“You don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Listen,” he said. Three quick raps on the door broke the silence. “The barbarians are at the gate.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Victorine quickly grew bored with waiting. At ten minutes past two, she closed the book she was pretending to read and did not return it to the shelf where she’d found it. She thought the librarian looked at her disapprovingly, but the reproach of such a person was of no account. Victorine had already been scolded once for speaking too loudly when she asked another patron to point her to the histories. It was more amusing than distressing to be spoken to in such a manner, but Victorine still felt compelled to drop one of the large tomes on the floor so the thud startled the librarian enough to make her jump.

  It was clear to Victorine that Roen was not going to appear. He was nothing if not punctual, considered it an obligation in his business and in his personal life. Unless that little Frankie fellow had got Roen’s message wrong, she was being stood up. It would be a comfort to blame the boy, but as he had been reliable on every other occasion that she’d used him, it seemed unlikely he’d misunderstood Roen’s reply. No, this was Roen’s doing. He had lied.

  Victorine wished now that she’d asked Martin Cabot to accompany her to the library. He could have made himself unobtrusive among the periodicals while she spoke to Roen. But she hadn’t invited him, hadn’t told him that she intended to meet Roen. He was skulking somewhere nearby—that was his job after all—but he hadn’t followed her into the library. The termagant at the front desk would have fussed over him, and Victorine was certain she would have noticed that.

  Victorine turned up the collar on her coat before she stepped outside. Her kid leather gloves were stylish, but they did not offer the warmth of woolen mittens that many of the local women wore. She considered purchasing a pair as she walked past the mercantile. It remained only a consideration. Perhaps she would buy them on her way back to the hotel. For now, she wanted to reach her destination as quickly as possible. What was the maxim she was relying upon? If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain? That sounded right, although she questioned the wisdom of depending on a Muslim axiom to guide her. Muslims. Chinese. Irish Catholics. Jews. Negroes. It was intolerable, this merging of peoples that New York had come to embrace. To Victorine’s way of thinking, with only a single China girl in residence, Frost Falls had a distinct advantage over the city.

  That single China girl, though, was the one who answered Victorine’s summons at the door. Her initial thought was that she must have arrived at the wrong residence even though there were no houses on either side of this one and it was situated some thirty yards behind the forge just as Mr. Cabot had described to her. Still, she looked to her right and left and then behind her to get her bearings.

  Because Cabot had told her of its proximity to the forge and the livery, she had imagined the house as a gray, washed-out, dreary dwelling with a sagging roof and smoky windows. She hadn’t asked her investigator for more than the location of the house. Clearly that was an oversight. This was not the home she had been inspired to create, and she would have noticed that earlier if she had been walking with her head up instead of watching her step on the icy flagstone path.

  Upon inspection, Victorine saw the house was a relatively new structure, newer certainly that the storefronts along the main thoroughfare. It gleamed almost as white as the snow around it. The bright yellow shutters did not evoke dreariness. There were curtains in the windows, none of which were smoky or smudged, and the door, the one that was opened to her now, was also painted yellow. It would be like walking into sunshine, and Victorine’s mood was not improved by the thought of it.

  “You,” she said, staring at the China girl.

  “May I help you?”

  It was cold standing on the small front porch, but Victorine was prepared to suffer that until she had answers. First, she required confirmation she was in the right place. “Is this the Shepard residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I work here.”

  Victorine had a vague recollection of Mr. Cabot telling her this young woman had been hired away from the hotel. She also recalled her response. Someone wants her in their home? That is beyond my understanding. Damn the man. He’d known where she’d gone and he’d purposely kept that to himself. It shouldn’t have mattered that she hadn’t asked. He was obliged to tell her. She was paying him for answers whether or not she posed the questions.

  “Is he here?” she demanded. “Don’t look at me as if you don’t know to whom I am referring. Is he here?” Victorine was trying to look past the girl’s shoulder or over the top of her head when a child thrust her way to the forefront and stared so openly as to be rude. The child presented a distraction, and Victorine used that to her advantage, pushing the door open wider so she could step inside. She closed the door behind her. The child was no longer out in front of the China girl; she was clinging to her skirts.

  “What is your name?” Victorine asked, frustrated and impatient. “Lee? Wong? Chang?”

  “Fedora Chen.”

  “Chen. Of course. I would have come to it eventually. You know who I am?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Let us begin again,” said Victorine. “Is he here, Miss Chen?”

  Fedora put a comforting arm around Lizzie’s shoulders and kept her close.

  Victorine saw the gesture and it annoyed her. “For God’s sake, I am not going to bite the child. I like children.”

  “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “What? What did you say?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I heard you. I merely required a moment to collect myself.” Victorine raised a gloved hand and slapped Fedora.

  The blow was swift and stinging, and it moved Fedora off her feet. Beside her, Lizzie also stumbled. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I didn’t touch you,” said Victorine. “Where is your father?”

  “Dead,” Lizzie said.

  Victorine huffed a pent-up breath. “Your stepfather, then. Where is he?”

  “Stepfather?” She looked up at Fedora for an explanation.

  “She doesn’t understand,” said Fedora. “She calls him Da. And she doesn’t know where he is. Neither do I. Not precisely. He and Mrs. Shepard left at first light to complete a survey. The important thing you need to know is that he is not here.”

  Victorine examined Fedora through narrowed eyes. The truth eluded so many of these Chinese that it was quite possible the girl was lying. Victorine could still make out the print of her hand on the girl’s cheek. For no particular reason, she was tempted to slap her again. “I want to look for myself,” she said. She took a step forward on her way to brushing past Fedora but found her path immediately blocked.

  “Mr. Shepard isn’t hiding from you,” Fedora said. “He wouldn’t. Neither would Mrs. Shepard. They’re not here.”

  Victorine stayed where she was. Fedora held her stare, which she found faintly unnerving because it was not the shy, servile demeanor she had come to expect. “Very well,” she said. “I wonder if you will give Mr. Shepard a message from me.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “This.” Victorine gave in once more to the impulse that had tempted her earlier and raised her hand. It was only later that she wondered if she should be troubled by the fact that Fedora hadn’t tried to dodge the blow.

  * * *

  • • •

  Roen and Lily were stupid with laughter as they entered the kitchen at the end of their workday. If anyone at the table had looked outside minutes earlier, they would have witnessed their parents throwing snowballs at each other and their mother getting the best of their da as he pitched forward into a drift. None of them saw it, though. Fedora held their attention. She didn’t know they were watching her because she was at the stove with her back to them. They were uncommonly quiet, but each time she glanced over her shoulder to see what they were up to, they were always staring at their cards or trading them.

  Roen was still chuckling as he helped Lily out of her coat. He shook it out, spraying snow toward the table. That should have elicited some laughter, some objections, but it did neither. He noticed that Lily had gone quiet as well. He hung up her outerwear and then removed his own.

  “You ask,” he said, nodding toward the solemnly set faces at the table. “They’re not playing cards. They can’t be. No one’s arguing.”

  “Fedora?” Lily said. “Who are these children, and where are ours?”

  “I couldn’t say, ma’am.” Fedora kept slowly stirring the winter vegetable stew and didn’t turn away from the stove. “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

  Lily sought out her older son. “Clay?”

  He shrugged and put down his cards. Everyone followed his lead. “Ask Lizzie. She’ll tell you.”

  Lily looked sideways at Roen and saw her confusion mirrored there. “All right,” she said. “Lizzie? Clay says you’ll tell me.”

  “Everyone asks Clay first, but this time it’s me that knows.”

  “Just say it,” said Clay. “You told us as soon as we got home from school.”

  At the stove, Fedora sucked in a breath.

  Lizzie sat up straight. “This lady came and she slapped Miss Chen.” She held up two fingers. “Two times. Miss Chen didn’t cry, but I did. She said it didn’t hurt, but I think it did. I said she should lie down like you used to do and I would brush her hair. That made you better. I remember that.”

  Lily felt as if her heart were being squeezed. Her memory was identical to her daughter’s. If she stopped too long to think about it, she would be able to feel the brush being pulled through her hair. Lizzie’s manner of healing was very real.

  Lily studied Fedora’s ramrod spine, her stiff shoulders. “Fedora? Turn around, please.”

  Fedora did as she was asked. There was no question of not complying. She kept her hands at her sides. She had not examined herself in the mirror after Victorine left. Whatever evidence existed immediately after the blow would certainly not be in evidence now. She would not give herself away by trying to hide something that was no longer there.

  Lily’s sharp intake of air told her how wrong she was. Now Fedora’s hand flew to her cheek.

  Roen stepped forward and touched Hannah on the shoulder. “Get the ice bag. I assume we have one.” Hannah nodded, shoved away from the table, and was off. “Ham, get your coat on. When Hannah comes back, you take the bag and pack it with snow. Clay, your coat, too. You’re going to go to Dr. Madison’s and ask her to come here.” They jumped to their feet simultaneously and went to get their coats.

  “What can I do?” Lizzie asked plaintively.

  Roen scooped her up and hefted her against his chest, supporting her with one arm. “You’ve already done the most important job. You told your brothers and sister what happened, and then you told us.”

  “No one said I shouldn’t this time.” She looked at her mother for confirmation.

  “That’s right, Lizzie,” said Lily. “No one said you shouldn’t.”

  Lizzie slid an arm around Roen’s neck. “That lady, she had a message for you.”

  “She did?” Roen looked at Fedora questioningly but spoke to Lizzie. “What was it?”

  “This.” She tapped Roen on the cheek with the flat of her hand. “Except hard. That was the second time she hit Miss Chen.”

  “Is that right, Fedora?”

  Fedora cast her eyes everywhere but at Roen and eventually nodded.

  Hannah returned then with the ice bag. Ham took it and bolted out the door. Roen passed Lizzie to her sister and asked her to go to the front room. “Sit down, Fedora.”

  “The soup will—”

  “I’ll take over at the stove,” said Lily. She took the long-handled wooden spoon from Fedora’s unresisting fingers. “Go on. Please sit.”

  Roen pushed out Lizzie’s chair for her and she sat. Ham came back in, triumphantly holding the ice bag over his head. Roen sent him to the front room to join his sisters and then wrapped the bag in a kitchen towel. He gave it to Fedora before he chose the chair beside her and sat. Because he was watching her, he saw her nearly imperceptible flinch. “Was it Miss Headley?” he asked without preamble.

  She nodded again.

  “And if Lizzie hadn’t spilled the beans and you weren’t wearing the marks from Miss Headley’s visit, did you intend to tell us she was here?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ice bag is for your cheek, not to hold in your hands. Here. Like this.” He cupped his cheek as if holding the ice bag to it, and she slowly mirrored his action. “That’s better. You haven’t looked at yourself, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Probably just as well. Are you certain it was a slap? It looks as if she delivered a haymaker.” When Fedora regarded him blankly, he explained. “That’s a swinging punch. A powerful one.”

  “She slapped me.”

  “Twice, according to Lizzie. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were supposed to convey that slap to me?”

  “Yes, but I would have never—”

  Roen stopped her. “I know that.” So did Victorine, he thought. She had slapped Fedora because she wanted to, not because it served a purpose. “Why did she hit you the first time?”

  Fedora looked away. “That was my fault. I was impertinent.”

  Lily was listening to every part of their exchange, and now she made a three-quarter turn toward the table and spoke up. “You’re going to have to explain that. It stretches my belief to imagine you were rude.”

  For a few moments, Fedora said nothing as she worried her lower lip. “Lizzie came to the door while Miss Headley was demanding to know where Mr. Shepard was and attached herself to me.”

  Lily nodded. “She does that when she’s feeling shy or afraid. I’m thinking it was the latter this time.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. I’m not certain what I did to annoy Miss Headley, but she snapped at me. I think she said something about not biting the child, but I know she said she liked children.” Fedora’s attention swung to Roen when he sputtered a laugh. “That’s when I said, ‘All evidence to the contrary.’ And that’s when she slapped me.”

  Roen sobered. “So you spoke your mind. It seems to me you did it in defense of Lizzie.”

  “Yes, sir, but in my defense as well.”

  “And Miss Headley objected to that.”

  Fedora lifted the ice bag a few inches from her cheek. “Strongly.” She gently settled the bag back in place.

  Roen was encouraged to see a glimmer of a smile touch Fedora’s lips. It seemed to him that she did not regret speaking out, and perhaps did not even regret the consequences of it. “I hope you will accept my apology,” he said.

  “But you—”

  Roen shook his head, interrupting. “Miss Headley was here because of me, and she made you suffer for the fact that I was gone from home. Did she ask after Mrs. Shepard?”

  “No, but I told her that Mrs. Shepard was with you.” She frowned. “Was I wrong to do that?”

  Roen and Lily spoke at the same time. “No.”

  Fedora’s glance darted between them. “What should I do if she returns tomorrow?”

  “She won’t. Not tomorrow. Not the day after. Don’t concern yourself with her coming back. She won’t. Not ever.”

  Now Lily frowned, looking at Roen over the top of Fedora’s head. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again as the front door opened. She looked down the hallway and saw Clay ushering in Ridley. Ben was right behind them both.

  “Doc’s here!” Clay announced rather more loudly then he had to.

  Lily called out, “We’re in the kitchen. Clay, you take their coats and stay there.” She moved the soup pot to a warming spot on the stove and set the spoon aside.

  Roen got to his feet when Ridley and Ben walked into the kitchen. He vacated his chair for Ridley to use to examine her patient. “Thank you for coming.” He summarized what had taken place earlier in the day while Ridley removed Fedora’s ice bag and looked over her bruised and swollen cheek and checked her left eye.

  “Move your jaw back and forth for me,” Ridley told her. “Good. You have full movement. There are broken capillaries in your eye, which is why the area around the iris is red.”

  Fedora drew her head back in surprise.

  “She doesn’t know,” explained Roen. “She hasn’t looked at the damage Miss Headley inflicted.”

  “Do you want to see?” asked Ridley. “I have a small mirror in my medical bag.”

  “No. If it’s all the same, I’d rather not. I’ve been struck before.” When the room fell silent, she pressed her lips together and did not meet anyone’s eye.

  Ridley gently placed the ice bag against Fedora’s cheek. Without prompting, Fedora laid her hand over it. Ridley nodded to her husband.

  “You should press charges, Fedora,” said Ben. “Do you want to?”

  She looked at him, patently horrified.

  “No, I reckon not,” he said.

  “She works for me,” said Roen. “Can I do it?”

  “It’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s a start.”

  “Please. No.” Distressed by the prospect, Fedora white-knuckled the ice bag. “I’ll be run out of town.”

  “You won’t,” said Roen. “We have laws here.”

  “They don’t apply to me.”

  Ben said, “They do if I say they do.”

  Ridley reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “Give her time and recognize that she’s not entirely wrong. I know how it pains you to sit on your hands, but this is one of those situations where doing nothing may be the best you can do.”