In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,64

maybe I can write to the professor at Mount Holyoke.”

We shook hands and she looked at me with that piercing gaze. “A woman in business for herself. I like that. Maybe I can persuade you to come and address our students one day. They tend to accept the role of wife and mother all too compliantly.”

“I will certainly come if I am able,” I said and walked out, tickled pink at the thought of myself as a role model for young ladies at a seminary.

I went to the history department at the college first and came away with Professor Sutton’s address. As I opened the gate to their front yard the door opened and a woman of about the right age came out, followed by several boys ranging in age from teens to six or seven.

“Come along, Wilfred. Don’t dawdle,” the woman looked back and called.

I introduced myself and stated my purpose.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time to talk at the moment, as you can see,” she said, separating two boys who had started to scuffle. “We’re off to buy new boots for the boys. They get through them in no time at all. But you can walk with us, if you’ve a mind to.”

We started down the street, the boys running ahead, kicking rocks and generally behaving like boys anywhere.

She turned to me with a tired smile. “I never thought I’d be the mother of seven sons. Not a daughter in sight. And they eat us out of house and home.”

I turned the conversation back to Lydia.

“Yes, I remember her well,” she said. “We were good friends in school. Everyone was friends with Lydia. She was just that sort of person. She loved to laugh and dance and have fun. Of course her parents forbade that sort of thing so we’d have to sneak her to our parties under false pretenses.” Her face became quite young again and she giggled.

“Miss Addison says she was a good student, too.”

“Very bright. She and I talked about going to Vassar—we thought that would be so glamorous to be near New York and on the Hudson—but her father said no and mine couldn’t afford it. I did the next best thing and married a professor. I thought we’d have long, intellectual discussions, but most of our time seems to be spent separating fighting boys. William, Henry, stop that at once,” she yelled.

“When she moved away, did you keep in touch with her?”

“I didn’t, and I’ve since regretted it,” she said. “Of course it was all done rather suddenly. One minute they were here, the next packed up and gone.”

“Any idea why that was?”

“I heard a rumor that she became sick. From what I gathered she developed consumption and her husband was sending her out west to a hot, dry climate to try to cure her,” she said. “But then later I heard that she had died anyway, poor thing.”

“Consumption? Do you know where he sent her?”

“They usually send them to Pasadena, don’t they? Or to the Arizona desert. But, no, I was busy with a baby at the time and you know how it is—you intend to stay in touch but you don’t.”

So that was why Lydia had turned from a fun-loving, vibrant young person into the invalid that Emily remembered. She had never fully recovered from her illness.

I left Mrs. Sutton shepherding her brood down the street. I wondered if I should also contact the doctor’s wife to see what she had heard about Lydia’s disappearance. It was easy enough to locate the offices of Drs. Waggoner and Waggoner, in a solid square brick house, just off Main Street. There I learned that Mrs. Waggoner was not home but that the doctor could maybe see me between patients. I was shown in. Dr. Waggoner was a tall, rangy man with a shock of graying hair. We shook hands and I explained my mission. He nodded seriously.

“Yes, I remember Lydia Johnson well. An attractive young person. My father used to be physician to her family. I was surprised when she married that Lynch fellow, and even more surprised when I heard that she’d been sent out west, apparently diagnosed with consumption.”

“So your father wasn’t the one who made the diagnosis?”

“No. I’m trying to remember if Lynch used the services of another doctor in town. I don’t believe we ever treated him, or her after her marriage. But maybe they were never sick until that moment. She certainly always seemed full of life when