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Henry Hamilton
September 1913
Tidepool looked like the kind of place where people went to die, not to live.
After less than a day there, Henry Hamilton had already seen enough. His father had settled on the little oceanside town as a possible location for a beach resort. Henry’s colleague and friend, Charlie Sherman returned from the place completely sold on the idea, but as Henry strolled around Tidepool’s dirt streets he couldn’t understand their enthusiasm.
The town was all wooden buildings that had long since warped in the town’s pervasive dampness, topped by metal signs corroded from exposure to the salty air. Loose shutters banged in the breeze as Henry passed. Even the beach, which Charlie claimed would be Tidepool’s main attraction, was marred by the rotted hulk of a sailboat and bloated seabird corpses washing ashore. The ramshackle stores lining the muddy main street looked like they might collapse into splinters and planks if Henry gave them a good swift kick.
He was starting to want to.
The pervasive odors of salt water and fish wafted off the nearby ocean, but another smell lurked underneath those, something even less pleasant. Henry couldn’t identify it, but it reminded him somewhat of the stench of a dead animal rotting in the woods.
The putrid smell suited Tidepool well. The longer Henry remained here, the more anxious he felt to get home.
But perhaps he was being unfair. Perhaps he was too used to the buildings and bustle of Baltimore, his hometown.
The passing townspeople didn’t bother hiding their stares. Henry stood out in his tailored blue suit, which likely cost more money than most people here ever saw. The clothing sported by the locals might have been colorful once, but had long since faded to the same drab colors as their dilapidated buildings. And while the looks the locals gave him bore no particular malice, Henry certainly wouldn’t call them friendly.
It didn’t help that as Henry walked, he grew increasingly uneasy. He couldn’t have said why. The town was quiet to the point of boredom. Nobody had treated him with anything other than politeness. And yet …
Tidepool feels like a small town holding its breath, waiting for something to happen—and not something good.
That’s what he’d tell Father when he returned to Baltimore. Perhaps they could truly make something of this town, but Henry had his doubts.
The only place in Tidepool still busy at six o’clock at night was Cooper’s Inn and Tavern, where Henry had taken a room. The sound of voices and the clanking of glasses and plates carried out into the street as Henry neared the inn.
He opened the tavern door and was accosted by the smells of cooking fish and a crackling fire. As he approached the bar, Balthazar Cooper, the innkeeper, gave Henry a curt nod from behind the wooden counter.
“Evening, Balt. Glass of whiskey, if you please.”
Balt’s hair was sandy and thinning, and no matter what time of day Henry encountered him, the older man’s blue eyes looked watery and sleepless. Like everything in Tidepool, the innkeeper seemed shabby and worn down. Indeed, all the townspeople—even the younger ones—looked weathered, blasted with salt, the same pale shade as the sand on the beach outside Cooper’s.
Balt placed a tumbler in front of Henry with no comment. Henry smiled in thanks as he picked up his drink and glanced around the tavern.
Wooden tables filled the room, surrounding a lit fireplace. Several men sat around the tavern in groups, drinking and talking and letting out the occasional raucous laugh. An old map and a rusty anchor were the only decorations on the faded wooden walls.
And then Henry saw the woman.
She sat in a plush red chair close to the fireplace and gazed at the flames, her profile to him. Women drinking alone in taverns were not something Henry saw often, not even back in Baltimore.
Could she be a prostitute? Surely not; even in the flickering firelight, Henry could tell that her black clothes were finer than his, and far more elaborate than anything he had seen on the other women of Tidepool. And certainly no lady of the evening who hoped to earn real money would come to a place like this.
As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman turned and gave Henry a piercing stare. Her eyes were almost as black as her clothing, and from what he could see under her hat, so was her hair.
And then it hit him: She was Mrs. Ada Oliver. Charlie Sherman had talked about the wealthy widow after his own visit to Tidepool the month before. Why the woman had settled in Tidepool of all places mystified both Charlie and Henry, but Charlie believed that Mrs. Oliver’s presence could be useful. People with money would be more likely to buy vacation cottages and spend their summers here if they knew one of their own was already settled in, he reasoned.
Henry realized he had been staring at her much longer than was strictly polite. Feeling somewhat emboldened by the whiskey, he stood and made his way to her table.
“Excuse me, please. Are you Mrs. Oliver?”
She looked up at him for a moment before answering.
“Yes. Have we met?”
“Not yet. My name is Henry Hamilton. I believe we have an acquaintance in common. My colleague Charles Sherman was in Tidepool not long ago and mentioned meeting you.”
Her dark brows furrowed for a second. “Charles Sherman?”
“Young fellow from Baltimore?”
She thought for another moment and nodded, recognition flickering in her eyes.
“Yes, I remember.” She had a deep, throaty voice, and her dark eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. “Do tell me, Mr. Hamilton—what is it about Tidepool that brings so many young people from Baltimore here as of late?”
That’s a damn good question, ma’am. “Well, we believe Tidepool might hold a good bit of promise.”
“Promise?” She sounded quite skeptical.
“We’re interested in buying property here and creating a sort of coastal resort town. Similar to what’s being done with Ocean City, if you’ve been out that way. We believe we could make Tidepool a much busier place. Bring lots of people here, people with money to spend. Did you perhaps speak of this with Mr. Sherman?”
Mrs. Oliver frowned. “We spoke of it briefly. And I seem to recall explaining to your Mr. Sherman that the people of Tidepool do not necessarily want to be busier. I thought he understood.”
Henry chuckled, although he wasn’t pleased to hear that. Charlie made it sound as though the people he’d spoken with in Tidepool couldn’t wait to start building the place up. “Well, that’s Charlie for you. Once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t let it go easily. And he gave me the impression that the people here had showed great interest in the development of their town.”
“I very much doubt that. I am afraid you and your colleague are looking in the wrong place.”
“But the money that more visitors would bring could be of great service to Tidepool.”
She gave him a sharp glance. “Are you here to ask me for money, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Certainly not.” Not yet. “Right now, I’m just visiting. Trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
As they looked at each other, another idea began to bloom in Henry’s mind. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but as he spoke to Mrs. Oliver, something stirred in him. She was a handsome woman, older than he was but perhaps not by too much. He would put her in her thirties if he had to guess, mid-thirties to his twenty-four. And she had so much money, or so Charlie had claimed.
Henry knew he was attractive; people had been telling him so since he was a teenager, and although he tried not to get a swelled head about it, he could see it himself. He had thick wavy blond hair, large green eyes, and his father’s height and athletic build.
And he had no particular attachments back in Baltimore. The only girl in his life right now was his younger sister, Sorrow. He had broken off an engagement with Miss Grace Moore several months earlier when he learned of Grace’s dalliance with a local stage actor. An actor, of all people. She could have at least had the decency to betray him with someone respectable.
Mrs. Oliver appeared more than respectable. And as far as Henry could tell, she too had no attachments. She wore no ring, and she had no companion other than himself as she sat in the tavern.
“How long will you be staying here, Mr. Hamilton? As you may have realized, it will not take you very long to see all of Tidepool.”
“Indeed not,” he said with a friendly laugh. “But I’ll be here another day or so. I do love the ocean.”
A dark-skinned, heavyset woman pushed past Henry and bustled over to the fireplace. “‘Scuse me, sir,” she muttered as she edged by. This was Naomi Cooper, the innkeeper’s wife, looking flushed and damp in the dim light of the tavern. She picked up a poker and stabbed at the logs in the fireplace.
Mrs. Oliver gave Naomi a quick glance before turning back to Henry.
“Mr. Hamilton, I will be having dinner at home soon. Would you care to join me?”
The fireplace poker clattered to the ground with a metallic bang, turning heads all over the tavern. The older woman picked the poker up and murmured apologies as she placed it against the wall. She avoided Mrs. Oliver’s intent stare as she hustled back to the kitchen.
That gave Henry a few extra seconds to ponder the widow’s offer. Inviting him home when they’d just met? She was apparently nothing if not rather bold.
“I’d be delighted. Such a gracious offer.” Maybe she was lonely. It didn’t look to him as if there were too many eligible men in Tidepool for her to entertain herself with.
The yokels in the tavern turned to watch them leave, and murmurs sounded around the room. Perhaps they had nothing better to pay attention to than whoever might leave Cooper’s with Mrs. Oliver. Perhaps they all wished they were Henry. Perhaps they thought he was a degenerate.
But who cared what they thought?
Mrs. Oliver walked slightly in front of him as they left the tavern and proceeded up Water Street. He studied the way her black silk dress skimmed over her body, wondering how long it had been since she’d been with anyone.
“Is it always this quiet in Tidepool, Mrs. Oliver?” He saw almost no other people out on the street.
“I suppose so. People tend not to like going out at night.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“There are mostly silly, superstitious folk around here. They talk of ghosts. And sea monsters, if you can imagine.” She let out a chuckle that didn’t sound even the slightest bit amused.
“Sea monsters? That’s a new one.” Henry pondered that as they turned right and followed a narrower street. Could a few stories about Tidepool ghosts and monsters be used to pique visitor interest in the place? That sort of thing might attract a certain type of tourist.
Perhaps he could persuade Mrs. Oliver to share a few of those tales. He felt increasingly convinced that a possible path to developing Tidepool was to win the affections of Mrs. Oliver. She might be easier to persuade to invest in their efforts if she had a more…personal stake in the whole thing.
His father was fond of saying that one should never overlook any possible ways to a favorable resolution, and he wanted to bring this one home. Whatever doubts he had about this town, he wanted Father to see that he was just as capable as Charlie Sherman of getting things done.
A particularly large house that Henry had spotted on his way into Tidepool loomed into view as they crested the hill.
“Here we are, Mr. Hamilton.”
Henry’s breath stopped. For just a minute, all thoughts of the seduction of Mrs. Oliver fled his mind.
Mrs. Oliver’s home looked utterly out of place in Tidepool, as if it had been picked up and dropped into the town from another, far wealthier place.
Four columns flanked the front door and led to a balcony with a wrought-iron railing on the third floor. Two smaller balconies extended from the sides of the second level of the house. Dim light shone from a window on the top floor. The dark shimmer of the Atlantic was visible from where they stood, and the sound of waves breaking on the shore carried up to them. The smell of salt air washed over him as he took in the view.
He could also see some of the headstones of Tidepool’s vast cemetery, looking gray and indistinct in the darkness. Those spoiled the glorious view a bit.
Henry wondered just what it was Mr. Oliver had done in life to leave his widow so well off. He dismissed the brief thought that she couldn’t possibly be living in a place as big as this all by herself.
Inside, the house’s wooden floors looked rather worn. A large staircase wound up one wall towards the upper levels. A portrait of a very stern man dominated the entryway, and Henry wondered to himself if this could be the late Mr. Oliver. But no, certainly not; the fellow’s long hair and his clothing were several decades out of date, making him far too old to have ever been married to Mrs. Oliver. An ancestor, then.
Whoever the fellow was, his dark scowl gave Henry the unpleasant feeling of being judged and found wanting.
The smell of salt water intensified inside the house, and Henry wasn’t sure how that could be. Surely nobody had a window open in here with the chill outside. Perhaps the ocean air permeated everything in Tidepool.
He turned away from the portrait and nodded to Mrs. Oliver as his thoughts returned to the goal he had set as they walked to her house. Perhaps Charlie really did know what he was talking about. If they could spend some money to knock down all the dilapidated shacks and build some bigger houses and attractions, who knew what Tidepool might become?
And then footsteps sounded on the staircase, and Henry’s heart sank. He had made no allowances for anyone else in his plans for the seduction of Mrs. Oliver. Had he been wrong all this time? Did she already have a companion—a lover—after all?
A disheveled young man in a rumpled white shirt and dark pants walked down the steps, his head turned in Henry’s direction. His messy black hair looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his skin was even whiter than Mrs. Oliver’s. Henry found it impossible to tell what the young man might be thinking, as his eyes were obscured by thick, tinted glasses. Henry wondered how he could even see in the dim foyer.
Surely this bizarre fellow could not be involved with Mrs. Oliver. Henry simply wouldn’t believe it.
The young man reached the foyer and stood with his back pressed against the wall as if he feared Henry. He was quite tall and thin, with a long, narrow face.
Mrs. Oliver turned to him.
“Good evening, Quentin. I have brought home a visitor this evening. Mr. Henry Hamilton, I would like to introduce you to my brother, Quentin Ramsay.”
Her brother? Henry tried to make himself believe that the odd creature who had just descended the stairs could be in any way related to the elegant, very proper Mrs. Oliver. Not wishing to seem rude, Henry approached the strange man and held out a hand.
“Hello, Mr. Ramsay. Pleasure to meet you.”
Instead of responding in kind, Quentin looked down at the ground, swallowed hard, and then hurried off without acknowledging Henry at all. Henry stood with his hand hanging in the air, feeling ridiculous.
“Please excuse him, Mr. Hamilton.” Was that a small smile playing around Mrs. Oliver’s lips? It would be the first one Henry had seen from her. “Quentin can be a bit eccentric. He means no discourtesy. It is just the way he is.”
“I see.” Henry lowered his hand, still feeling foolish.
“May I offer you a drink?” she asked. “Red wine, perhaps?”
“Yes, please.”
She turned and disappeared into another room. A bottle opened, followed by the sound of liquid being poured.
As she reappeared with two glasses of wine, his thoughts, scattered by the house and by the unexpected appearance of Quentin Ramsay, finally returned to the seduction of Mrs. Oliver. He accepted a glass and took a sip. Although Henry knew relatively little about wine, this one had a smoky, chocolaty taste that spread warmth through his body.
She led him to another room off the entranceway and lit a lamp. She sat on the red velvet settee, leaving him the wooden armchair. Henry tried to figure out the best way to crack that impassive stare. Sensing that he would have to do most of the talking, he took another sip of wine, hoping it would relax him.
“Mrs. Oliver, I very much appreciate your hospitality,” he began. “You are the most pleasant person I’ve encountered since leaving Baltimore. Traveling can be quite lonely at times.”
She looked at him for a rather long moment before nodding. “I don’t travel much these days, myself. I prefer to stay by the water.”
“I see.” The wine and the whiskey before it made him feel a little bold. “Well, my family’s home is very close to the Patapsco River. If you were ever to find yourself in Baltimore, I would be delighted to host you for a visit.”
“Would you?” she said in a chillier tone. Perhaps he’d pushed too far. They’d scarcely met and he was already hinting that she should travel to his house. Easy, Hal.
“And who lives with you in Baltimore?” Mrs. Oliver asked at last, rescuing him from the awkward silence.
“My father. My sister, Sorrow, lives with us as well, but perhaps not for much longer. She talks of finding her own place in the world.” He chuckled, thinking of his headstrong little sister. She had clashed repeatedly with Father since graduating from college; Winslow Hamilton considered it faintly scandalous that his daughter was more interested in a profession than a husband. Indeed, Henry had been slightly nervous at the prospect of leaving the two of them alone together.
But his little sister was feisty and knew her own mind. And if she had to, she could take care of herself. Of that much, Henry was certain.
A small furrow appeared between Mrs. Oliver’s eyebrows. “Did I hear correctly? Your sister is named Sorrow?”
“It’s a tad peculiar, I know. Our mother died giving birth to her, and for some reason our father insisted on commemorating that sad event by giving the poor girl that name.” Henry hated the name and the reason for it, believing that burdening an innocent child with such an ever-present reminder of tragedy was quite unfair. His sister was strawberry-blonde, pale, and as sweet and sunny as her name was dark. He’d insisted on calling her Sally since they were both children.
“I see. It is quite a distinctive name,” Mrs. Oliver said. The wine stirred feelings in him as he attempted to keep his eyes on her face and not on the body he envisioned under that black dress. Despite his efforts, he became terribly distracted by a vision of cupping her bare, full breasts as she arched her back in pleasure.
“Write down your address for me, Mr. Hamilton. If I do happen to travel to Baltimore, I should like to be able to notify you. Perhaps we could meet again.” The abrupt request jarred Henry. Had the woman sensed what he was thinking?
She indicated a desk in the corner, with notepaper and a pen set out. He wrote out his address and then, on an impulse, “Looking forward to hearing from you.” He hoped that would help to keep him in her mind after he’d departed for home.
“Would you like to meet my daughter?” she said.
Her question felt like another bucket of ice water thrown over his imaginings. A daughter? Henry supposed that this only made sense, although he wondered how on earth he would fit Mrs. Oliver’s peculiar brother and a daughter into the plan he’d concocted for gaining her affections. Having to win over three people sounded far more daunting than having to win over only one.
“Of course. I’d be delighted.” What else could he say? Perhaps her offer to introduce him to her child was a sign that she trusted him.
And perhaps she was on the hunt for a new father figure in her daughter’s life. Maybe he and Mrs. Oliver wanted the same thing for different reasons. As she stood and turned away from him, he smiled.
Mrs. Oliver lifted a lantern from the table and led him out of the sitting room to a door in the hallway. She paused, glancing back at him.
“Please be careful on the steps. Lucy prefers the basement, and it’s rather dim down here.”
Lucy? What sort of a child—and a girl, at that—liked to linger in dark, dank basements? And why didn’t Mrs. Oliver just call the child upstairs?
He trailed his fingers along the damp wall as they descended, following the beam of Mrs. Oliver’s lantern. The smell of salt water grew heavier, and once again Henry caught that unpleasant odor he’d smelled in the air back by the tavern. It made him think of a tide that washed up dead things to rot in the sun.
Icy fingers played along his spine, and for a fleeting moment he thought about excusing himself. But he needed to make a good impression on Mrs. Oliver. Her money was bound to be useful to him one way or another, whether he persuaded her to invest in the renovation of Tidepool or to marry him.
And he dearly wished to impress his father with his ability to find wealthy associates.
They crossed the basement in the circle of light provided by the lantern, and reached another door that Henry could barely see in the darkness. Mrs. Oliver raised a small white hand and knocked.
“Lucy? There’s a gentleman here who’d like to meet you,” she called as she opened the door.
Footsteps, quick and sounding oddly moist, approached them. Henry craned his neck to see in the gloom.
Lucy stepped into the light and Henry Hamilton’s stomach turned ice cold.
Dear God, that is no child! What in the Hell—
Sorrow Hamilton
October 1913
Winslow Hamilton absolutely forbade his daughter Sorrow to travel in search of her missing brother. She stood in front of the elaborate oak desk in his study, her hands clasped in front of her, feeling like a naughty student being called on the carpet. The odor of stale pipe smoke—a smell she had grown to detest—hung heavy in the air of the study.
“It is unsafe for young ladies to travel alone, Sorrow,” he said, frowning and folding his arms over his chest. “And unseemly.”
I’m 21, for God’s sake, Sorrow thought but did not dare say. He can’t stop me if I want to go.
“But that isn’t true. Betsy Mueller travels solo all the time and has come to no trouble.” She studied the neat piles of paper arranged on Winslow’s desk, digging her fingernails into her palms and trying to hold back her rising temper.
“Bully for Betsy Mueller. She is not my daughter. You are.”
Sorrow had known this would be difficult. Winslow had very firm ideas on what young ladies could and could not do, and his “could not” list was considerably longer and included many of the things that most interested Sorrow—things such as traveling on one’s own, without a relative or another companion.
She sometimes considered it a small miracle that Winslow had allowed her to attend college. His belief in the importance of education overrode his idea that Sorrow was best kept at home until a suitable husband swept her off her feet. Women were likely to get the vote before much longer, Winslow said, and an educated voter was a better bet for the future of the United States.
But this was about Henry. Her father couldn’t expect her to just sit in the house while her brother was still missing.
“I must know what’s happened to Hal. It’s been over two weeks. He wouldn’t simply vanish like this with no word to us.”
Winslow fixed her with a glare. Sorrow often thought that Winslow’s steel-gray eyes and matching hair suited his personality perfectly. He had all the warmth of a slab of granite as he stared up at her.
“I know that perfectly well. And I am as concerned as you are. But what exactly do you think you’ll be able to discover in that place?”
Sorrow raised her chin as she stared down at her father. “Whatever there is to know.”
Winslow shook his head. “I’ve been speaking with some investigators. Those men have the knowledge and the experience to find out where he is. That is no role for you, and I won’t have you running off to God knows where trying to find him. I do not need to be searching for two missing children.”
With that, Winslow turned from Sorrow and busied himself with some paperwork on his desk, his favored way of telling his daughter that a discussion was over. Sorrow fought the temptation to slam the door of his study as she left. Slamming doors was something else young ladies didn’t do.
But whatever he thought, Winslow was not winning this argument.
Henry had looked after Sorrow her whole life. While Winslow seemed to hold Sorrow responsible for her mother’s death in childbirth and kept a chilly, reserved distance, Henry made sure she was washed, well dressed, and entertained. In the school yard, he’d fight any children who made fun of her name. He helped her with her schoolwork and listened to her confidences.
When she was old enough to understand why she’d been named Sorrow, Henry reassured her that their mother’s sad fate was in no way her fault, and he bore her no grudge.
Sorrow considered her brother the only true parental figure of her life, and her best friend as well. If she had dropped out of contact for over two weeks while traveling, Henry would have moved Heaven and Earth to find her. This she knew as well as she knew her own name.
And she would do no less for him, whether Father liked it or not. No detectives knew Henry the way she did. She’d be able to think like her brother, to imagine what he might have been drawn to that could account for his silence now.
The last she had heard from Henry was a short letter to her and Winslow, telling them that he had arrived in Tidepool. “Not sure what on earth Charlie sees in this place. Shabby. Smells like a load of dead fish. Looking forward to leaving.”
He wasn’t on the steamer back to Baltimore on the day he’d arranged for Sorrow to meet him at the pier, and he sent along no explanation for his absence. None of his friends or colleagues had heard anything from him, and as the days rolled on without any word, his silence grew more ominous.
Henry had been known to extend a trip by a few days if he met interesting people to travel with, or if he had been particularly taken with a place. But try as she might, Sorrow could come up with no situation in which Henry would have stretched out his trip so long without getting word to them. Perhaps he’d sent them a message that had gotten lost somewhere along the line. Perhaps he’d walk into the house any day now wondering what the fuss was.
Sorrow could no longer stand the suspense.
Since Tidepool was the last place where Sorrow had received any news from Henry, Tidepool was where she would start looking for him. Maybe someone there had learned of whatever plans he might have had. Why Henry might tell this mysterious someone his plans without notifying his own family, Sorrow didn’t know.
But she intended to find out.
The next day, as soon as Winslow departed for his office, Sorrow slipped into Hal’s bedroom, which was beginning to feel colder and emptier as the days passed without his return. His chair sat pushed back from his desk and turned towards the door, as if he’d jumped up to greet someone with great eagerness. Sorrow couldn’t bring herself to put the chair back in its proper place, and so she remained standing.
A map of Maryland sat unfolded over his desk. Tidepool, such a small dot on the map that Sorrow had to strain her eyes to see it, looked to be a brief, straightforward buggy ride from Ocean City. If she took the 6:15 am boat to Claiborne and made the connection to the train to Ocean City, she could potentially be in Tidepool by late afternoon.
She folded the map up and took it from her brother’s room.
The following morning, well before the sun rose, Sorrow edged out of bed, got dressed as quietly as she could manage, and left a note by her father’s place setting in the dining room.
“Dearest Father:
Please don’t be angry. I am going to Tidepool. And I shall not leave until I get answers to at least some of my questions about Hal. I will keep you informed of anything I learn. I’m sure you will understand that I simply cannot rest until I have some clue as to where he might be now.”
Despite her conciliatory words, Sorrow doubted very much that Winslow would understand her actions. She held her breath and took slow, careful steps as she eased her small suitcase down the stairs and out of the house. She hurried to Pier 8 at Light Street and tried to blend into the waiting crowd, her hat pulled low over her head. She hoped that it was still dark enough that spotting her in the throng of travelers would be difficult.
Especially if Father decided to rise early today of all days and found her note.
After all the passengers had boarded the steamer and it began its roll out of the harbor, Sorrow turned her back on the pier. She feared she might see Winslow running along the docks, his red face contorted in fury as he pursued her, intending to leap onto the boat and drag his daughter back to land.
But as the steamer picked up speed and Baltimore’s tall buildings gave way to rolling farmlands and water under a rising sun, her fear of Winslow abated and she smiled. She had done it. She was traveling alone for the first time in her life. Something inside her soared, even if the reason for her trip troubled her deeply.
I’m coming, Hal. Please be there. Please be all right.
As Sorrow glanced at the other passengers on the steamer, her fingers drifted up to her hat and she began fiddling with the hatpin she’d used to secure it. The pin, which had belonged to her late mother, had an opal set at its top, and the gem caught the sun’s rays and gave off bursts of color that always captivated Sorrow. As a child, she’d believed the opal must have magical powers to produce such beautiful hues.
But for this journey, Sorrow was more interested in the rest of the pin. Any mashers who attempted any sort of indecent liberties with her were going to get a big, extremely painful surprise. Baltimore had recently enacted a ban on hatpins long enough to deal out damage to a potential attacker, and Mother’s hatpin violated that ban by several inches. But getting in trouble for using it was a risk Sorrow was willing to take if it meant fending off unwanted attention.
She made her connection to the train in Claiborne without incident. But by the time she reached Ocean City in the early afternoon, the long day of travel had started to tire her. As she watched people heading to the boardwalk, she pondered spending a night in Ocean City. Perhaps she could take a room somewhere, have a fine dinner, and head for Tidepool first thing in the morning, fully refreshed.
But she knew she’d spend that night worrying about Henry. What if he’d come to some kind of trouble while in Tidepool? Her need to find him, or at least a clue to his whereabouts, won out over her weariness.
She had to rent a horse and buggy for the last part of the trip. After consulting Henry’s map one last time, Sorrow left Ocean City. After traveling down a dirt road that wound through trees and stretches of grass, she arrived in Tidepool late that Tuesday afternoon.
She knew that Henry must have taken a room at Cooper’s Inn and Tavern, as there was nowhere else for a traveler to stay in Tidepool according to Henry’s colleague and friend Charlie Sherman. The stable workers directed her to the place.
“Excuse me.” She stopped one of the workers, an older black man with a long, wrinkled face.
“My brother came here a couple of weeks ago. Tall fellow? Blond hair? Nicely dressed?”
The stable hand stared at her without responding. She tried again.
“Henry Hamilton? He came from Baltimore. Do you remember seeing anyone like that here? Did he perhaps say where he was going after leaving this place?”
The man regarded her for another moment and then shook his head.
“Can’t recall, miss. Lots of people come through here.” He turned away without meeting her eye.
She was left to carry her suitcase alone. As she made her way towards the inn, she found the stable worker’s claim about lots of people coming through Tidepool rather difficult to believe. She passed very few people on the streets compared to what she might see on an average stroll around Baltimore, and everything looked as shabby as Henry had said in his brief note.
As Sorrow passed a cemetery on her way to Cooper’s, her eyes were drawn to a hand painted sign stuck in the ground close to the gates. The wood bore a stark message painted in square black letters:
If ye give not willingly, the Lords will rise.
Whatever on earth that meant and whoever the Lords were, the graveyard looked positively vast for such a small town, and Sorrow shuddered.
The odors of salty air and fish breezed past her as she headed down the main street, which was still dirt rather than pavement. Shopkeepers emerged from weathered storefronts to eye her as she passed. Her purple silk dress was a veritable riot of color in this small, drab place. She wanted to shrink inside herself.
I was so adamant about traveling by myself. And for this?
Charlie Sherman had made the place sound positively delightful, a small gem on the shore just waiting to be discovered. Of course, he had a way of making anything sound delightful, at least to Sorrow’s ears. She remembered his hazel eyes widening with enthusiasm as he spoke to her about his plans for the place, and her face grew slightly warm.
She shook her head as if that could clear Charlie out of it. Now wasn’t the time to indulge in silly daydreams.
Snatches of the song “Keep Away From the Fellow Who Owns an Automobile” ran through her head as she surveyed the street ahead of her. Nobody in Tidepool appeared to need such a warning. Horses stood tied up outside of buildings and houses, and an occasional bicycle was propped up against a wall, but she didn’t see a single auto.
Sorrow finally spotted the inn at the end of Water Street, much to her relief. She was weary from her journey and her case felt heavier with every step.
The inn was a largish brick building attached to the tavern. Nobody sat in the splintery-looking rocking chair on the faded porch, and some of the floorboards looked so rotted that Sorrow worried about putting a foot through them. A weathered sign reading “COOPER’S INN & TAVERN” hung over the front door. Sorrow dusted off her dress and stepped inside.
A short, thin, tired-looking older man with watery blue eyes greeted her almost at once.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, please. I would like a room here, if one is available.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“Is anyone with you?”
“No, sir.”
He frowned. “Not really used to giving rooms to ladies traveling alone, miss.”
Perhaps she should have expected this. She wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well, I was hoping you could help me. I am looking for my brother. He stayed here a couple of weeks ago.”
The man looked even more confused—and suspicious—now.
“Who’s your brother, then?”
“Henry Hamilton. From Baltimore. As am I.”
The man blinked.
“No rooms to let tonight. We’re full,” he said at once.
“We certainly are not,” said a female voice. An older black woman in a plain, sack-like brown dress that showed signs of being mended several times over appeared behind him.
He turned on her sharply. “We rented out the last room just an hour ago, Naomi.”
Naomi shook her head and turned to Sorrow.
“Would you please excuse us for a minute, miss?”
“Of course.”
As the woman grabbed the man’s elbow and hauled him to an adjoining room, Sorrow considered turning back, getting the horse and buggy from the stables, and heading out of Tidepool. Something about the large cemetery and the stares of the townspeople already had her on edge, and her reception here was hardly improving things.
Angry whispers sounded from the other room.
“Balt, we can’t just turn the girl out. There’s nowhere for her to go.”
She didn’t catch Balt’s response, but it sounded no less heated.
Sorrow sensed that she was being watched. She had a view of the interior of Cooper’s Tavern from where she stood, and indeed some of the Tidepool locals gathered around the bar were looking at her with curiosity, or perhaps something less benign. A grimy fellow with a flushed face leered at her through greasy-looking lips and she turned away in disgust, thinking of her hatpin. The odor of cooking fish that wafted from the tavern and permeated the room made her feel slightly ill.
The angry whispers continued rapid-fire in the other room for a moment, and Balt came out looking tense.
“I beg your pardon. My wife tells me that we do indeed have one room left.”
His wife? Sorrow knew that wasn’t legal, but she held her tongue. She had no wish to antagonize the people she was counting on to help her find her brother.
“Thank you. I’ll take it, please.”
Balt led her to a small room with a desk and a register and asked for her information.
“My name is Sorrow Hamilton.”
He looked up at her and blinked. “Sorrow?”
Truth be told, Sorrow liked her name. She had always thought the word itself, divorced from its dark connotations, was rather lovely, and it set her apart from the endless Marys and Annas and Margarets who populated her everyday life.
But on some days she cursed her father for giving her a name that invariably provoked raised eyebrows and incredulous comments, and this was one of those days.
“Yes. Sorrow. Like the word for ‘grief.’”
Balt stared at her for another moment and blinked those watery eyes before going back to his ledger.
Something at the back of Sorrow’s neck prickled. She turned and glanced towards the entrance of the inn, hoping she hadn’t caught the attention of the leering fellow again.
A woman dressed in elaborate black clothing far fancier than anything Sorrow had seen on the other townspeople stood by the inner entrance to the tavern and stared at her. Even in the somewhat dim light, Sorrow could see the woman’s pale face clearly. Her intense dark eyes made Sorrow even more uncomfortable.
When Sorrow turned away, she saw that Balt too was staring at the woman. He looked as unnerved as Sorrow felt.
Balt finally returned his attention to Sorrow and finished taking her information and her room payment. Naomi emerged from behind him and handed Sorrow a key.
“Your room is upstairs. Third door on the right. If you’re hungry, we serve supper until eight, though we could provide you a little something later if we’re around.”
“Thank you… I didn’t catch your name?” She’d overheard it, but felt that formal introductions were more polite.
The woman gave her a smile that softened her stern face.
“I’m Naomi Cooper. And this is my husband Balthazar, but we call him Balt for short. If you need anything, please do find one of us and ask.”
Naomi seemed far more personable than her husband, and Sorrow resolved to start the questioning about Henry with Naomi.
But first, she wanted to get settled in her hard-won room. When nobody offered to help her with her case, she lifted it and trudged up the creaking wooden stairs.
If there really were people staying in all the other rooms, Sorrow couldn’t see or hear any sign of them. The doors were all shut, and the rooms themselves appeared dark and silent.
Her room was spartan. A narrow bed with a threadbare quilt occupied one wall. A chair, a desk with a small lamp on it, a pale wooden wardrobe, and a cracked mirror were the only other adornments. The walls might have been painted sky blue once upon a time, but the color had faded to a deathlike bluish gray. She caught a whiff of mildew as she pulled back the yellowed lace curtains to look at the ocean. At least the view of the water was somewhat appealing.
Sorrow removed her hat and gloves and sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair. She had brought stationery with her; the least she could do was let her father know that she was all right. She wasn’t entirely certain that news of her safe arrival would mitigate his fury at being disobeyed, but nonetheless she dashed off a brief, very apologetic note.
With that, she freshened up a bit and left the room, intending to take a small walk around Tidepool before supper.
As she headed down the steps, Balt and Naomi’s heated voices drifted up to her.
“I’m telling you, Mrs. Oliver shouldn’t ever have gone near that man. Whatever could she have been thinking?” Balt said. That sounded quite scandalous.
“You want to be the one to tell her that? Whatever happened there, it’s over now, Balt, and there’s nothing to be done about it.”
Their voices broke off as they heard Sorrow’s footsteps on the stairs. Balt came out to the parlor and nodded.
“May I help you with anything, Miss Hamilton?”
Had he known she was eavesdropping? “No thank you, Mr. Cooper. I was going to take a quick walk. I’ve been sitting for most of the day.”
“I see.”
She couldn’t resist tweaking the man slightly.
“It’s very quiet upstairs. Are all the other occupants out?”
Balt’s face flushed pink and he glanced away from Sorrow.
“Well, they’re fishermen, mostly, traveling from other places. Probably still out on the water. They get up very early in the morning.” Balt finally raised his head and looked at her again. “Unless you too are an early riser, it’s unlikely you’ll see them at all.”
Sorrow sensed that it was highly unlikely she’d see anyone else in those rooms no matter when she awoke. She left the inn, wondering why Balt Cooper would persist in such an obvious lie.
