Page 28 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 28

S HARING A ROOM WITH T HERESA on the same night Theresa had witnessed Abraham and Lydia together served as a warning for Lydia to do better at hiding her budding romance. Theresa’s endless teasing and incessant desire to know every detail made it difficult to focus on listening for Billy Poe. The guest room shared a wall with them, meaning Billy could sneak into Theresa’s room by mistake. Not that he could get in unscathed with the ceramic pitcher strung up and ready to swing into his head if he opened the door. Confident in their trap, Theresa slept soundly—after she’d finally tired of making predictions about Lydia and Abraham’s future together. Lydia, however, spent the night wide awake, vacillating between euphoria and questioning her sanity.

How on earth had she gone from insisting she wouldn’t risk her friendship with Abraham to agreeing to a courtship with the man in less than an hour? Oh, she knew why—Abraham was the hero she’d never dared to write—but real life rarely lived up to fiction. And now she couldn’t decide if she was glad for taking the risk or if she regretted it.

If it worked out and they did develop that steadfast love her parents possessed, she’d be richly blessed indeed.

Already she and Theresa had chosen the perfect house for her and Abraham to live in. It belonged to their former tutor and had a room on the main floor that could host a ball, an office for Abraham to conduct his work, and plenty of space for them to raise their half dozen children. It was even the perfect distance between her parents’ and Theresa’s homes. They’d spent an hour imagining the quiet evenings she and Abraham would spend together curled up before the fire. She and Abraham would talk, kiss, read together, kiss some more, then enjoy a round of checkers before finishing off with more kissing. The kissing had been Theresa’s idea, but Lydia didn’t mind dreaming about it—even if she’d yet to experience the knock-her-off-her-feet variety that Abraham insisted existed. Yes, if this sudden jump into a courtship worked out, she’d have a life better than any romance novel.

But if it didn’t work, Lydia’s loss would be significant.

In all her years of measuring every potential suitor against her high standard of what made a hero, none had come close. Not until Abraham. She didn’t want what society defined as a perfect hero. Bulging muscles, fashionable facial hair, and classic Renaissance features—they disgusted her. Who wanted to cuddle a rock, get hair in her mouth, or marry a painting? No, Abraham was perfect. Not just in his looks, but more importantly, his character was everything she admired in a man. Confident but not arrogant. Kind even to criminals with welts on their faces. He cared enough to confront a friend when he saw them straying, but was humble enough to admit when he’d made a mistake.

Admittedly no one was perfect. She suspected a few of his flaws already. After all, he was very decided in his opinions and believed her romance novels twaddle. But courting and marrying her own Detective Darcy was a dream worth chasing, not just because he was Detective Darcy but because Abraham Hall was a man of flesh and bone who loved Christ, loved his family, and hopefully one day would love her too.

When Lydia finally did drift off to sleep, swoonworthy dreams of kissing Abraham and nail-biting nightmares of Billy Poe alternated, then swirled together. One moment she was anticipating a kiss as Abraham’s face neared. The next, a deranged combination of Marcus’s and Mr. Clemens’s faces laughed maniacally as the men wrapped her in arms that turned into rope. She struggled against the rope’s hold, kicking and screaming until finally her foot connected with something hard.

Pain in her toes jolted her awake. She yelped before curling on her side to hold the ailing little piggies. Apparently, she’d kicked the bed frame.

Something shattered behind her, and someone grunted.

Lydia shot up in bed and twisted toward the door.

Early morning light filled the room, illuminating the open door and a dazed Mrs. Hawking sprawled on the floor amid shards of ceramic.

Lydia scrambled from the bed. “Mrs. Hawking!”

Theresa followed, and they carefully avoided the ceramic field to reach the poor woman’s side. Blood trickled from a cut on her temple. With her eyelids closed, it was impossible to tell if her eyes had turned glassy or not. Was she even breathing?

“Papa! We need a doctor!”

Lydia knelt and pressed her ear to Mrs. Hawking’s chest.

Mrs. Hawking gasped.

“Praise God!” Theresa dropped to the floor, heedless of the danger. “I thought we’d killed you.”

“You’ll wish you had.” Mrs. Hawking pressed a hand to her head and groaned.

Theresa cut a glance to Lydia and grimaced. Colonel Plane would put them in front of a firing squad for this. Or, more likely, he’d set them to cleaning the baseboards and floor seams with a toothbrush.

Papa rushed into the room with his shirt half tucked into his pants, barefoot, and his black bag in hand. When his eyes landed on his newest patient, they widened. “Good heavens! What happened?”

“Ummm … We might have booby-trapped the room and forgot to tell Mrs. Hawking.” Lydia eyed the dangling rope that still held the pitcher’s handle within its loop.

“Of course you did. No, don’t sit up, Mrs. Hawking. I must determine if it is safe for you to move first.” He pulled Lydia to her feet and waved Theresa to do the same. “Put your wrappers on and collect your clothes for the day. You’ll dress across the hall so I have the space necessary to treat her.”

They did as bidden and left Papa feeling for breaks in Mrs. Hawking’s skull. Detective Lawson and the other officers he’d brought gathered in the hall. Before Lydia could enter the room her parents shared, the detective gripped her arm.

“It wasn’t Billy Poe, was it?”

“No. Only Mrs. Hawking taken unawares by our trap.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your creative means of protection, given your stories.” Detective Lawson glanced to where Mrs. Hawking’s prone legs and feet could be seen through the open door, and shook his head. He returned his attention to Lydia and eyed the rolled-up dress and underpinnings. “Once you’re ready, meet me in the parlor with your manuscript. Poe never showed, but that doesn’t mean he won’t still try. We’ll figure out a safe place to store it until this is over.”

“There’s no need. My friends should arrive soon, and we’ll burn it not long after.”

“I still say that’s a rash decision.”

“You can think what you wish, but it is my story to do with as I please, and it would please me very much to know I’ve stolen the identity of Billy’s last potential victim from him.”

Detective Lawson frowned but nodded.

By the time she and Theresa emerged from the room, Papa had assisted a concussed Mrs. Hawking back to her quarters and Nora and Flossie had arrived. Lydia retrieved the manuscript box from the bottom of Theresa’s armoire while Theresa retrieved the kindling bin from the kitchen. Then Lydia locked the four of them plus Flossie’s puppy in the parlor. Abraham had barged in on her yesterday. She would not allow Detective Lawson to do the same and attempt to steal even a single sheet for his purposes.

Lydia faced her three friends, already forming a line in front of the fireplace. The ceramic Guardian brooches Flossie had designed and fired in her home kiln stood out prominently on their dresses, declaring this was no ordinary meeting among friends. From a distance, someone might assume the design a flower, but upon closer inspection, four swords came together over a shield of blue and purple with some greenery spreading out at the bottom. The colors were specifically chosen to represent the group’s ideals of justice, harmony, and loyalty. Whatever would she do without these ladies?

Harold didn’t seem impressed by the display of bold friendship and chose instead to chase his fluffy tail.

“Thank you for coming.” Lydia clutched the box with the unfinished pages to her chest. “The first order of business is to protect the identity of Billy Poe’s next victim by”—emotion she hadn’t expected lodged within her throat, and she had to swallow hard to continue—“burning my latest story.”

Unrestrained compassion showed on her friends’ faces, and some of her burden lifted.

“I’ll remove the summer cover and attach the grate.” Theresa broke from the line and prepared the coal fireplace.

“And I’ll go get coal.” Nora started toward the door.

“We won’t need it,” Lydia said. “I intend to burn my manuscript box as well.”

Nora stopped and stared at her. “But that was your first purchase to celebrate becoming a published author.”

“And it will be the coffin for the last manuscript I ever write.” Though Lydia had tried to sound confident and unaffected, the tears that built pressure behind her eyes also warbled her voice.

Flossie scooped up Harold and exchanged him for the manuscript box. “You need the love of a puppy.”

Harold’s tongue immediately began exploring Lydia’s face. “At least I’m finally getting kissed by someone.”

Theresa snorted from her squatted position as she attached the coal grate to the surrounding frame. “I think Detective Hall was quite successful doing that last night.”

“Not too successful. You interrupted him,” Lydia muttered.

Flossie squealed. “You finally got your first kiss?”

“He insisted it didn’t count. Our lips barely touched.”

“Oh, what a disappointment. You’ll have to try again.” Flossie said it so flippantly that, if Lydia didn’t know better, she’d think Flossie kissed every man she met. But Flossie would never allow a man who did not first support and encourage her suffragist activities anywhere near her lips. So far, such a man proved as elusive as a unicorn.

“Ignore Flossie.” Nora retrieved scraps of wood from the kindling bin and handed them to Theresa. “The only kisses she knows are Harold’s.”

“And I suppose you have your own superior experience?” Flossie retorted.

“No, and I’m not going to try for one. Especially since there likely isn’t a man willing to take me on with my family’s trouble.”

“You just haven’t met the right man.” Flossie’s momentarily sympathetic tone returned to teasing. “I know there’s one out there crazy enough to put up with your family.”

Lydia winced at Flossie’s choice of the word crazy . There was a reason none of them joked about Longview Insane Asylum around Nora. It wasn’t some abstract place. It was her mother’s residence.

But Nora seemed unbothered by the slip. She shook a piece of frayed wood at Flossie as Harold’s head and eyes followed the stick’s movement. “That’s certainly more likely than one who’d be willing to put up with yours.”

Harold leaped from Lydia’s arms, snagged the stick, and darted beneath the couch, where he must have thought no one could reach him.

“Let him have it.” Flossie waved off his behavior. “He’ll stay out of trouble that way. I’ll sweep up the mess later.”

Theresa sat back on her heels and pulled the box of matchsticks from a nearby drawer. “Do you want to light the fire?”

Lydia shook her head and reclaimed the manuscript box. The only part she wanted in this was laying her career to rest. Building the pyre to cremate it was not something she was ready to take part in.

Flossie wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “If this is what you really want to do, we’re with you every step.”

“I want to do this. It’s the only way to protect this man’s life.”

“All right then. We all know I love a good fire.” Flossie grabbed the matchbox from Theresa, struck a stick, and held it to the kindling.

Slowly, the splinters of wood smoked, curled, and then caught. Flossie fed the fledgling flames some discarded newspaper while Theresa arranged two larger pieces of wood over the top.

“Whenever you’re ready, the fire is.” Theresa rose and stepped to the side.

Flossie followed suit.

Lydia ran her hand over the varnished wooden box she’d spent a portion of her first advance on. The dark sheen had contrasted perfectly with her name, engraved by Theresa with fanciful swirls, and a feather pen beneath. At some point or another, each of her books had been nestled inside. This box had been filled with love and hate, and even now contained the harsh judgments of a woman who no longer believed them hers to make.

“You’re saving a life. Remember that.” Nora’s soft voice soothed the growing ache in Lydia’s chest.

With a deep breath, Lydia stepped forward. It was time to relinquish this part of her life. May God make beauty out of ashes.

She arranged the box so that it stood upright with her name facing forward, then she stepped back.

Her friends gathered alongside her, holding her hands and touching her arms as they watched what had once been a treasured career go up in flames.

The varnish caught quickly, and flames licked across the surface. The crackling of the fire grew louder, indicating the wood itself, and not just the kindling and varnish, had succumbed to the flames. It was a thick box and would take some time to fully disappear, but she’d stay until every last word smoldered.

“Fire!” Detective Lawson’s voice cut through the door into the room.

Of course there was a fire. That’s how one burned a manuscript.

Pounding shook the door. “The carriage house is on fire! Everyone to the water pump, or there’ll be no saving it.”

“Tipsy!” Theresa broke from the group and ran for the door.

Flossie and Nora looked at each other, then at Lydia, before rushing after Theresa.

Lydia stayed, watching the flames. Until the manuscript was completely burned, she couldn’t leave.

“Come on, Lydia.” Detective Lawson remained at the door, waiting for her. “We need everyone’s help if we’re to keep the fire from reaching the hay. Once it finds that, the carriage house and the animals inside will be lost.”

Still Lydia hesitated. Flossie and Nora were probably even now trying to drag Theresa back from rushing inside to save every living creature. Staying here meant abandoning her dearest friend, but neglecting the manuscript left a man’s life vulnerable.

The kindling shifted, and the flame-engulfed box dropped deeper. The lid separated from the bottom and leaned toward the grate. A few pages fell with it. The white edges curled and ignited. It wouldn’t be long before the fire ate up the pages whether the box burned quickly or not. The manuscript was safe to leave unattended. Unlike the carriage house.

“Come on, Lydia. I can’t leave you here unprotected from Poe.” Detective Lawson waved her toward the door.

She slipped past him, casting one last glance at her career turning to ashes. He pulled the door closed and followed her as she rushed out the front door to join the fire brigade.