Jem watched as if in a dream while the men walked back up the shingle. It was too late now. The current would carry the man along to his death. He had been given his revenge but Jem stared into the gunmetal water feeling nothing.

  If Slinger had shown one jot of remorse, one iota of shame for his dealings, there would have been a chance that Jem’s fury would have abated, but all he saw in the eyes of that man was greed and obsession.

  I didn’t kill him, he thought. He killed himself with his own greed, chasing after an illusion. Eben had been too drunk to realize that Jem had slipped the pearl in his pocket and substituted it with a pebble. This he flung into the water. Jem felt the cold pearl in his hand, the last link to his folks and his far-off country. Revenge was a dish best served cold, they said, and he felt a flint of ice enter his heart at the thought of Slinger’s needless death. He put the pearl back in its pouch. This majestic globe, he mused, his father’s very last pearl, did it bring only death and deceit? Was it now a cursed and bitter legacy?

  Better it had lain unfound on the bed of the river than to have wreaked havoc. Why did he feel no remorse or guilt? The dead man had a wife, as bad as he was, no doubt. She would have to be told the news. He looked down at the old coat lying lifeless on the shingle and shivered. Whatever was hidden in the linings belonged to her now.

  38

  October

  Greta and her young assistant were up to their armpits in soapsuds with a pile of ironing to finish but, despite all their hard work, they still didn’t have the money to buy their passage to York and wouldn’t for months to come. Eben had not returned and wasn’t missed. For the first time in ages, Greta felt at peace. It was up to her now to make their future. If she could do extra shifts somewhere they could take a train back east but for now it was enough to know Eben’s welfare was no longer her concern.

  There was a knock on the door and when she went to answer it she saw the outline of a tall man with Eben’s coat in his hand, the shabby one she’d recognize anywhere. ‘Oh, you found it, sir, thank you. My husband has been searching for this. Did the ladies on the shore find the owner? I’m sorry he’s not here to thank you in person. Please excuse the mess but it’s wash day.’

  The man in a smart suit took off his hat. ‘Mrs Slinger?’ There was something about the way he was staring at her that stopped her chatter. His dark eyes were searching her face hesitantly and it felt as if a dark shadow had fallen across the room.

  ‘Please, come in. I’m Greta Slinger and this is Rhodabel my helper. Mr Slinger will be most obliged. He’s away at the moment in search of this very coat.’

  The man didn’t move or speak at first then stepped inside and placed the coat on the chair back as if it were made of silk. ‘Mrs Slinger, I have something to tell you. Please sit down. There’s bad news . . .’

  She heard the soft Scottish lilt in his voice and couldn’t help staring at his handsome face as he gazed around the room. ‘Your husband met with an accident two days ago.’

  Greta stood very still. The room began to spin but she gripped the chair for support. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We met at a camp where he was searching for his coat. There was a quarrel and some hard words exchanged. He had stolen a pearl and the clammers chased him into the water. He got out of his depth and the river carried him away. No one could get to him in time.’

  ‘Was he searching for pearls?’ she heard herself speak.

  ‘Yes.’ The man nodded, relieved she was taking in the news.

  ‘Then he died as he lived. They were the true love of his life. Thank you for taking the trouble to bring this back,’ Greta replied, feeling her legs begin to shake.

  ‘Can I be of assistance?’ The man hesitated, reluctant to move.

  ‘Thank you but no, I prefer to be alone. I didn’t catch your name, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, how rude of me. James Baillie from the Allister lumber mill.’

  ‘You are our landlord, if I am correct.’ She nodded in recognition of the name. ‘I would be grateful for some leeway on our rent until we are in a position to leave.’

  ‘Of course, don’t worry about such things . . .’ He paused. ‘I knew your husband here in Muscatine. I was with him on the night that he died . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then thank you for taking the time to tell me in person.’ She closed her eyes as Rhodabel ushered the man to the door. When she opened them he had gone but his presence still filled the room. Eben was dead. Why did she feel empty and cold as if his death didn’t matter? Then she began to shake.

  Jem backed out of the doorway. He wasn’t wanted. He sensed her dismissal of him. Had she guessed his part in her husband’s death? Why hadn’t he told her the whole truth? Why hadn’t he explained his part in the man’s death?

  Eben’s wife wasn’t what he’d been expecting, she wasn’t a hysterical fishwife. Instead, he’d found a young woman and her maid busy at the sort of chores he knew brought in a pittance. The room was clean and neat. Her quiet dignity had disarmed him. How could he burden her with the truth of their sordid quarrel that had ended so badly? He had teased the man to distraction, a man already dizzy and drunk. How was he to know Slinger would dash into the water like that? He had killed that man as sure as if he had felled him with a blow.

  Now the wife would be destitute and he felt a surge of guilt and confusion. What made things worse was she was his tenant.

  He had not expected her to be so young or to have such striking blue eyes and black hair. Had the English voice he had heard once before on the shore belonged to her or was he just imagining it? How did a man like Slinger claim a woman of such presence and beauty? There must be a story there. Even in homespun clothes she stood out. If only she had cried out and made a show of emotion, blamed him for not saving her husband, but all he had seen was a calm acceptance and courage. He felt ashamed.

  As he drove down to the lumber mill he knew he couldn’t leave her to struggle. He would have to help her out. He had to ease his own troubled conscience, but then he recalled Slinger’s head injury. Perhaps there was more to know about this strange couple before he decided what to do next.

  Greta sat down to write home.

  Dear Irene,

  I lift my pen but such a weariness has overcome me of late, everything has been an effort of will since we received bad news.

  Eben is dead in an accident that no one seems able to explain to my satisfaction . They say he jumped into the freezing river chasing after pearls and got into difficulty. This is according to a witness, our landlord James Baillie, a Scotsman of good reputation who was present at the scene. It“s a long story how they came to be together that night.

  Mr Baillie is being most generous in letting us stay on in our house. Since discovering I can string pearls from his friend Mr Swann, he has promised to put some private repair work my way. It will make such a change from sewing and taking in laundry for pennies. Rhodabel is really efficient now so we are saving like mad .

  You must have guessed years ago that my marriage was not the happiest of unions especially after you hinted things about my husband that troubled me. I caught him in the very act of assault on my maid and know that my sister died by his evil hand . He has gone from us now and our aim is to return to York as soon as we can raise the tickets for home and wipe the dust of this cursed place from our feet.

  I am being harsh. I do like Muscatine, wild as it is at times, and our neighbours have been most kind and generous over the years. I will be sad to leave them when the time comes but when we return I intend to start my own little business so I will never be beholden to any man ever again for my future happiness. I will write to Mother that I shall be bringing my little helper with me. Rhodabel is so curious now to know what England will be like, thinking it“s all lords and ladies in castles, but one trip round the city will cure her of that notion .

  Thank Edmund Blake for asking after me. I imagine his furniture business flourishes. I was glad to see he is reconciled with his father before I left. Mr Blake was the kindest of employers. Mother told me his mother had died but I will not speak ill of the dead though I am sorely tempted .

  I would like to think this is my last letter before we leave for home and I shall see you all in person but I don“t want to tempt fate.

  Your dear friend,

  Greta

  There was so much else she could say but didn’t. Had she mentioned her landlord too much? Her feelings were confused and it wasn’t wise to put them on paper for it made them real. How she wished Irene was by her side to guide her and explain the strange discomfort she felt whenever he called at the house. Over the past weeks his maid had brought gifts of cookies and pastries from his own kitchen and he had offered to escort them to the very place where they had found Eben’s body, a place the locals called Dead Man’s Corner. Here the current slowed at the bend in the river and bodies often came to rest there. Mr Baillie had formally identified Eben’s body, sparing her the sight of her husband’s bloated corpse. It made her think of Kitty, lying in the river for so long. Would her sister rest in peace because in some strange way justice had been done? The river had taken Eben as he had taken Kitty to the Ouse?

  There would be an inquest and funeral. Baillie offered to help her in this but she refused. There was guilt written all over his face, as if he wanted to share something with her but couldn’t bring himself to reveal the truth. What had really happened on that fatal evening when Eben died? Was there more to his dying than she was being told? Her feelings were complicated further by her lack of grief for a man she had come to hate, a man who had robbed her of so much hope? Greta would play the part expected of her, she’d wear her widow’s weeds, but she would not be standing like the mourning widow folks expected around here, watching from the upper window of the house for those never to return. He was gone from them. There would be no more sorrowing on her part but the very effort of it all was tearing her apart.

  39

  November

  The inquest in the court house was a formal affair. Several witnesses came forward who knew Eben Stringer as a dealer. The quarrel with Mr Baillie was aired. He stood up to say he challenged the dealer for his false estimates and under weighing pearls. He told how they exchanged his travelling coat because it contained pearls. This was news to Greta. No wonder Eben was furious and had attacked Rhodabel in his rage.

  Baillie confessed how in anger he pretended to throw one such pearl into the water as a rebuke never thinking Eben would chase after it. The clammers were angry and followed after him but, when the river had carried him away, they tried to rescue him. He deeply regretted his action. At this point he glanced at Greta.

  So that was what he was hiding. Then he added something that made her tremble. ‘I have to add in fairness to the deceased that Mr Stringer was not himself having had a recent gash on his head. I took him to the doctor myself as he was dazed and unsteady. The doctor gave him something to ease the headache but I fear he drank too much and his judgement was impaired. The doctor will confirm this.’ Then he sat down not looking in her direction. So he knew all about their quarrel? Had he spared her embarrassment at this revelation?

  As was expected, the verdict on Ebenezer Alfred Slinger was one of accidental death while under the influence of alcohol. His body was to be released for burial. Sympathies were extended to the widow but as she walked out into the chill wind she felt numb. She went to the church and asked for a simple service of internment, nothing more. The coffin would be closed and there would be no headstone over his grave. Her husband didn’t deserve the expense of such a memorial. She felt her heart harden. Why should she beggar herself to be a hypocrite? Back at home, after Rhodabel retired up the stairs, she lifted up the old coat, taking her scissors to its seams, pulling and tearing it apart in anger, knowing she would find secrets within. Lo and behold, there they were, hidden in carefully concealed pockets, pearl upon pearl. Greta wept in fury as she threw the coat down in disgust. This lot could all pay for Eben’s funeral expenses since pearls were his first love, not her. His beloved coat was now nothing but a torn-up rag to be burned.

  Two days later Baillie came to her door with his own pouch of pearls. ‘I hear from Swann that you are a good pearl stringer so I wondered if you would consider making these up for a gift.’ He spread each one out for her to view. ‘It’s for Euphemia, my fiancée, for her wedding day. I have collected them over the years.’

  She fingered them in silence. They were fine freshwater pearls with rainbows of light on the surface. ‘What was your quarrel with my husband? What really happened?’ She spoke quietly, not looking at him.

  ‘I found that years back in Scotland, he had cheated my widowed mother of a great pearl, the very one he had hidden on his person. If he had shown one ounce of regret . . .’ Jem paused. ‘I’m not proud of what I did so I pretended to throw it away, the rest you know.’ Then he fell silent.

  ‘Can I see this pearl of great price that my husband was willing to die for?’ Her voice was cold.

  ‘I don’t carry it on my person but I will bring it later for the centre piece of the necklace once it has been drilled. But while we are being honest, can I ask you how Eben came to have the wound on his head? Why did he curse his wife to high heaven?’

  She caught his eye and held it firm.

  ‘I hit him with this.’ She walked across to the stove and picked up the skillet. ‘I stopped him from throttling my maid and killing her as he did my own sister back in York. Eben was attacking my maid because she gave away his old coat.’ She saw him step back in shock at her words. ‘That is why I shed no tears for him. You did us all a favour.’

  ‘Hang on, lassie, I did not kill him. I’m sorry if you think that. I had no idea he was such a man. You must be so shocked.’

  ‘I don’t think anything any more only about leaving for home. I’m a widow and I am free to go where I choose.’ Her lips trembled at the power of those words.

  He nodded, pointing to the pouch. ‘These pearls will give you work. I will make sure you don’t have to take in washing. I can give you dollars in advance . . .’

  ‘No! We will accept no charity. I will not be beholden to anyone. This is work I will accept as a commission but as soon as I have our fare, we will leave. Thank you, Mr Baillie.’ She dismissed him with a cool glance towards the door.

  Later Jem paced his bedroom floor. You have to stop going to visit her. You have to stop thinking about her. She is your tenant, the wife of the man you let die. You have a fiancée who loves you. Don’t make a fool of yourself. She’ll be gone soon. You have given her work and you have the great pearl that will finish off the necklace to perfection for your bride. The widow will leave and you will be free of this madness, free from the spell she casts over you.

  Every time he visited the little house with some excuse or other, he vowed he wouldn’t go again but somehow his feet found their way to her door. He must be strong. Seeing her in mourning reminded him of that first time he had helped her on the shoreline. How strange they should be meeting again under these circumstances, drawn together by tragedy.

  Why was it when he thought of Greta, all thoughts of Effie faded? This strange fever filled his waking hours. All he wanted was to catch a glimpse of those dazzling blue eyes. When he saw that quiet, serious look on her face he was lost. Why did she remind him of his new found pearl?

  He clasped it in his hand, that beauteous Queenie who came out of his home river, a perfect centre gem to set off the rest of Effie’s necklace except now he didn’t want to pierce her or part with her. She was a reminder of those forests and lochs of Scotland, his parents and all that was lost when she disappeared. Strange how fate had returned her to him. So why couldn’t he let her go?

  In the light of day, he made his excuse. He wasn’t sure her rainbow of reflected colours complimented the other American pearls. Beside her they seemed dense and almost opaque. Why was he hesitating about this bridal gift of love then? Did his feelings for Effie really fade before Greta Slinger’s presence? He felt himself sweating at such thoughts. Why didn’t he want to give her that last pearl?

  When Queenie was drilled and threaded and Greta placed this last pearl in the centre, the necklace would be finished. She would leave Muscatine and he was torn, wanting her gone and wanting her to stay. This was ridiculous. Time to visit Clinton and make it up to Effie for all this disloyalty but how could he leave when the mill was busy? He would write with loving promises excusing his absence from their coming Thanksgiving. But in his heart he knew the true reason he didn’t want to leave town just yet.

  40

  There was a bitter chill coming off the river but excitement in the town for the coming Thanksgiving celebrations. Greta was hoping for an invitation to celebrate with her kind neighbours next door but instead an invite came from an unexpected direction when Baillie turned up on her doorstep with yet another request for a repair from the wife of one of his friends.

  ‘We are inviting some of our employees and their wives for a Thanksgiving supper this year and I wondered if you would like to join us. You can’t go back to England without sampling a true Iowan Thanksgiving supper with all the trimmings and Rhodabel might like to help Martha with the dishes.’

  Rhodabel jumped up and down at this news. Greta tried to look calm. ‘To be honest, I am curious. Mr Slinger was not one for that celebration. I’ve never been to a Thanksgiving supper before. I’d be pleased to attend but I am in mourning. People might think it unseemly . . .’ She paused, not looking at him in case he saw her cheeks flushing with pleasure at such an invitation.

  ‘I guess many of the first pilgrims were bereaved when they celebrated their survival. It’s a time for family and friends to join together for a holiday. Martha assures me her pumpkin pie has no equal.’