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“M’h’m.” Hannah grinned and retrieved paper and pencil from her capacious reticule. “Our interview.”
They were sitting off to the side, out of the line of thinning traffic, at a table not quite but almost in the corner. Any conversation, carried on in lowered tones, would certainly be confidential. If that were even necessary.
Ready to go to work, Hannah Burton, fearless reporter, looked up. “And so you traveled here from New York?” she prompted.
“Indeed I did.” The gaze of sharp blue eyes softened with reminiscence, and the slow turning of the delicate jet bracelet wrapped around one wrist indicated a fading back into memory. “Before that, however, I was born and raised in a tiny hamlet you’ve no doubt never heard of, in the province of Munster, near the City of Cork.”
“Irish,” breathed Hannah, in surprise.
“Oh, yes. My father served as minister of The Rock of the Presbytery Church there—a pitifully small congregation—and we lived, all twelve of us, in a pitifully small manse. It never failed to amaze me, once I learned the facts of life, how the Reverend St. George Killarney could manage to provide so little for his family by way of funds, but did manage to procreate on such a regular basis.”
Hannah’s cheeks flushed. This was just a step farther into intimacy than she had been prepared to go. Still, since Abigail was willing to divulge, she was willing to listen.
“You’ve heard the phrase about someone being poor as a church mouse? Well, that was us. Never enough to eat, never enough to wear... Well. After a siege of cholera—” her voice dipped and twisted, “—we were five. Only five, and those not strong. So I became a mail order bride.”
An audible inward suck of breath neither interrupted the monologue, nor halted it. The quiet words continued, while Abigail toyed with a spoon left on the table.
She was barely eighteen when, in response to a proposal of marriage from one Courtney Fitzsimmons, she left the green sod of Ireland behind her forever and boarded ship for New York City. Courtney, at the ripe old age of fifty, had already made his fortune on Wall Street and was now looking for a beautiful young wife to grace his mansion and share his bed.
“Unfortunately, what he was looking for—a daughter of one of the landed gentry (class envy, I do believe) with whom to mate—was not available. Court was new money, only, tied to a disreputable background. Not one of those gilded high society families would even consider his suit. Poor man; he had to settle for me.”
They’d been successfully (“happily” was not a description that correlated with this arranged match) married for more than twenty years, with Court piling up money hand over fist, when he decided to strike out on a new undertaking.
“For some reason, he got it into his head to come to Texas,” Abigail related, with a faraway look in her eyes. “He’d always been an adventurous sort; he felt he’d already conquered the business world, and he was looking for new experiences. So he sold all that we had, purchased what we needed, and south we came.”
Abigail having refused to leave her favorite pieces of furniture and personal belongings gathered together over the years, her husband had arranged for a wagon train, with as many comforts as possible, in which to travel. It was a slow, leisurely journey, taking in the sights along the way. Until Memphis. Near Memphis, tragedy struck.
“The stupid jerk.” Was there no love lost between the couple? “Determined to prove just what a tough man he was, despite his age. While he was cutting firewood one evening, he was bitten by some poisonous snake. A rattler, I believe someone said. It wasn’t pretty. Nor was it quick.”
Hannah paused in her note-taking to execute a little shiver. The death could have happened only recently, but she saw no real bereavement in the pretty face opposite, heard no real grief in the calm voice. Nor was her new friend, dressed as usual with flamboyance, wearing widow’s weeds.
“That’s terrible, Abigail. I’m so sorry.”
“What? Oh. Well, of course you are, my dear. But, you see—” she leaned forward, in more confidential vein, “—our marriage was simply an arrangement. There were things he needed from me, and things I needed from him. And not much feeling in between. Rather like nuptials for the royals, you understand; just to carry on the line. So—” she sighed, “we buried him.”
“You did?” Hannah, startled, gulped. “Where, out there in the wilds?”
> “No, no, of course not. We found a minister, who helped me take care of the appropriate details. Our train kept on, as did I. When we arrived here several weeks later, Hannah, I looked around and liked what I saw. That’s when I decided that—well, here I shall stay.”
A warm, fascinated smile. “And I’m very glad you have, Abigail.”
“Thank you, dear; I appreciate that. Now.” She glanced around the room, to ensure that no one was listening. Or even paying attention. “Just how much of that will you print in this newspaper of yours?”
“Only what you would like printed. Only the—um—less personal particulars, how’s that? And once the article is written, you’ll have final approval before I hand it over to Mr. Crane. Will that serve?”
“Perfectly, Hannah. And, at that time, we’ll discuss a date for my Grand Opening, and the consequent advertising. Now, suppose the two of us go find out where that doctor acquaintance of yours has been hiding out, when nearly the whole town has come to celebrate a holiday. He ought to be accounted for, don’t you think?”
Chapter Three
“I DON’T SEE WHY I HAVE to go along,” grumbled Hannah. “This was all your idea.”
“Because I don’t know where he lives,” patiently explained Abigail for the third time, “and you do. Good Gracious, you enjoy working yourself into a state, don’t you? Are you always this difficult?”
Hannah wasn’t sure he really wanted to see her. After all, he never showed up for that dinner. She didn’t want to make him feel uneasy. Because that was the last thing she wanted to do.
Hannah, looking up from under her hat in the fading light, pulled a reluctant grin. “And you must have been talking to one of my sisters.”
“Not at all. But it’s quite easy to read the expression on your face. Hmmm. Apothecary Lane. Cunning; I can certainly guess who added that name. Now, do we turn left or right at this corner?”
