The Secret Diary Read online

  The Secret Diary

  Lockets and Lace

  Book 13

  ~o0o~

  By Barbara Goss

  Copyright © 2019 Barbara Goss

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  ~o0o~

  This book is dedicated to:

  The readers of Sweet Wild West Reads. They are my support, and inspiration. I’m proud to call them all my friends.

  Table of Contents

  The Secret Diary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ~o0o~

  This book is part of a multi-author series sponsored by the authors who write for the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog. My appreciation and thanks go to those other authors who helped develop the Lockets & Lace series of books.

  I offer my appreciation to Carpe Librum Book Covers for the cover design for my novel.

  Many thanks to my editor, Elise Sherman Abram who always makes me look good.

  Thank you to my husband, LeRoy, who puts up with my hours on the keyboard.

  DISCLAIMER

  ~o0o~

  All the characters described in this story are fictional. They are not based on any real persons, past or present. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and unintended.

  Chapter One

  Betsy Wheeler ripped the wedding gown from its hanger, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it.

  “I hope to never see the likes of Edward Abbott again!” She gave the ecru gown a final kick before throwing herself on the bed. Betsy was too angry to cry. How could her betrothed run off with the woman who’d replaced her at the meat market?

  The orphanage where Betsy had lived since she was an infant found her a job as a clerk at a meat market on her eighteenth birthday. There, she’d met Edward, the butcher’s assistant. He proposed after a rocky courtship. He’d even taken her to meet his parents. She’d loved the job, which had come with a small flat at the rear of the shop.

  Betsy punched her pillow and thought about how she’d trained Irma Watkins, also from the orphanage, on her job before leaving the position to prepare for her wedding. During those two, short weeks, Edward had somehow managed to fall in love with Irma and elope with her.

  She’d moved into the flat vacated by her best friend, Hope Carlson, also from the orphanage, to find the landlord had raised the rent to five dollars a month. Betsy took the flat since Edward had paid for the month thinking he’d be moving in with her—the rent was too high for her to stay there long.

  Thinking about Hope, Betsy wondered how she was doing on her wagon train trip to Oregon. Maybe she’d do something like that. The only drawback was that if she moved away from Quincy, she’d miss Hope’s letters. She threw the pillow across the room, and the tears finally flowed.

  Unsure of when Hope's next letter might come, Betsy checked the post office for mail every day. She sifted through the day’s mail, disappointed to find she hadn’t gotten a letter from Hope. Betsy had, however, received a mysterious letter from the orphanage. Unable to fathom why they would write her, Betsy tore the envelope open while she was still in the post office. It read:

  Dear Miss Wheeler,

  I hope this letter finds you well. As a part of our yearly spring cleaning at the orphanage, we found something we should have given to you when you left us. I hope you’re still in Quincy, for I’d feel terrible if I missed you. We usually make sure each person has all of their property when they leave us, but this seems to have fallen between the safe and the wall. I hope you can come and pick it up.

  Best Regards,

  Catherine Wetherbee

  Superintendent, Holy Angels Orphan Home.

  She had belongings? Betsy already had all four of her cotton dresses, underthings, and shoes. What could Mrs. Wetherbee have that belonged to her?

  Betsy stepped out of the post office, waved down a cab, and gave the driver the orphanage’s address. She fretted that the horse pulling the cab must be ready for retirement; it trotted so slowly. Betsy couldn’t wait to see what she had coming.

  Upon her arrival at the orphanage, a maid ushered her to the superintendent’s office. Memories rained down on her as she walked down the halls. She remembered skipping down the highly waxed floors with Hope, and how one of them would always slip and fall to the floor.

  Mrs. Wetherbee smiled when Betsy entered her office. “So nice to see you, Betsy. The butcher's shop gave us raving reports about your employment. Have a seat, dear.”

  Betsy slid into a chair and waited expectantly.

  Mrs. Wetherbee opened a drawer and took out a large, faded and frayed envelope. “I apologize for not giving you this when you left.” She handed it to Betsy. “I wish you Godspeed.”

  Betsy clutched the envelope to her breast. Since she’d already spent too much of her dwindling funds, she walked the mile to her flat. The envelope seemed to burn her fingers as she held it. She could hardly wait to see what was inside. Her imagination churned out various scenarios. Perhaps she was really a princess from some faraway land and her parents had left her directions to the castle so she could claim her crown. Maybe it was a bank check from her parents who’d made plans to secure her future. The best scenario was that the letter contained the name and address of the prince to whom she’d been promised at birth—a handsome, rich prince. Betsy sighed.

  She and Hope would sometimes make up stories about who their parents might have been and why they were in the orphanage. Betsy missed Hope. She wondered if she’d ever see her again.

  Settling herself on the settee in her flat, Betsy carefully opened the envelope, tipped it upside down, and a gold locket fell into her lap. She held her breath as she opened it. Perhaps she’d find photographic images inside. She’d heard people often put images in lockets.

  Much to Betsy’s disappointment, there were no photographs inside. She’d hoped see images of her parents at last. Betsy examined the locket. It was of good quality, but since somebody broke the clasp, she couldn’t wear it. Still, it must have belonged to her mother or why would someone have saved it for her? Betsy took another peek into the envelope, but it was empty. How strange.

  She would carry the locket with her since it had surely belonged to the mother she’d never known. She would feel close to her as long as she kept the locket with her. She put it into her pocket. She’d have the clasp fixed when she could. In the meantime, all of her dresses had pockets.

  After making herself some beans and toast, Betsy plopped down on the settee with a deep sigh. What would she do with her life, now?

  She heard a crinkling noise, so she stuck her hand between the cushions and pulled out the newspaper she’d given to Hope. The Matrimonial News ran ads from men who were looking for wives. Hope had answered a man’s ad for a wife to travel the Oregon Trail. Maybe she could become a mail-order bride herself.

  Betsy skimmed the ads though she knew she could never marry a stranger. She gave Hope credit for being so adventurous. She was probably in her handsome husband’s arms at that very moment.

  One ad did, however, tempt her. The man owned a bakery business, and he was looking for a spirited woman who would keep house and bear children. He added that he was easy on the eyes, six feet tall, and had dark hair and blue eyes. The ad piqued her interest, but it said nothing about his personality. He could be a rapist or a drunk for all she knew. Still, there was something intriguing about traveling somewhere, especially when the man paid the fare.

  Betsy sat up quickly, having gotten an idea. What if she answered the ad, traveled to meet the man, and told him they didn’t suit? At least she'd be somewhere exciting, not to mention half-way to Oregon. From there she could get a job, pay the man back his stagecoach fare, and somehow get on a wagon train to Oregon. The man lived in Wisconsin—it would be perfect.

  After contemplating the idea for several days Betsy decided it would be deceitful to trick the man even though she planned to pay him back. It wasn’t honest at all. While she was all for adventure, she knew the commandments; it was stealing. She put the idea aside. She’d have to keep thinking.

  Betsy answered the door one evening to find the landlord, Howard Burns, standing there. He owned the building and ran the barbershop downstairs.

  “Hello, Mr. Burns. This is a surprise. Edward already paid this month’s rent.”

  “Rumor has it you aren’t getting married as planned. That means you’ll be here another month, at least. I came to tell you the rent is going up to six dollars a month.”

  “That’s ridiculous. This is a three-room flat.”

  “There aren’t many in town so that makes it more valuable.” The man looked her up and down and smacked his lips. “I’ll let you have it for three dollars a month if you let me get to know you better.” He gave her a creepy smile.

  Betsy was speechless. “Why, you snake! You’re lucky Edward paid this month’s rent because I’d never giv
e you five dollars for this run-down place.”

  Howard shook his finger at her. “Watch your mouth, sweetheart. I can throw you out on your backside without any notice at all.”

  Betsy tried to control her temper. It was something she’d always had trouble doing. “Do whatever you’d like.”

  “I’ve already agreed to let Annie from the saloon live here, so pack up, and be out of here by Sunday.” He turned and went down the stairs.

  Betsy slammed the door behind him.

  What had her temper done this time? The aides at the orphan home always told her, “Your temper comes from your fiery hair.” Her hair wasn’t fiery but a dark red, but maybe they were right. Now she would be homeless because Sunday was just two days away.

  What was she to do now? She couldn’t very well write to a man from the newspaper and expect a reply within two days.

  Chapter Two

  Sunday morning, Betsy packed her belongings, walked to church, and prayed harder than she ever had before. The sermon was about forgiveness. Betsy wondered if she could forgive Edward if she ever saw him again. She hoped she would, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  Betsy lagged behind while everyone filed out of the church so she would be last to shake hands with Reverend Holmes.

  “Why, hello. Elizabeth Wheeler, isn’t it?” the minister asked as he took her hand.

  “Yes, but everyone calls me Betsy.”

  “I heard the wedding is off. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. I wanted to ask if you’d pray with me.”

  “Of course, I will. Come to my office.” He led her out a door and down a long hall behind the altar. She’d been there with Edward just three weeks ago when they'd asked the minister to officiate at their wedding.

  Reverend Holmes guided her to a seat and took one himself beside her instead of behind his desk. “Now, tell me: is this a special prayer?”

  “Yes. I’ve found myself without a job or a place to live, and I don’t have a clue what to do.”

  “The Lord sure works in mysterious ways. Would you believe my wife just asked me to find someone to escort her mother back to Missouri this morning?” The reverend folded one leg over his knee and said, “Her mother is in her eighties. I’m not sure exactly—you know how women hate to tell their age.”

  Betsy felt a ray of hope as she nodded.

  “Anyway, her grandson brought her here, but he’s unable to return for her. She really needs a companion, and she has the means to pay you. Would you be interested in being her escort and companion?”

  “Would I? Yes!” Betsy practically shouted.

  “You’re a very spirited young lady, and I think you’d be good for Wilma.”

  “How soon does she want to leave? I’m homeless as of today.”

  “No, you aren’t. You’ll stay with my family until mother is ready to leave.”

  Wilma was a tiny, frail woman who wrapped her gray hair around her head making her look regal. She told Betsy she lived in a town just a few miles from St. Joseph, Missouri, called Muddy Creek. Her appearance told the story of her life: eye creases showed she smiled a lot, and the lines that ran from her mouth to her chin showed she was also serious. Her hands were soft, so Betsy knew she seldom, if ever, did manual work. Her eyes filled with unshed tears when she became emotional, showing Betsy she was also a sensitive woman.

  Betsy stayed with the Holmes family for a week, spending time with Wilma Bancroft and growing fond of her. She was a lively old woman who spoke her mind. Betsy knew they’d get along famously.

  After kisses and hugs from the Holmes family, Wilma and Betsy finally left Quincy, Illinois to head west. Betsy bid her landlord and Edward a mental farewell, knowing she’d never have to see either of them again.

  The women traveled in a crowded stagecoach, much to their chagrin. She saw poor Wilma wriggle in her seat to get closer to her and away from the huge, heavy-set, man beside her. Across from them were two men and a woman wearing spectacles. Betsy later learned the woman was a schoolteacher headed for Kansas to accept a teaching job. The men beside her were quiet. They were dressed in suits and string ties and looked like businessmen.

  They spent the night at a run-down hotel in Jefferson City. When they finally arrived at Independence, the heavy-set man and two business men left, and a woman with a little girl boarded and sat beside the schoolteacher. Wilma slid over and enjoyed the extra space.

  It was dusk when they finally reached St. Joseph, and they booked another hotel room.

  In the morning, Wilma said she’d need to rent a buggy to travel to Muddy Creek as it wasn’t on the stagecoach line.

  Betsy nodded, picked up the locket from the nightstand, and dropped it into her pocket.

  “What’s that, dear?” Wilma asked.

  “It’s a locket that someone left for me at the orphanage. I’m guessing it belonged to my mother.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Betsy pulled the locket from her pocket and handed it to Wilma.

  Wilma turned the locket over in her hand while inspecting it. “It looks valuable, Betsy. You should have the clasp fixed so you can wear it. You might lose it otherwise.”

  “I plan to, but I haven’t had a chance or the money.”

  “There’s a Bavarian jeweler on our way to the livery. I’ll give you your first week’s pay so you can have it fixed.”

  The jeweler had his name, Wilhelm Mueller, printed above the door. Betsy hoped he spoke English. She stood there in awe after entering the shop. There were watches, clocks, pins, rings, necklaces, and bracelets. Betsy walked over to a table in the store's corner where beautiful, laced articles—doilies, collars, and a few tablecloths—were on display. How odd to find needlework in a jewelry store.

  A man came out from the back having, no doubt, heard the bell from the door. “Good morning, ladies. How can I help you?”

  Wilma and Betsy greeted the man whose English was precise and clear though he spoke with an accent.

  Betsy held out the locket. “I think this belonged to my mother, but the clasp is broken.”

  Wilhelm took the locket and stared at it for several moments. “Incredible! I made this.”

  “You made it?” Betsy asked in shock.

  “I’d recognize it anywhere,” Wilhelm said. “But just to be sure, my mark is on the back.” He pointed to the emblem, closed his eyes, and rubbed the locket. “It was about twenty years ago. A newly married couple bought it.” He opened the locket and closed it again.

  “Who makes the lace?” Wilma asked.

  “My lovely wife. She makes outstanding Irish lace.” Wilhelm was still fondling the locket. “I remember the day the young couple bought it because the man also bought her a lace collar.”

  “How is Irish lace different from other lace?” Wilma asked.

  “Irish lace is more intricate, more detailed.”

  Betsy couldn’t believe her luck—or rather, her good fortune and the answer to her prayer. What were the odds of her walking into a jeweler’s shop only to find he’d been the one to have made the locket in her pocket? God had worked His second miracle; she thanked Him silently.

  “Can you tell me anything more about the couple who bought the locket?” she asked.

  “Let me look it up.” He pulled out a large, black book from behind the counter, the bottom one in a stack of three. “This is the first of my books. I’d only had the shop open a few months when they came in, but I remembered them because they were such an odd couple.”

  “Odd?” Betsy asked.

  “The husband wore a fancy shirt and boots, with a kerchief around his neck, but she wore the finest clothing. I could tell by her manicure and her bearing that she was a lady—a very fine lady, while the man looked like a cowpoke, or ranch hand.”

  “Did she look anything like me?”

  “Maybe a little. She had blonde hair, but she had your eyes. Your father had dark hair, almost black.”