A Whisper of Peace (30 page)

She whirled from the window and charged to her valise. After withdrawing a clean gown and the other items necessary for bathing, she stepped into the hallway. A bathing room specifically for female guests waited at the far end. When she’d checked it earlier, someone else was making use of it. But surely by now the woman would have left and Vivian could enjoy a leisurely soak. Her skin prickled in anticipation. Vivian attempted to turn the knob.

“Occupied!” A frantic voice screeched from behind the closed door.

Vivian tipped her face close to the raised-panel door. “Will you be much longer?”

“Five minutes.” The reply carried over the sounds of splashing.

Vivian leaned against the wall with her belongings draped over her arm, determined to remain beside the door so she could enter the moment the other woman vacated the room. Guests milled up and down the hallway on their way to their rooms or to the dining room on the main floor. She nodded and smiled when they greeted her, all the while battling embarrassment at her disheveled, travel-weary appearance. But not responding would be impolite. If only the woman inside the bathing room would hurry!

A middle-aged gentleman came up the stairs and ambled toward her. He stopped and tipped his fashionable black bowler, offering a broad grin. “Hello, miss.”

Vivian hugged her clean clothing to her ribs. The man, attired in a fancy pinstriped suit and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, oozed charm and sophistication. How slovenly she must appear in comparison. “H-hello.”

“I believe I saw you at the train station earlier this afternoon.” He glanced up and down the hallway, his thick brows briefly dipping. “You’re traveling alone?”

Was it wise to acknowledge her lack of chaperonage? Vivian bit down on her lip, uncertainty holding her silent.

He must have guessed the reason for her hesitation, because he chuckled lightly. “Now, now, I’m giving the wrong impression. Believe me, my query is entirely chivalrous.” His smile broadened. “I have a daughter, Mathilda Rose, who is the apple of my eye. She’s near your age. In fact, you remind me of her with your green eyes and heart-shaped face.” He sighed, shaking his head in a rueful manner. “I’m afraid my fatherly inclinations aren’t easily squelched.”

Vivian couldn’t resist displaying a grin. How sweet for him to be concerned about her. “Where is she?”

“Home in Ely with her mother. I’ll be joining them tomorrow now that my business dealings are complete.” He sighed again. “I’ve spent the past two weeks in San Francisco, overseeing the sale of a client’s business. Such a tiresome activity! I’m very ready to be home again.” Planting his feet wide, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. “And you, young lady? Are you heading home, too?”

Vivian opened her mouth to heartily agree, but for some reason the statement didn’t leave her lips. She’d always considered her aunt and uncle’s home her own. Why, then, did an image of Gwichyaa Saa fill her mind’s eye? She replied, “I’m going to visit relatives.”

“So you’ve left your home behind,” he mused.

Vivian swallowed a knot of sadness. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, I wish you safe travels, an enjoyable time with your relatives, and a speedy return to your home.”

Even though his final wish would not be fulfilled, Vivian smiled. “Th-thank you, sir.”

“I believe I’ll retire now. The train leaves early tomorrow morning.” He reached beneath his jacket and withdrew a folded newspaper. “Might you enjoy reading this before you turn in? It’s already a week old, but—”

“Oh yes, please!” Vivian reached eagerly for the paper. Living in the village, she’d fallen woefully out of touch with happenings in the country. Perhaps reabsorbing herself in newsworthy events might help her feel at ease in the city again. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re quite welcome. Good night now, young lady.” He touched the brim of his hat again, offered a dapper bow, and strode down the hallway.

The doorknob squeaked, and a plump woman with frizzy hair sticking out from beneath a ruffled mob cap stepped from the steamy bathing room. “There you are. I gave the tub a quick rinse. There’s plenty of hot water—enjoy.” The woman bustled around the corner and slammed herself into a room.

Vivian darted into the bathroom. She turned the brass spigots as high as they would go, smiling at the musical spatter of water against the tub’s cast-iron bottom. She dropped her dirty clothes in a heap and stepped into the tub. When the water reached a mere six inches from the tub’s rolled rim, she twisted the spigots to the off position and eased against the sloped back. Hot water lapped all the way to her chin. She closed her eyes, releasing a long sigh.
Luxury, pure luxury.

She’d placed the newspaper on a nearby table next to her folded nightclothes. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to read while soaking? Her heels squeaked against the tub’s surface as she raised herself up to grab the paper. Holding the pages well above the water, she reclined and read every article on the front page.

The paper grew damp from the steam, and Vivian considered laying it aside rather than ruining it. One more page, she decided. Exercising great care, she turned to the second page and, immediately, an article caught her attention: WELL-RESPECTED BUSINESSMAN VOSS EDWARD DAWSON KILLED IN ROBBERY ATTEMPT
.
How sad
, came the automatic thought. Angling the paper to better catch the light, she began to read.

Suddenly she gasped, sitting upright. Water splashed the pages and cascaded over the edge of the tub. She tossed the paper aside and clambered out, grabbing up a towel to mop the floor before water dripped to the room below. Assured she’d dried the floor as best she could, she draped the towel over the tub’s rolled rim and stared at the crumpled paper lying open on the floor at her feet.

Her pulse pounded as she located the line that had nearly stilled her heartbeat:
“Mr. Dawson began Dawson Industries with wealth gained from fur trapping on the Alaskan frontier
. . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Six

V
ivian’s motions turned clumsy as she scrambled into her clean clothing, brushed her damp hair away from her face, and carried her soiled clothing to her room. In one of her conversations with Lizzie, the native woman had shared her full name—Lu’qul Gitth’ighi Elizabeth Dawson—White Feather at her mother’s choosing, and Elizabeth Dawson after her paternal grandmother.

Dawson
 . . . Lizzie had never admitted her reason for wanting to go to San Francisco, but was it possible Lizzie intended to seek her father’s family? Might the Voss Dawson listed in the newspaper be one of Lizzie’s relatives? Perhaps even her father? If Clay were here, he’d no doubt advise her she was allowing her imagination to run wild. But she needed answers, for Lizzie’s sake.

Perhaps the man who’d given her the paper could provide more information. Throwing on a dress, she pressed her memory—behind which doorway had the man disappeared? She tapped on two incorrect doors before she located the right one. He’d changed from his suit and hat into a satin dressing robe and slippers. His graying hair looked mussed, as if he’d been lying down before she disturbed him.

“Why . . . hello again.” The surprised look on the man’s mustached face nearly sent her scuttling back to her own room, but she had to ask what he knew about the death of the man who might be Lizzie’s father.

“I . . . I’m so sorry to bother you, but this article . . .” Vivian held up the paper, folded to the story in question. “You said you were in San Francisco recently. Can you tell me anything more about . . . about . . . ?”

The man plucked the newspaper from Vivian’s hand and frowned at it for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “Oh yes . . . tragic event. The entire town murmured about it. Apparently this gentleman was quite well known and well liked.”

“What happened?” Vivian clasped her hands to her throat, her mouth dry.

“Isn’t that clear from the article?” He tapped the page with the backs of his fingers. “Robbers accosted Mr. Dawson as he left his place of business, demanded money, and when he refused, they shot him. Right there on the street.”

The man’s emotionless recital chilled Vivian.

“I didn’t attend his funeral, but my business dealings had to be delayed because all of my associates went. According to their reports, half the city of San Francisco turned out to pay their respects.”

Vivian took the paper from the man’s hand, staring at the headline. “It says he spent time in Alaska. . . .”

“Yes. In the eighteen sixties and seventies, my associates indicated.”

Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. The timing would be perfect. She gulped.

“Are you a friend to Mr. Dawson?”

Vivian jerked her gaze away from the paper. “What? Oh. No, I didn’t know him at all. But . . .” She swallowed the tears that gathered in her throat. If her assumptions were correct, Lizzie knew him. Poor, poor Lizzie.

“I believe on the society pages there is an expansive obituary.” The man yawned behind his hand. He began inching his door closed. “Good evening, miss.”

An obituary would list survivors. Vivian thanked the man and hurried back to her room. She spread the paper on the bed and turned the pages until she located the obituary page. The gentleman was right—most obituaries were a mere one to two inches of column space. Mr. Dawson’s stretched for more than six inches, disclosing all of his community involvements, business successes, awards he’d received, and family connections. The final paragraph listed his survivors, and Vivian underlined the names with her finger as she read.

“The death of Voss E. Dawson is mourned by his Parents, Edward and Elizabeth (Tanner) Dawson; Brothers Virgil and Victor; his Beloved Wife of eight years, Margaret (Hopemeister) Dawson; his only Son, Timothy, age seven; and precious Daughters, Elizabeth (nicknamed Lizzie) . . .”

Vivian gasped. They’d listed Lizzie! So Voss Dawson was her father—and he’d told his new wife about her. But then she read on, and her elation crumbled.

“. . . age six, and Lydia, age four, all of San Francisco.”

Vivian wadded the paper and pressed it to her aching chest. If this man was Lizzie’s father, not only had he abandoned his first child many years ago, he had replaced her by naming a second daughter Elizabeth and had nicknamed her Lizzie. Certainly his “Beloved Wife Margaret” had no idea her husband had once married a Gwich’in maiden and fathered a half-breed child.

Tossing the paper aside, Vivian began to pace the room. Anger mingled with intense sorrow. Lizzie needed to know about this.

Vivian dropped sideways on the bed, hugging a plump pillow the way she wished she could embrace Lizzie to lighten the pain the woman was sure to bear if Voss Dawson was, in fact, her father. Then Vivian sat upright, shaking her head. “I could be wrong. Lizzie might be going to San Francisco for some other reason.” She sagged onto the bed again. “But just in case, I must tell her about this man’s death.” Vivian moaned, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. “But how?”

Clay tucked his Bible into his knapsack and hung the strap around his neck. Then, on a whim, he reached for his accordion box. How long had it been since he’d played the cheerful musical instrument? Not since his first weeks in Gwichyaa Saa. Recalling how much the villagers, particularly the children, had enjoyed listening to him play, he decided a few tunes would bring some cheer. Especially to those in mourning—to his great heartbreak three villagers had lost their battles with the illness in the past two days—or to those who lay sick and miserable on their sleeping mats.

But first he needed to visit Lizzie’s cabin and check on Etu and Naibi. He prayed daily that the fever jumping from one cabin to another hadn’t made its way through the woods to Lizzie’s home. He’d spend a couple of hours playing games with the children, reading from the Bible to Lizzie whether she wanted to listen or not, and getting reacquainted with the keyboard on his piano-accordion. No doubt his fingers were rusty from their long break, but Etu and Naibi wouldn’t complain. And hopefully Lizzie wouldn’t be offended if he hit some sour notes.
She’d probably rather hear sour notes on the accordion than sweet verses from the Bible.