The Typewriter Girl Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  The

  Typewriter Girl

  J.L. Jarvis

  eBook Edition Copyright © 2011 by J.L. Jarvis

  Cover Design Copyright © 2011 by J.L. Jarvis

  Copyright © 2006 by J.L. Jarvis

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the materials or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  January 13, 2012

  2nd Kindle Edition

  Proofreading by everything-indie.com

  Prologue

  Dawson, Yukon Territory 1898

  Benjamin Stark sat in a jail cell. His broad shoulders rounded as he leaned his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor with a haunted expression. Bold images came in bright flashes and out-of-sync clamor.

  Hours ago, he had been sprawled on the step of his crude miner’s cabin, set in relief against the startling beauty of the mountains behind. Spruce trees punctured the mist on the river walled in by daunting, steep mountains. The haze was just starting to lift to expose jagged peaks and bold faces, which plunged to the brilliant blue water below. The place wooed him with terrible beauty.

  He was sobering up when two Mounted Police rode up. The older eyed him as he walked past and stopped at the threshold. He turned and grabbed hold of the doorframe to steady himself. With a nod, he directed the younger to go look inside while he kept an eye on Stark. The young Mountie glanced in, and then looked at Stark, who had barely moved from his place on the steps. He then went to the porch rail and took in some air until the nausea passed. The older one took one more look inside and then pulled the door gently closed.

  While the younger watched with acute concentration, the older man looked down at Stark and said quietly, “Let’s go to Dawson and talk.” He waited, and then gently said, “C’mon, son.”

  Benjamin Stark looked up with a hollow expression, and gave a half nod. He stumbled and, with their help, rose to his feet. He winced as they tied his wrists. His hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked rag.

  “We’ll have a doctor take a look at that,” the older man said.

  Stark did what they asked—except answer their questions. When he failed to answer—or even respond—they left him in a cell. A doctor came in to tend to his hand. Afterward, he sat there for hours, alone. He kept seeing it, feeling it, over again. The gunshot. The visceral jolt of his body. Humming stillness. An unholy hush. And the blood.

  Stark wasn’t ready to talk.

  Chapter 1

  Upstate New York: The Following Winter, 1899

  A solitary young woman trudged toward the stone house perched above jagged layers of shale that dropped 400 feet to the water. But that view was hidden from her. Her attention was drawn to the house, the wagon rut puddles she dodged, and the drops that fell in them. She pushed the drenched hair from her forehead and took hold of the brass lion doorknocker. It stared fiercely at her as she struck it against the plate and lowered her hand. She scraped clots of mud from her shoes onto the jute doormat as the door opened. A stout woman assessed her.

  The young woman looked up at her. “I’m the typewriter girl.”

  The older woman invited her in.

  “I’m Emma Madding,” the guest explained further.

  “Well, Miss Emma Madding, you’re wet,” she said with a crisp nod, taking in the young woman’s appearance with a matronly look of frank disapproval.

  Emma glanced down at herself.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that.” The housekeeper, or so Emma surmised, pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and was halfway down the hall by the time she had finished the sentence.

  Emma studied the dark mahogany panels that stretched to the ceiling. A hound whimpered from somewhere beyond the dark hallway.

  “What were you thinking?” The housekeeper rounded the end of the hall. “Alone, in this weather?” She proffered the towel.

  “I wanted to walk.”

  “In the rain?”

  “It was dry when I started,” said Emma, quietly.

  The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed as if to say any fool could have seen the storm coming. She put a light hand to her wiry gray hair and pressed it into place while she waited.

  As Emma patted herself dry with the towel, a light tap-tapping upon the oak floor drew both women’s attention.

  Their eyes met. Water dripped from the hem of her skirt to the floor and pooled on the polished wood floor. Emma stepped back to the rug at the door and bent over to wring out her skirt. But onto what? She looked up. The housekeeper was marching down the hallway. Emma studied the rug. She had displeased the old woman already. But surely the rug was there for a reason. Even so, if the water soaked through it...better here than on a finer rug elsewhere in the house. Emma twisted the saturated hem.

  A large dog bounded down the hall and greeted her with its paws on her skirt—silk charmeuse. It was too late to be bothered. At least it was navy colored. Emma stepped back while the hound leaned its paws on her. It advanced until Emma was pressed to the door. She held her palm out, unsure of where best to place it, and forced an unsteady smile. She had never been close to so robust a creature.

  A deep voice called out, “Shadow, sit!”

  The dog backed away and sat, as commanded. Halfway down the hallway, a man leaned his shoulder against a doorway, arms folded, relaxed but imposing. His height and athletic build accounted for some of his careless charisma. Through the leaded glass stairwell window, faint light shone through the rails and cast shadows, distorting his unreadable face.

  He called the dog to him and gave him a vigorous pet. His right hand was grotesquely dappled by light from the leaded glass window. He sent the dog into the room with a pat, and then stood up, bringing his face into light. Keen, deep blue eyes burned from an otherwise impassive face. Emma’s gaze dropped to his hand, which was knotted with scars. Noticing her attention, he slid his hand inside his coat pocket and out of her sight. With one last piercing look, he withdrew to the room and called out from inside, “Mrs. Dowling.”

  The housekeeper rounded the corner with a mop in her hand. Stopping in the doorway, she and the man exchanged a few words in low voices, and then Mrs. Dowling stepped into the hallway. “Miss Madding.” She summoned Emma to down the hallway.

  With each step, the damp seeped further into Emma’s bones. Her wet shoes squeaked in rhythm, prompting her to step lightly to lessen the echo.

  The housekeeper stood by the doorway and nodded toward the room. “Mr. Stark will see you.”

  He raised a brow as she entered, and returned to his work, signing a letter with hurried, bold strokes. The dog lifte
d his nose, more interested in Emma than his master. Shadow began to get up, but a grunt from his master sent him back to his seat.

  When he deigned to look at her, the corner of his mouth twitched as though he might smirk. It made Emma uneasy. Looking almost annoyed, he gestured for her to sit, but she looked at the damask upholstery and hesitated.

  He took in the rain-soaked skirt that hung heavily on her, and its hem dipped in mud. “Go on, sit,” he commanded, in the same tone he used with the dog, which did not endear him to Emma.

  He walked around to his side of the desk. For a moment, he towered over her with a steely expression, except from his eyes. They were large and, most likely unwillingly, expressive. But the rest of his rough features guarded him well.

  He sat down and, for a moment, appeared to forget she was there. The letter continued to hold his attention. He skimmed it with brows drawn together.

  As he pored over the paper, she studied him. He was gruff, but she found him disturbingly handsome. As though hearing her thoughts, he glanced up at her with deep and dangerous eyes—and away just as quickly. A current shot through her. The next moment, he pored over the paper again, as though nothing had happened. Nothing had, she reminded herself. She studied the unyielding planes of his face. His nose had been broken. Something he read in the letter softened his eyes, now at odds with the rest of his face. For some reason, this unsettled her most of all.

  With one last glance at the paper, he set it aside and leaned back with ease. Emma sat with forced poise and cast her gaze about the room. Mahogany shelves overflowing with leather-bound books lined the walls. A bulky stone fireplace glowed with hot embers. Thick patterned carpets covered the oak floors. By the window, an overstuffed chair sat beside a small table, with an oil lamp upon it. Emma gasped. A bear stared at her fiercely.

  “He’s tame,” he said, with a glance and a glimmering eye.

  The instant she gasped, she had seen that the bear head was mounted. Too late. She felt foolish.

  Stark’s lips spread to a grin, with white teeth and those startling indigo eyes. They both laughed. It surprised and reassured her.

  Emma said, “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting—”

  She knew there were men who went hunting and mounted their prey. She supposed that it made them feel manly. She did not understand it, but had given it little thought until now.

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

  “No.” She straightened up and tried to look like she meant it. She gave the bear one or two more glances tinged with a fleck of doubt. “I’m sure we’ll both become great friends.” The blank stare with which she followed this statement brought a broad smile from him, and it pleased her.

  “You’re a brave woman.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Yes, I am.” She looked squarely at him, and leaned back in her chair in similar fashion.

  He scrutinized her with pleasure and puzzlement. She held his gaze, but was losing her footing. How did he take her from laughter to this? She could not read his expression, which made doubt pulse through her. She cautioned herself to be guarded. This man could thrill or unnerve her. It frightened her—not for the way he looked at her, but for the way she responded.

  He stood without warning, walked to the window, and stared through the rain dripping down it. He leaned one sturdy hand on the window frame.

  “It’s not pretty or nice.”

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  He turned with a withering gaze.

  Emma met his gaze proudly. It was practiced, not heartfelt. He confused her. Was it deliberate?

  Abruptly, he returned to his desk. He picked up a weathered book with odd pages in tatters inserted between the leaves. “This is what you’ll be typing. It’s a journal—not pretty or nice.”

  She looked up through her lashes, but coolly refrained from comment.

  “It’s coarse, and parts of it might shock you. I don’t want us to get in the midst of it, and then have to watch as you get the vapors or faint.”

  “I shall make a point not to faint in your presence.”

  “Look, Miss Madding, the truth is, I asked them to send me a man.”

  “What a shame. And they sent you a typist instead.”

  His head sharply turned and he peered. He regarded her as though she were some sort of strange species.

  Now she was annoyed, which made it easy to return his gaze without flinching.

  “You would have to live here,” he said bluntly, as though it would dissuade her.

  She swept a grand gaze to the hall, with her head at a deliberately haughty angle. “If you and Mrs. Dowling are able to manage, I suppose I can, too.” She looked in his eyes.

  His mouth twitched. “I meant the location. It’s remote. Most girls like to stay home.”

  “Really?”

  He tried again. “It’s not like typing in an office.”

  “I type sixty words a minute—in an office or house.”

  For too long, he just looked at her, thinking. She felt like a prize horse at the fair.

  He pressed his palms down on his desk and pushed himself up. “Mrs. Dowling will show you to your room.”

  Emma closed her gaping mouth.

  He walked to the window and gazed out at the mist-covered lake. “Unpack and get settled. We’ll begin in an hour.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. An hour?

  He bent down to pat the dog, but looked back toward her long enough to review her appearance from shoulder to ankle, the dampness, the wrinkles, and the mud caked and crumbling at the hem. Then he said, “That should give you time enough to clean up.”

  He turned back to the window. Emma quashed her self-conscious feelings. He was far too familiar. His house might be grander than most around here, but his manners were not. Dressing like a gentleman did not make him so. And furthermore, that bear could go hang somewhere else. Emma sighed. What had she expected? She was lucky to be here, she reminded herself.

  Mrs. Dowling appeared as though conjured. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  Up the stairs and along a hallway to the last room, Emma followed.

  “The rooms are mostly empty these days. You’ll have lots of quiet, at least.” Mrs. Dowling threw open the drapes. “And you’ve got a good view of the lake. It can get a bit drafty. That chest there has some quilts you may use. I’ve started a fire for you, and left you a few logs. There are more just outside the kitchen.” Mrs. Dowling glanced about, checking her mental inventory for anything she had forgotten. “I’ll send someone to town for your trunk tomorrow.”

  “There’s no trunk.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Dowling looked at the bag Emma held, which was barely enough to hold more than two dresses. She lifted her head and seemed as though she might ask why or comment, but when she caught Emma’s eye, Emma turned from the old woman and went to the window.

  “Thank you—”

  “Mrs. Dowling.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dowling.” At being so dismissed, Mrs. Dowling cast a look of mock haughtiness behind Emma’s back. She would leave when she chose, not a moment before. “Well, it’s just as well. We’ve only got a man to help out here part time, and the rest he spends working for a neighbor about a mile down the road. Frankly, I think it’s too much, but he’s too cussed proud to slow down, the old coot.”

  Emma smiled politely as Mrs. Dowling fluffed up the bed pillows. “It’s really quite cozy back here once you’re used to the wind. It comes round the corner and makes a little noise at night, but you’ll get used to its moaning.”

  “I’m sure I will.” Emma turned from the window. “Thank you, Mrs. Dowling. You’ve been very kind.”

  Mrs. Dowling saw Emma’s moist eyes and, in spite of herself, felt a twinge of compassion. “You’re welcome, dear,” she said gently. She gave the room one last sweeping survey. “Hang those wet clothes over the fireplace screen. They’ll dry faster. Keep an eye on the clock. He wants you back in an hour.”


  When Mrs. Dowling was gone, Emma sat on the bed, and let the tears trail down her cheeks.

  Mr. Stark was not there. Following his instructions, Emma had cleaned up and changed into her only other blouse and skirt. What had she been thinking—wearing silk to go tromp through the countryside? It was ruined. The cotton blouse could be salvaged, but the skirt would have to be replaced as soon as she was paid.

  She stepped into the study and looked from the doorway to each corner and the space in between. With the draperies drawn, it looked dismal. All the leather book bindings were lost in the shadows. She walked to the window and parted the heavy velveteen drapes. She leaned over the window seat to look out and see what was there. She took in a quick breath. The lawn sloped gently down to the cliff. It curved to form a half circle of crumbling layers of rocks, against which lapped water that stretched out forever with ribbons of sun dancing on it. Emma inhaled deeply and sighed.

  With a step backward, Emma forced herself to turn toward the typewriter table. A white paper lay on top of the Underwood. It instructed her to begin by typing the contents of the book on the table. Beside the typewriter was a battered book with dozens of odd sized papers slipped between pages at irregular intervals. She gently thumbed through it. The smudged pencil handwriting was not easy to read. She pressed the book flat, and started to type.