Louisa and the Missing Heiress by Anna Maclean Read Free Book Online

hemisphere hat. Although my costume was a lady’s, I was in a rush and I realized I could be accused of using my “Concord walk,” a fast and long-strided pace meant more for boots and fields than high-heeled button-ups and cobbled streets. I knew I had slipped into such habits, because Sylvia was having trouble keeping pace. And I chastised myself—much as I still do to this day—for worrying about what Boston society thought of me. Why should I care so much what they thought of my walk?
    “No, Louisa, I don’t,” she said, panting.
    “Well, finally, I did. It is from one of the stories we made up, that summer when we had bonfires every night. But I can’t remember the rest of the story, only that a young woman is in great danger, and she carries something about in the Italian heat. . . .”
    “Perhaps,” Sylvia suggested, pulling at my sleeve in an attempt to slow my pace, “Dot simply doesn’t have enough to keep her occupied. You often say that hard work and ‘good drill’ keep the mind clear.”
    “Do I? How righteous I must sound, Sylvia. You know, of course, I am counseling myself to keep out of the Slough of Despond. I miss Anna, and I am worried about Dorothy.”
    “Dorothy did seem changed yesterday,” Sylvia agreed. “Certainly she is different from her old self. She used to be shy. Now she seems secretive. She was gay; now she frowns very often. Do you think Wortham has caused this?”
    “Your cousin is charming, but unreliable,” I said as we approached once again the Commonwealth Avenue mansion. “He claimed to become a new man when he fell in love with Dot. But Abba says people cannot change their nature, and I think I agree. I know Dottie, being Dottie, even knowing of his earlier exploits, forgave perhaps too quickly, too easily. But I admit to feeling uneasy.”
    “I know.” Sylvia was breathless. “I can tell by the length of your stride.”
    At two-thirty we knocked once again at the Wortham front door.
    Wortham opened it, except he wasn’t his usual debonair self. His hair stood on end; his shirt was open at the collar and rumpled. He smelled of whiskey.
    “Oh, dear.” I sighed. “Dot isn’t here, is she?”
    “Miss Alcott! She’s been gone all day! She left before breakfast, didn’t leave a word for me, never came home for lunch. . . . Miss Alcott, I’m worried something has happened!”

CHAPTER THREE
    Dottie Is Discovered
    “DOT IS GONE! She’s been gone all day!” Preston exclaimed again, tearing at his hair in an overwrought manner.
    “Stay calm, Mr. Wortham. I’m sure there is an explanation.” But even then I wasn’t at all sure. “Let us go inside.” I placed my gloved hand on his elbow and guided him into his own parlor.
    I had never seen Preston Wortham in such a state until that terrible day. He was beside himself, unable to sit, shaking, wild-eyed. I later realized he was overreacting to a wife who had acquired a penchant for absentminded late arrivals. Something was very wrong in this household.
    Tea was already set up and Digby stood by, towel on arm. The parlor maid shifted nervously on her tiptoes and wrung her hands in her apron. No one else had arrived yet.
    “Mr. Wortham, have you and Dot quarreled?” I was convinced a direct approach was called for.
    “Quarreled?” Preston Wortham’s eyes grew even larger, and he again ran his hand through his bristling hair. “Quarreled?” he repeated as if the word were new to him. “Of course not!”
    Digby cleared his throat and stared straight ahead. The parlor maid giggled.
    “I see,” I said. “Well, we must sit and wait and hope that Dot will be here soon.”
    Wortham sat in his armchair, and Sylvia and I perched on a little settee. The first cups of tea were poured. And finished. A second cup poured. Lily the spaniel was nowhere to be seen. Occasionally Mr. Wortham bolted from his chair and paced over the expensive Aubusson rug; then—perhaps I had gazed at him rather sternly—he sat back