The Bluestockings: Chapter Eighteen
"Well, that was one hell of a baptism."
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Catch Up On Previous Chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
Ruby
Ruby promised herself that as soon as she got out of this ridiculous hospital, she was going to sink deep into her father’s library chair in front of a blazing fire and lose herself in a book. The doctors promised she would be released in a few days, owing as much to Ruby’s clear lab results as to her direct refusal to stay any longer than necessary. December 22nd, she had told them in no uncertain terms. Ruby was to be in the comfort of her own home before the anniversary of Alice's death.
Marianne and Ben rotated shifts each afternoon, trading off time with Ruby and watching out for Danger and Maggie. But the girl was spending most of her free time with Eleanor Black, and Ruby had no doubt her secrets had been shared. It was just as it should be. Eleanor needed to know every detail of Ruby’s story if she was going to be prepared for what came next.
Marianne was lying back on the sofa bed by the window, one hand over her mouth as she read a thriller, the cover an image of a raging sea with a small house in the distance, a single candle burning in the window.
“How do you read that nonsense, Marianne?” Ruby said, breaking the silence. Marianne started and blinked at Ruby behind her reading glasses. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. And I would know."
Marianne lowered her chin and pierced Ruby with a maternal glare. “Not funny,” she replied, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“I thought it was rather witty, myself.”
“Who are you?” Marianne replied, laughter sparkling in her eyes. “I don’t know how to be around you anymore, Ruby. For years, you’ve been this crabby, ornery old woman who doesn’t dare show any vulnerability, even though she’s desperate to be seen,”—at this, Ruby gave an audible “harrumph”—“and now you’re cracking jokes in a hospital bed after you tried to off yourself. I feel like I’m in The Twilight Zone.”
“I don't know, Marianne. I feel...” What did Ruby feel? Was there even a word for this quieter, more weightless existence? “...free,” she finished softly, surprising even herself. “Like I walked into that water and came out clean again.”
Her housekeeper blanched. “Well, that was one hell of a baptism.”
Ruby surveyed her with curiosity, a trickle of warmth making its way down into her belly. “Thank you,” she said. Marianne looked up, suspicion writ large on her angular features. “I mean it. Thank you for saving my life. In more ways than one.”
Marianne cleared her throat, eyes welling, and snatched a tissue from the box at Ruby’s bedside. “Now, I don’t know about all that,” she said, dabbing at her cheeks.
“It’s true enough, and don’t you dare deny it. I was alone and sad and forgotten after Father died.”
“You had Ben.”
“And he’s a lovely person who made sure the house didn’t burn down with me inside it,” Ruby said affectionately, “but you came along and treated me like a friend, Marianne. Even when I resisted you at every possible turn.”
Marianne reached for Ruby’s hand and squeezed. “I know what it’s like to feel alone and afraid. You deserved more than that, Ruby Hurst. You always have.”
~~~
Ben returned in the afternoon to trade places with Marianne, who was itching to get home to both her dog and the thriller Ruby wouldn’t stop criticizing. She kissed Ruby’s head as she departed—a move that the patient allowed, even if displays of affection still made her cringe. Then came the evening shift rotation and more clinical rigmarole. One nurse in particular, a young man called Trevor with tawny skin and warm, chocolate eyes, out-sassed Ruby ten to one. He was her favorite. She liked a young person who could look you in the eye and say what’s what.
Speaking of, Ruby called over to Ben. “Do we know when Maggie will be back?”
The groundskeeper shook his head. “I sure don’t, but I can find out. If she’s with that Eleanor Black, then maybe just let her be for a while.” “She’s already been there and back twice in two days,” Ruby replied, fidgeting. “I don’t want her to overstay her welcome. Will you ask Marianne to call and confirm plans with Mr. Black? I’d feel much more at ease if I knew for certain where she was going to be while I’m here.”
As it turned out, Eleanor, James, and Maggie were back at Ruby’s house with Marianne. They’d gone to a bookstore in Savannah, but Eleanor had gotten sick soon after, so she and her father were headed home. Ruby released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. There wasn’t much time left, but at least she’d have a small break be- fore the two of them accosted her with more questions than she cur- rently had the energy to answer.
Three days later, Ruby was released from the hospital with strict instructions to take it easy but stay gently active to prevent a second heart attack. Thankfully, there was no scarring from the first go-round, but she’d need regular check-ups for a few months to ensure a clean bill of health. As someone who had long prided herself on eating well—thanks to Marianne’s skills in the kitchen—and maintaining her physical fitness—even if she did move much slower these days—Ruby felt certain a relapse would be avoided. She promised herself it would. She had too much left to say.
The frigid weather broke for a last-minute bout of temperate sunshine upon Ruby’s arrival at the house. It seemed like a welcome home gift, the way the light filtered through the trees with golden warmth, blinking back a message of peace. It would grow cold and gray again soon, but Ruby soaked in the rays as she sat and rocked on the porch, gathering her courage for what was to come.
After a delicious dinner of local shrimp and grits, Maggie cornered Ruby in her bedroom and shut the door. Ruby eyed her niece as she plopped down gracelessly onto the bay window seat and sighed. She placed a canvas tote on the cushion next to her and asked, “Can I talk to you, Aunt Ruby?”
Ruby perched on the edge of her plush queen bed. “I’m surprised it took you this long, to be quite frank with you.”
Maggie raised a brow. “I’m not even sure where to start, but a lot is going on. Like, a ton of crazy stuff, and it all comes back to you, somehow. Every time.”
“Is there a question in there?” Ruby asked.
“Well, yeah,” Maggie sputtered, “the question is why?”
“I’m not sure what ‘crazy stuff’ you are referring to beyond the story I told you of my mother,” Ruby said, careful to keep her face neutral, “but I did tell you last time that when we spoke again, Eleanor would need to be present for the conversation.”
Maggie clicked her teeth together. “I know, but we found a book. Actually, Eleanor found the journal draft in a secret desk compartment at the bookstore, but we found the published copy in a bookstore in Savannah. It was written by Alma Gardyne.” At that, Ruby’s eyes grew wide. “The stories are different and—as absolutely insane as this sounds right now—we think the original draft might be connected to Eleanor’s mother’s disappearance.”
Everything in the room narrowed to a single point on the floor as Ruby took in her niece’s words. Alma’s journal. The one William had been so angry about Alice looking through all those years ago. He must have hidden it in the desk back when it was still his office. But how could a book written just after the Second World War have anything to do with Vera Black’s disappearance? “That seems...”Ruby hunted for the right word, “illogical.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Right. About as illogical as your mother poofing out of existence.”
“No need to be an ass,” Ruby chastised sharply. “I didn’t confide in you so that you could turn around and throw those secrets in my face.”
Maggie looked suitably shamed. “Sorry,” she grumbled.
Ruby waved her off. “Back to the matter at hand. Why do you and Eleanor think Alma’s draft has something to do with Vera Black’s disappearance?”
“Because we found her handwriting on the last page. The last sentence, to be more accurate.”
Ruby’s head spun. Surely not... “What book was this?”
Maggie reached into the canvas bag and pulled out an old, dusty hardback. Ruby had never seen it before. “The Woman of Valbrooke Hall?” she asked aloud to no one in particular. “I don’t know this one.”
“It was published in 1950,” Maggie said. “There are fifteen chapters in this version, but the journal only has six. We think Alma wrote it about her and your dad, but in the novel it’s Alma who gets her heart broken. Not William.”
Ruby ran a palm over the faded cover and remembered the earthy smell of freshly printed paper and the clang of machinery down the hall, signaling the creation of new and beloved books. It was the scent of her childhood, a perfume as beloved as it was tragic. “My father loved Alma. He only spoke of her that one time, but he was adamant about his feelings.”
Maggie chewed her bottom lip. “Do you know when Alma left town?”
Ruby shook her head, flipping through the novel. “Not for sure. She was gone by the time my mother arrived in early ’44. But wait. You said the stories were different. Different how?”
“Well, the draft is much shorter, obviously. And the end of the sixth chapter is completely opposite of the published book. Alma—or Louise, as she’s called in the book—overhears Silas—”
“My father, presumably,” Ruby added with pursed lips.
“Right—” Maggie replied, “—she overhears him tell this dude named Andrew Gelding that he’s not in love with her, and then she runs out of the house crying before anyone can see her.”
“And in this version?” Ruby asked, holding up the old hardback.
“In that one, William—Silas—goes running after her. Eleanor noticed the first few chapters in both the journal and the published novel are the same, but then the writing changes. She said it was like Alma used a ghostwriter to finish the book.”
Ruby shook her head. “My father didn’t hire ghostwriters. He always said if someone wanted to write, then they needed to have the courage to put their name on it.”
Maggie lifted a shoulder. “Maybe William finished it. You told me he was in love with her.”
Ruby considered what Maggie had said about Silas running after Louise in the finished version. Perhaps her niece had a point. “It’s possible,” she conceded. “I’d like to see the journal. Do you have it, as well?”
“No. Eleanor kept it.”
“Which reminds me,” Ruby sighed, “of your original statement. You found Vera Black’s handwriting on the last page of the draft. What did it say?”
Maggie’s eyebrows drew together as she looked up in concentration. “It said ‘Anywhere but here. Anywhere but now.’”
The hairs on Ruby’s arms stood on end. “Do you recall what Alma had written last, just before that?”
Maggie shook her head. “You’d have to get Eleanor to show you. All I remember is that Louise was super upset.”
Ruby struggled to put all this new information together. Who was Alma Gardyne, really? Had William hidden the journal in the desk? And if Vera Black had found the journal and written the final line of the draft, why had she hidden it away again?
“I think,” Ruby said, “it’s time to call Eleanor.”
