The Widow's Secret

  “Am I likely to be arrested now?”

  “No, you’ve committed no crime, you handed over evidence and have cooperated fully. However…” Micah hesitated “…until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite’s death, I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.”

  “You think I’m responsible for his murder?” Jocelyn asked.

  He reached for her hand, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder is connected to the forged currency Benny gave you, that you might be in grave danger?”

  “You want…are you saying you’re trying to protect me?”

  “Don’t look so astonished. You’re a widow, living alone, with only a maid who no doubt leaves you alone at night. Why wouldn’t I want to protect you?”

  Jocelyn had looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because…” Her voice turned tremulous as a young girl’s. “Because the thought never occurred to me.”

  “Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don’t know yet whether your involvement is happenstance or design. But either way, you’re now under my protection.”

  SARA MITCHELL

  A popular and highly acclaimed author in the Christian market, Sara’s aim is to depict the struggle between the challenges of everyday life and the values to which our faith would have us aspire. The author of contemporary, historical suspense and historical novels, her work has been published by many inspirational book publishers.

  Having lived in diverse locations from Georgia to California to Great Britain, her extensive travel experience helps her create authentic settings for her books. A lifelong music lover, Sara has also written several musical dramas and has long been active in the music ministries of the churches wherever she and her husband, a retired career Air Force officer, have lived. The parents of two daughters, Sara and her husband now live in Virginia.

  The Widow’s Secret

  Sara Mitchell

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Don’t call me Naomi, she told them. Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.

  —Ruth 1:20

  Jesus answered her, If you knew the gift of God and Who it was that asks you for a drink, you would have asked Him and He would have given you living water…Whoever drinks the water I give will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

  —John 4:10, 14

  For my mother, a true Southern lady whose life

  exemplifies dignity, intelligence and faith.

  Thanks for loving me, no matter what.

  Acknowledgment

  With much gratitude to the staff members in the U.S. Secret Service Office of Government and Public Affairs, and the staff of the U.S. Secret Service Archives. Their cheerful assistance and endless patience, not to mention the reams of invaluable information they provided, deserve recognition. Any errors or inaccuracies rest entirely on the author’s head.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Questions for Discussion

  Prologue

  New York City

  September 1884

  A bar of orange-gold sunlight poured through the windows of the Binghams’ Fifth Avenue mansion, flooding the large guest bedroom where Jocelyn Tremayne had spent the past three nights. Tonight, however, she would be sleeping elsewhere. A persistent flutter wormed its way above the constricting whalebone corset; Jocelyn stood before the ornate floor mirror positioned in one of the room’s several alcoves, solemnly studying the strange reflection gazing back at her. She blinked twice to see if she could pray the freckles into disappearing, at least for her wedding day.

  Her prayers went unanswered.

  “You look prettier than the picture in a Harper’s Bazaar fashion catalog, Lynnie.”

  Kathleen Tremayne stepped around the four-poster bed and gently lifted her daughter’s hands, gave them a squeeze as though to quiet their trembling. “Everything’s going to be all right now,” she whispered. “Don’t you worry, sweet pea. Your daddy’s in the study with Mr. Bingham and the lawyer now, signing all the papers.” An expression drifted through the hazel eyes, and Jocelyn launched into a flurry of words, anything to banish that expression from her mother’s face.

  “I’m fine, Mother. Just…excited.” Nervous. Determined. But she would never admit to fear.

  She might have willingly agreed to marry Chadwick Bingham, only son and heir to the Bingham fortune, in order to save her family’s Virginia estate, but she wished she’d at least been allowed to wear her own mother’s wedding dress, instead of Mrs. Bingham’s. The white satin gown, over thirty years old, dripped with seed pearls and ruffles and Valenciennes lace over six layers of starched (and yellowing) petticoats to achieve the once-fashionable bell shape. Jocelyn thought she looked more like a bridal cake than a bride. She tried not to think about her mother’s wedding gown, refashioned five years earlier into clothes for her two growing daughters.

  Shame bit deep, without warning. Jocelyn was marrying a pleasant, courteous young man, but the union bore scant resemblance to her dreams. Even impoverished Southern debutantes with red hair and freckles dreamed of romance, not business transactions.

  She thrust the pinch of hurt aside. Countless other Southern daughters over the past decades of Reconstruction and national recessions had married to save their families from starvation. In return for Jocelyn’s hand in marriage, the Tremaynes would be allowed to live out the rest of their lives on the thousand-acre farm her great-great-granddaddy had carved out of the Virginia Piedmont two hundred years earlier. Her younger brothers and sister would still have a home until they each reached their eighteenth year, even if their heritage had legally just been signed over to Rupert Bingham.

  Perhaps the payment was justified. Until the war her father, and his before him, had run the farm with slave labor.

  Kathleen tugged a lace hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes as she gave Jocelyn a sweet smile. “Well. It’s time. Jocelyn? Are you sure…?”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Jocelyn promised, even as a black chasm seemed to be sucking her into its depths. “I like my husband-to-be. He’s been nothing but kind. We’ll be happy, I promise.”

  Her mother’s cool hands cupped her cheeks. “Your father and I love you very much. If—” She stopped, pressed a kiss to Jocelyn’s forehead. “Let’s go, then. You don’t need to start your new life being late for your wedding.”

  Hours later, the new Mrs. Chadwick Bingham surreptitiously leaned against one of the ballroom’s marble columns and slipped her feet free of her shoes. An audible sigh of relief escaped before she could swallow it. Jocelyn hoped the din of four hundred conversations and music from the strings orchestra successfully masked her faux pas—until a masculine chuckle floated into her ears from the other side of the pillar.

  “I agree w
ith your sentiment, but I’m surprised to hear it coming from the bride.” A tall young man appeared in front of her, a mischievous expression glinting behind a pair of gray eyes. “Don’t look so mortified. I won’t tell anyone.” He swept her an awkward bow, lost his balance and stumbled against the marble pillar. “Oops. Sorry. My father tells me I’ve sprouted an inch a month over the past year, and my feet—” A tide of red spread across his face. “I apologize.” He smoothed a hand over his long side whiskers, then fiddled with the end of his string-thin mustache while he continued talking. “We were introduced in the receiving line, but that was hours ago. Micah MacKenzie, at your service, Mrs. Bingham.”

  “Mr. MacKenzie.” Frantically Jocelyn felt for her shoes with her stockinged toes. She could feel the heat in her own cheeks, which certainly must rival her hair for color. “I—I do remember you.” A polite social fabrication. On the other hand, she wished she remembered him. As though to balance the impropriety of her sigh, her brain abruptly nudged her memory. “You were with your parents. And—and you’re in your second year at college, though I don’t recall where. Your father works for Mr. Bingham, I believe?”

  “Not exactly.” He paused, for a moment looking far older than his twentysomething years. “Never mind. May I fetch you something to drink? You look like you’re about to wilt.”

  “I’m sorry it shows. Brides are supposed to glow, aren’t they?”

  The gray eyes softened. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. Again. You make a breathtaking bride, Mrs. Bingham. Your husband is blessed.”

  Blessed? Jocelyn thought his word choice peculiar, but then everything about this gangly young man didn’t quite seem to fit the polished perfection of all the other guests. And yet, despite his lack of poised sophistication, she felt more at ease than she had in…in weeks, actually. “Are you one of Chadwick—I mean, Mr. Bingham’s friends?”

  “No, ma’am. I only know Chadwick through my parents.” He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; after twiddling his thumbs, he distractedly ran his fingers through his pomaded hair, then glared down at his sticky hand. “Forgot my mother insisted I look the part,” he muttered half under his breath as he pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped his hand clean. “Now that I’ve made a complete fool of myself, how about if I finish the job and ask if you’d permit me to help you find your way over to your husband. You’ve been polite long enough,” he finished gently. “The guests are waiting for you to leave, you know.”

  “I know. I was…I mean, I thought…” Swallowing hard, she straightened away from the column. “I can’t find my slippers underneath all my petticoats,” she admitted with a defeated smile. “I took them off because my toes were cramping.” Was it impolite for a new bride to mention her toes? “I suppose I could start across the floor and hope the petticoats drag my shoes along, but I didn’t want to risk leaving them behind.”

  “I understand.” This time his hand reached toward Jocelyn, and for the breath of an instant his fingers hovered inches from hers before he dropped his hand back to his side. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the crush of wedding guests.

  Moments later he reappeared, Chadwick beside him. “Here she is,” Mr. MacKenzie announced. “Waiting for you, I believe.” He studied Jocelyn, and she suddenly felt as though he had touched a lighted match to her pulse. “You know, Bingham, I think you’re absolutely right. The freckles lend her face much more character than a ho-hum rosy-cheeked complexion. Congratulations on your good fortune.”

  Chadwick was gawking at him as though his ears had just sprouted peacock feathers. “I…um…thank you,” he finally murmured.

  “Before you take her away, she requires your assistance in a small matter.” Mr. MacKenzie tipped his head to one side, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “God’s blessings on your life together.”

  And before Jocelyn could frame an articulate reply, he vanished around the marble column and was swallowed into the crowd.

  “What a bounder.” Chadwick offered his arm. “I never said a word to him about your freckles.”

  “Oh.” Jocelyn swallowed a stab of disappointment.

  “He’s certainly not part of Mrs. Astor’s Four Hundred, I gather. Friendly enough, but he’d taken off his gloves, did you notice? And his trousers were—” He stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, does he? Too bad. Congenial sort of fellow, not like some in this crowd. Now, what’s this small predicament that requires my assistance? Why, my dear, what a delightful shade of apricot. Here—” he leaned down, and the tang of his imported French cologne saturated Jocelyn’s nostrils “—whisper in my ear, then. Don’t be shy. We’re married now, Mrs. Bingham.”

  Married. With a tremulous breath of laughter, Jocelyn shoved aside all thoughts save her new status, and rose on tiptoe to explain her predicament.

  Hours later, she waited for her husband to enter the grand suite of rooms the Binghams had redesigned for the newly wedded couple. Hands clammy, heart thumping hard enough to rattle her teeth, Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with innocent fervor that she would please the young man who had vowed to care for her the rest of their lives.

  “Jocelyn…”

  She gasped, hands automatically clutching the crisp linen sheet even though she forced her eyes open. Chadwick stood by the bed, wearing a deep red dressing robe. Gaslight from the wall sconce limned his face, revealing the high forehead and the hooked nose so like his father’s. His face was freshly shaved save for the trimmed mustache. His eyes were…Jocelyn searched his eyes, trying to interpret their emotions.

  “M-Mr. Bingham?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, when we’re alone, call me Chadwick. Or Chad, if you don’t mind. I’ve always hated my name, to tell you the truth.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “The truth,” he repeated like an echo. “Why do you suppose the Bible claims it will set you free?”

  Flummoxed, Jocelyn gathered her courage and sat up, drawing her knees to her middle and clasping her damp hands around them. Apparently Chadwick was as nervous as she was, and thought a conversation might help them both. She warmed inside at the thought of his sensitivity. “I always thought it meant telling the truth about Jesus. You know, that He’s the Son of God?”

  Chadwick laughed, the sound so dark and bitter Jocelyn flinched. “No wonder my parents insisted I marry you,” he said. “Well, it’s too bad for both of us your youthful innocence can’t last forever.”

  He leaned over, planting his palms on the counterpane, inches from Jocelyn’s quivering limbs. “The truth is, Mrs. Chadwick Bingham, that from this moment forth, you’ll never be free again.”

  Chapter One

  Richmond, Virginia

  September 1894

  Over a dozen clocks chimed, bonged, pinged or warbled the hour of four o’clock in Mr. Alfred Hepplewhite’s store, without fuss simply named Clocks & Watches. Jocelyn smiled at the cacophony of timepieces heralding the time, while Mr. Hepplewhite placidly continued to fiddle with the clasp of her brooch watch. His gnarled hands were as deft as an artist’s, his eyes intent upon the task.

  The store was busy today. Restless, Jocelyn wandered toward a deserted corner near the front of the shop to avoid mingling with the other customers. For this moment, she wanted to savor the freedom of being alone, a widow of independent means beholden to nobody, whose sole activity of the day consisted of enjoying the chaotic voices of a hundred clocks.

  “Mrs. Tremayne? Your timepiece is ready.”

  Jocelyn hurried across to the cash register, ignoring a disheveled little man wearing a bowler hat several sizes too large, as well as an officious customer who insisted that Mr. Hepplewhite hurry up, he had an appointment in an hour and didn’t want to be late.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Hepplewhite,” she said as she opened her drawstring shopping bag to pay.

  “And you, madam.” He handed her the watch, bushy white eyebrows liftin
g behind his bifocals when the seedy-looking customer wormed his way past the rude gentleman to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn.

  “Sorry.” He produced an unrepentant gap-toothed grin. “Just wanted to see them watch chains.”

  “Here now, I was next. Move out of the way, you oaf.”

  “Right enough, gov’ner.” With a broad wink to Jocelyn the other man stepped back. “Fine-looking brooch watch, ma’am. Don’t see many like it these days.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Jocelyn pinned her watch in place, steeling herself to fend off another impertinent remark.

  Instead the man abruptly scuttled back down the aisle. After jerking the door open, he darted across East Broad, barely missing being run down by a streetcar. People, Jocelyn decided as her gaze followed the strange scruffy man, were uniformly unpredictable, which was why she didn’t trust many of them.

  The door flew open again before she reached it. A tall, broad-shouldered man loomed in the threshold. Blinking, Jocelyn took an automatic backward step when, eyes narrowing, he focused on her. For some reason time lurched to a standstill, all the clocks ceased ticking, all the pendulums stopped swinging because this man with windblown hair and gray eyes looked not only dangerous, but familiar. For a shimmering second he stared down at her with the same shock of recognition she herself had experienced.

  “Excuse me,” he finally said.