perhaps she’d seen Anna pause outside the parlor door too often. What if she knew about the wash line?
Anna’s stomach tightened. No. She shouldn’t think that way. Fear made a body careless, and around here, one careless slip could get a person hanged.
Mrs. Pembroke’s sitting room occupied the small chamber at the back of the house, where the afternoon light filtered through the windows softer than it did in the formal parlor. Abasket of embroidery sat near Mrs. Pembroke’s favorite chair by the window. Several folded linens occupied the table, and the infamous vase of flowers, minus its petunias, stood on the mantel.
She wasn’t going to make Anna replace the petunias, was she?
Mrs. Pembroke herself sat stiffly in a chair. Not her favorite chair, which was troubling all by itself. Her spectacles were perched low on her nose, and a length of blue silk lay across her lap. She looked up as soon as Anna entered.
“There you are,” she said, making it sound like a scold and probably meaning it. “Close the door, Anna.”
Anna obeyed. That was even less encouraging. “You sent for me, ma’am?”
“I did.” Mrs. Pembroke set the silk aside. “Come here and tell me what you make of this.”
Anna had a sneaking suspicion this had nothing to do with petunias. She crossed the room as Mrs. Pembroke lifted a long, narrow case from the table and held it out.
Anna took it before she thought better of it. The case itself was lovely, fashioned of black leather bound over wood, with a delicate gold edging along the seam in a narrow leaf pattern. A small brass clasp held it shut.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“Open it and see.”
Anna pressed the little brass button. The lid lifted with a soft creak from the hinge, revealing cream velvet inside. A silver locket rested in the lining, the chain tucked neatly into a slit made for it.
For a moment, Anna only stared.
The locket had presence. It lay there like something important, though she couldn’t say why.
Mrs. Pembroke leaned back. “Well, don’t just stand there. Open it.”
Anna lifted the locket from the case, pressed the clasp, and opened it. Inside, the silver caught the light. On the left side, centered and engraved were the words: In God We Trust.
Anna stared at them.
On the right side was a tiny portrait of a child, a pretty little girl with round cheeks, dark eyes, and a solemn expression.
“It’s very nice,” Anna hedged.
“So it is,” Mrs. Pembroke drawled.
Anna glanced between the locket and her employer. “Does the clasp need mending?”
“Not that clasp.” Mrs. Pembroke took the locket from her, turned it in her fingers, and opened a hidden back panel with a small, practiced motion.
Anna’s eyes widened. So, there was more. The back left interior bore another inscription, also centered.
Martha Washington.
Anna’s pulse took off. With one heartbeat, the room seemed to tilt around that name.
