Authors: Mary Daheim
My stomach settled down and my spirits picked up as soon as we approached Victoria’s harbor. The capital of British Columbia is self-consciously English, yet it never fails to charm. The copper-domed Parliament buildings, the rambling granite mass of the Empress
Hotel, and the more modem hostelries that face the water are invitingly picturesque. The Inner Harbor seems to welcome visitors with a hug: It’s not British to behave in such a familiar fashion, but somehow the Canadians have transcended their more austere roots. I caught myself smiling at the horse-drawn carriages, the red double-decker tour buses, and the overflowing flower planters hanging from wrought-iron lamp standards. Victoria is only seventeen miles from Port Angeles, but the city seems a world away.
I headed straight for the Empress and a phone booth. The hotel had undergone a lavish renovation since I’d visited it last. The fading dowager I recalled from years ago was now truly fit for a queen. Maybe I should have come to Victoria in the first place. I could have sipped tea in the lobby and contemplated my life. Or, more likely, I could have lost myself in the maze of shops that cater to dopey tourists like me.
Alexander Cameron had an Oak Bay address. I assumed that though he was dead, his widow had kept the listing intact. I dialed the number and was about to give up when there was no answer after seven rings. But a sprightly, if elderly, voice responded on the eighth ring.
I had readied my spiel while crossing the strait. Explaining that I was a newspaper editor and a friend of the Melcher family, I had undertaken a research project that dealt with early families in Port Angeles. As Mrs. Cameron was the eldest surviving member of one of those clans, I hoped she would permit me to visit and chat.
Claudia Malone Cameron was delighted, if a bit flustered. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about going back to Port Angeles,” she said with a trace of self-reproach. “It’s so close and yet I never do. I had no idea that younger members of the family lived there.”
I had to hedge a bit, since I was actually representing
the Melchers, not the Rowleys. I told her that the present descendants had moved to town very recently. She didn’t press for details but was more than willing to let me come out to her house. I found a cab under the hotel’s porte cochere and was heading for the Oak Bay district moments later.
Claudia Cameron didn’t live on the bay itself, which is an enclave of wealthy Victorians. Rather, her neighborhood was more modest, and close to the shopping area a few blocks inland. The house was typical of older, middle-class residences in Victoria, built of stucco, with dark green trim.
I paid the Iranian cab driver, added a generous tip, and mounted the four cement stairs that led to the walk and the small front porch. Like most gardens in British Columbia, Mrs. Cameron’s was well tended and blooming profusely. Day lilies, roses, phlox, sweet Williams, and hollyhocks grew in an orderly manner behind borders of ageratum, lobelia, and Saint-John’s-wort. The porch was flanked by great shrubs of heather. I wondered if Mrs. Cameron was still able to tend her flowers.
It appeared that she was not. Claudia Cameron met me at the door in a wheelchair. She had a round, wrinkled face and twinkling green eyes. A shawl was thrown over her legs. She wore a gray twin set and a single strand of pearls. I got the impression that she was glad to see me, not for myself but because I was a connection with the outside world.
“The teakettle’s on,” she announced, leading the way into her cluttered, comfortable living room. A spinet piano displayed framed photographs, but I refrained from blatant rubbernecking. Later, perhaps, after we’d had a chance to get acquainted. First, however, I clarified my connection.
“So you know the Melchers,” Mrs. Cameron said
with a winning smile. “My, my, I’d forgotten all about them.”
I swiftly sifted through the family tree. “Paul is Sanford and Rose’s grandson. They inherited the house from Paul’s uncle Arthur. He died a year or so ago.”
Claudia Cameron nodded slowly. “So many are gone. People of my age group, that is. It’s very sad, living on, when the rest have passed away.” Only the twinkle of her green eyes revealed that she took pride in having outlasted her contemporaries. “I don’t recall any of the Melchers, really. My parents must have lost touch.”
“You were raised in Seattle,” I remarked, getting set to jot down items in my notebook. “What did your father do for a living?”
“He was foreman at a mill along the Ship Canal. It’s gone now, I hear. So many places are.” This time, Mrs. Cameron looked genuinely sad. Perhaps it wasn’t as satisfying to outlive places as much as people. “We lived close by, in the Fremont district. Do you know it?”
I confessed that I, too, had been raised in Seattle, in the neighboring Wallingford area. Mrs. Cameron was delighted. “Then you must have gone to Lincoln High School. My brothers and sisters and I went there, too.”
I was forced to disillusion my hostess. “My brother and I attended a private Catholic high school, Blanchet. It was built in the 1950s, just north of Green Lake.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Cameron definitely seemed disappointed, either by my failure to attend Lincoln or my Catholicism. Fortunately, the teakettle let off a howl and I volunteered to head for the kitchen. Mrs. Cameron, however, insisted on doing it herself.
“I get around just fine in this contraption,” she said. “Arthritic hips, you know. I had them replaced twice, but they don’t last forever. And at my age it seems like a waste of time and money.” She smiled at me again and whisked off to the kitchen.
I took the opportunity to study the photos on the spinet. I recognized none of them. Most were graduation and wedding pictures, no earlier than the Depression era. There was one five-by-seven, however, which could have been of Claudia’s parents. The heavy set man had a full head of white hair; the woman was plump, with frizzy gray curls. They were gazing at each other over a wedding cake. Or perhaps it was for an anniversary. Judging from the woman’s fussy jeweled evening sweater, the picture dated from the 1950s. The man could have been Jimmy Malone, but I couldn’t tell whether his wife was Carrie or Minnie. Time, weight, hairstyle, and the possibility of dentures defeated me.
I was back in my overstuffed chair by the time Mrs. Cameron returned, balancing a tray on her lap. Two English bone-china cups and saucers, a Royal Doulton teapot with matching sugar and creamer, spoons, strainer, and several napkins resided on the tray. I marveled at how my hostess managed not to spill anything.
“I never did go back,” Mrs. Cameron said suddenly after we’d gone through the ritual of pouring and stirring our tea. “To Port Angeles, I mean. But of course I was a baby when we left. I felt no real pull. Victoria has been my home since 1929.”
Boldly, I asked if the people in the photograph were Claudia’s parents. She nodded. “That was their golden wedding anniversary. Sandy and I celebrated ours in 1979. Such a privilege to live that long together! And such a trial!” Her small mouth turned down at the corners, but the twinkle remained in her eyes.
I attempted a delicate approach for my next question. “And your mother was named … Minnie?”
“That’s right. Minnie, for Mary. So many Marys in those days. She came from a big family. One of her brothers had given her the nickname, I think.”
“Irish,” I remarked with what I hoped was an ingenuous smile.
“Yes.” Mrs. Cameron nodded, her fingers clutching the rose-patterned teacup. “I never knew her people. Oh, I must admit, we were quite alone while growing up. My father’s family was mostly in Ireland except for a brother who went out to California. We lost track of him, though.”
I made a sympathetic noise. So far, I was discovering absolutely nothing. And how could I? Claudia Malone Cameron had been a year old when she left Port Angeles. Had I expected her somehow to have stored away indelible memories of her first year among the Rowley-Melchers?
Frustrated, I tried a different tack. “I realize you don’t remember Simone, Cornelius Rowley’s second wife. Have you any idea what happened to her after Cornelius died?”
Resting her cheek on one hand, Mrs. Cameron’s expression grew sly. “Simone! Now there’s a name that wasn’t allowed to be uttered under our roof! My mother wouldn’t hear of her, not a word. Naturally, that made one wonder.”
Naturally, I agreed. It made me wonder, too. “Why was that?”
“Well.” Claudia Cameron sat up straighter in the wheelchair. She looked rather excited, her cheeks taking on a delicate pink hue. “The fact that Mother wouldn’t mention Simone’s name made my sister, Julia, and me ever so curious. Finally we waited one evening until Poppa got a bit … ah … tipsy, which happened rather often.” The wrinkled flesh along Mrs. Cameron’s jawline hardened. “The Irish enjoy their dram, you know. So when Poppa’s tongue became loose, we asked him about Simone. Alas, he wasn’t drunk enough to be completely indiscreet, but he hinted certain things, his
brogue thicker than ever. Winks and rolling of eyes, you take my meaning?”
I did, but was still in the dark. All I could see was Jimmy Malone, rollicking in his favorite chair and leading his daughters on with a lilting, if slurred, Irish voice.
“We gathered that Simone was no better than she should be, as we used to say. An adventuress who’d married Cornelius Rowley for his money. There was another man in the background, a Frenchman as you might assume. His name was Antoine or Armand or something like that, and he worked as a fisherman in Port Angeles. Mother had once overheard a quarrel between Cornelius and Simone. It seemed he had caught her with this Frenchman. She cried and carried on, promising to be a good wife. Cornelius vowed to run the man out of town. From that point on, Simone must have behaved herself.”
Jackie’s fantasy about a lover had turned into reality. “Do you think Simone left Port Angeles to join her lover? After Cornelius died, I mean.”
Mrs. Cameron gave a slight shrug. “It’s possible. She had the means.” There was a bitter note in her voice.
I tipped my head to one side. “Simone inherited the family fortune?”
My hostess grew tight-lipped. “I couldn’t say. But isn’t that what she was after?”
My page of notes wasn’t yet half full. I certainly hadn’t gotten my money’s worth out of the combined cab and ferry fares. I decided to confront the issue head-on. “I’m confused, Mrs. Cameron. Your mother’s name was Minnie, for Mary. But my understanding is that her name was really Carrie, for Caroline. Caroline Rowley Malone. Why am I mixed up?”
The green eyes grew very wide. “I have no idea. My mother was a Burke, from Londonderry. Her family, all
seven of them, came to America when she was a child. Her parents were taken early on, in Boston. One of her brothers had married and moved West. She came out to join him and took a post as a governess. That’s how she met my father.”
My brain was tripping over itself. “And that was … where?”
“Why, in Port Angeles, of course. They had a most romantic courtship. They eloped to Seattle. And then they moved there when I was not quite a year old. My two younger brothers and one sister were born in Seattle. Six, in all, though there are only three of us left.”
“But …” I had begun to wonder if Mrs. Cameron’s mind wasn’t as clear as I’d thought. Or maybe it was my own that was fogged. “On the phone I mentioned that you were a member of the Rowley-Melcher family. You implied that it was so. Yet now you say you aren’t?” I knew my face showed bafflement.
Mrs. Cameron smiled, a bit condescendingly. “You said
clan
, I believe. My husband was a Scot. To me,
clan
includes people outside of the immediate family. Which we were. You see, my mother was governess to the Rowley children.”
There is no point in arguing with an eighty-six-year-old woman. In fact, there’s not much point in arguing with anybody. It’s always hard to change people’s minds. It’s damned near impossible when they are elderly and set in their ways.
Still, I was tempted. I wanted very much to say that I knew—had proof, though not with me—that Jimmy Malone had been married to Carrie Rowley and that she was Claudia Cameron’s mother. But what if Carrie had left Jimmy and their children? What if she’d run away? Worse yet, what if she’d been murdered? Why suggest such awful things to a lonely, crippled old lady? She remembered
Minnie Burke Malone as her mother. No doubt Minnie had been loving, selfless, understanding, and kind. If she had married James Malone somewhere along the line and borne him three children while taking on the trio from his previous marriage, so what? She had been as much of a mother to them as had Carrie Rowley. It wasn’t up to me to turn Claudia Cameron’s world upside down.
I uttered a lame little laugh. “I misled you. I’m so sorry. The family tree is sort of confusing, with several of the members marrying more than once. Stepchildren and all that.”
Mrs. Cameron nodded complacently. “Oh, yes. It’s even worse nowadays. So many divorces, and all these hyphenated last names. More tea?” She hoisted the pot and smiled encouragingly.
I couldn’t say no. Nor could I quite let go of Jimmy Malone and the tale of two wives. “I feel silly,” I said lightly. “I wonder how I got it in my head that your father had been married to someone other than … your mother?”
Mrs. Cameron’s face took on a critical expression as she sipped her tea. “This has grown cool and much too strong. Shall I brew more?” I insisted that she not go to the trouble. Briefly, my hostess seemed unconvinced but finally gave in. She had, however, lost the thread of our conversation.
“Nievalle,” she said suddenly, and I, too, was lost. Mrs. Cameron leaned forward in the wheelchair. “Armand Nievalle. That was the name of Simone Rowley’s lover. Isn’t it peculiar that I should remember it after all these years?” She chuckled, a merry sound.
“I suppose he might have descendants in Port Angeles,” I remarked in a doubtful voice.
“Not if he’d been run out of town by Mr. Rowley.” Mrs. Cameron’s tone became quite stem. “It’s interesting,
though. I haven’t thought about it for years. Which is odd since my sister and I were once quite obsessed with the subject. But so much else has happened since. And once we found out why Simone was anathema in our house, she lost her air of mystery.”