The Purple Nightgown Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE PURPLE NIGHTGOWN

  “A.D. Lawrence has built a tantalizing debut story around a historical setting that is devious and sinister at its core. I was instantly intrigued by the romantic elements of the story, and believe readers who desire a mystery that couples superbly with a cup of coffee will be pleased with this latest release!”

  –Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus and Christy Award–winning, The House on Foster Hill

  “The Purple Nightgown draws us into a web of misplaced trust, tangled missteps, rolling remembrance and regret, and loyalties old and new in a taut telling of true history of greed satisfied by preying on the vulnerabilities of those who suffer. With convincing presentation of medical conditions and relatable characters who grow through their circumstances, author A. D. Lawrence crafts a well-paced story that takes us to a satisfying ending.”

  –Olivia Newport, author of the Tree of Life series

  “Beware! Once you start reading The Purple Nightgown, you won’t be able to put it down! Lawrence drew me in from the first page and kept me reading until the very end. If you like true crime fiction, you will love reading the story of Stella and Henry!”

  –Kathleen Y’Barbo, author of The Black Midnight, The Chisholm Trail Bride, and The Alamo Bride

  “Truth often is stranger than fiction, but the combination in The Purple Nightgown is positively compelling. From the get-go, I had a hard time putting this story down. Author A.D. Lawrence spins a heartbreaking tale of desperation and, ultimately, hope. This is one story that will stick with you long after you’ve read the last page.”

  –Michelle Griep, Christy Award–winning author of Once Upon a Dickens Christmas series

  The Purple Nightgown

  © 2021 by A. D. Lawrence

  Print ISBN 978-1-64352-892-2

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-894-6

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-893-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Image: Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion Images Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  May 1911

  How’s your headache, Miss Stella?”

  Stella Burke glanced up at Jane from her position on the blanketed ground and forced a smile. “A little better.” Her companion didn’t need to know how little. Stella slipped a ribbon between the pages of her book then let her fingers trace the title. Fasting for the Cure of Disease. While the author’s methods may have been a little unorthodox, Linda Hazzard’s patients were lauding her as a miracle worker. And Stella desperately needed a miracle.

  The sun’s rays reflected off the Pacific Ocean’s rippling water, intensifying the pain behind Stella’s eyes. Swirling starbursts danced at the corners of her vision. Not again. Tears prickled her throat.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” Jane’s Scottish brogue lilted the words. She tucked the lap blanket tighter around Stella’s legs with aged hands. “You’ve got another one starting, don’t you?”

  Stella nodded, rubbing her temples.

  Dr. Wagner had promised the sea air would cure this pain in her head, but she’d spent the past three months on Rodeo Beach in Northern California and nothing had changed. Gulls hopped along the sand, screeching. Children whooped and hollered. Each shout punctuated the throbbing. “I need to lie down.”

  “That’s probably wise. Let’s get you home.” Jane stowed Stella’s book in the wicker picnic basket at her feet then shook the sand from the blanket. An envelope fell to the ground.

  Stella reached for it, but a stiff breeze sent it tumbling across the beach. She scrambled for the letter as it blew toward her automobile and waiting driver, but her blurred vision worked against her. Still, she couldn’t lose that letter.

  “I’ve got it.” The driver ran onto the beach, the bill of his cap catching the sunlight.

  The mere sight of Henry coaxed a smile. Though he’d grown up on the outside, he was the same thoughtful mischief-maker he’d been when they were children. Memories of the pranks she and Henry used to play on the cook, Mrs. Priory, sprang to mind. How red the old woman had turned when they’d switched the salt for sugar in her pottery bowl on the counter. And the look on Mama’s face when the fish had tasted sweet as taffy. Of course, Stella had to copy the book of Revelation twice as punishment, and Henry had trouble sitting for a week afterward, but it had been worth it.

  Henry jogged toward her, envelope extended. “Here you go, Miss Burke.”

  She took the letter from his gloved hand. “It’s Stella. We’ve been through this, Clayton.” She paid him back with the name formality dictated she use.

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  She met his gaze, catching his lopsided smile with what little vision her eyes afforded. He’d maintain an air of propriety as long as Jane was present, but next time he took her for a drive along the coast, he’d drop the pretense. They’d be Henry and Stella again. Friends.

  Tingling started in her left thumb and spread through her palm. Why did these headaches bring such odd symptoms? Dr. Wagner called them migraines, but whatever their proper name, relief seemed like a distant dream.

  Stella stepped toward the motorcar. The numbness in her toes and the wind tugging her ankle-length skirt made trekking the beach a challenge. Henry offered his arm. She accepted. His wool jacket provided scratchy comfort beneath her fingers. He opened her door and helped her inside. The concern in his hazel eyes carved a hollow feeling within her. Jane climbed in beside her while Henry walked to the front and cranked the handle. The motor roared to life. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he glanced over his shoulder and reached into the back seat, a violet between his fingers. “Saw this in front of the motor and thought you might like it.”

  Her favorite flower. Warmth spread through her chest, and for a moment the pain above her eyebrow dulled. “Thank you.” She held the delicate blossom to her nose. The scent conjured summer memories of a simpler time. Times when she ran to Father for advice, and her only worries were remember
ing the spelling of Mississippi and caring for a litter of abandoned kittens in her bedroom without Mother’s knowledge. She sighed. She didn’t get headaches back then or have to consider marriage to wealthy men. Afternoons were for exploring the hillsides behind the house with Henry, playing pirates, and hunting for fairies.

  When she was a child, all of Stella’s plans for the future had included Henry, but after Papa died five years ago, Uncle Weston warned her against marrying a man without money and a title. Marrying beneath her station was out of the question.

  Plenty of men with all the attributes her uncle required had requested her hand in marriage without so much as an intelligent conversation beforehand. How could they know they wanted to spend a lifetime with her without knowing the first thing about her? Not even simple things, like her favorite color. Or her favorite flower. No. She’d die an old maid before agreeing to marry some wealthy hobbledehoy who only showed interest to increase his fortune.

  Henry drove the automobile onto the main road leading into San Francisco.

  Stella closed her eyes, propped her elbow on the door, and rested her head in her hand. The tingling traveled up her arm and settled in her left cheek. When she opened her eyes, she caught Henry’s reflection in the windscreen. He flashed her a smile and returned his gaze to the road.

  Sinking into the leather seat, Stella let her eyelids droop while Jane prattled on about the fraying lace on her hankie.

  The automobile screeched to a stop, and she forced her eyes to focus. Henry opened her door and stood at attention as she stepped onto the sidewalk at the entrance of the Burke estate. The swirling lights no longer blocked her vision, but nausea tickled her stomach. If she didn’t get inside soon—

  Henry’s brow furrowed and he took her hand, breaking protocol. “Let me help you, Stella. You’re pale.”

  Jane hurried ahead, giving orders to the butler and requesting one of the maids to “bring a cup of tea to Miss Stella’s room.”

  Henry walked Stella to the door then patted her hand. “Get better.” He leaned down. “I despise seeing you like this,” he whispered in her ear. “Maybe we can go on a drive tomorrow.”

  Stella nodded, stomach in knots. She allowed Jane to usher her upstairs, help her change into her nightgown, and make a fuss tucking her between the cool sheets. The maid entered, teacup in hand. Stella thanked her and sipped the warm brew.

  “I don’t suppose you feel like eating?” Jane tested Stella’s forehead with the back of her hand.

  The thought of food swelled the churning inside her. Excerpts from the pages of Linda Hazzard’s book sprang to mind. Hazzard believed fasting cured every ailment from toothaches to tuberculosis. Maybe her methods could put an end to these migraine headaches for good.

  “No supper tonight, thank you.” Stella chewed the inside of her cheek. “And please tell Cook I won’t be eating tomorrow.”

  Jane clucked her tongue. “Are you sure that’s wise? You must eat something or you’ll waste away. You could stand a little fattening up as it is.”

  Stella pulled the coverlet to her chin with a sigh. “Dr. Hazzard recommends fasting in her book. It’s good for the body, Jane. You should do it with me. Didn’t you say your rheumatism has been festering?”

  “That it has.” Jane kneaded her lower back with a wrinkled hand. “But I like a good pot roast enough to endure it.”

  Stella cringed at the thought of pot roast and pulled the pillow over her splitting head.

  Jane stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  The pain reached a crescendo, and Stella bit back a sob. The day was only half done, and she was already in bed. Earlier than yesterday. If something didn’t change, life would pass her by, and she wouldn’t be living. Just existing. The sea air hadn’t helped, and she couldn’t live like this a day longer. So many people who had followed Linda Hazzard’s fasting plan found healing. Could fasting be the answer to her prayers? Besides, even if Dr. Hazzard’s methods didn’t help, her recommendations couldn’t do any harm.

  Chapter Two

  Stella smoothed her purple skirt then adjusted the pin at her bodice while Jane wrestled her dark curls into a fashion that, if not pretty, was at least presentable.

  “Your uncle Weston’s invited a young man to dinner this evenin’.” Jane lifted a jeweled comb from the dressing table then used it to pin up Stella’s hair.

  Not another one.

  “I don’t have to be there, do I?” When would her uncle realize she was destined for solitude and end his search for a husband? But the words from yesterday’s letter surfaced, cracking the door of possibility. She might make a concession for a certain someone. If only he didn’t insist on keeping his identity a secret.

  Clicking her tongue, Jane shook her head. “You know very well you’re to be there. He wants me taking extra care to make you pretty.”

  Stella’s reflection in the mirror slumped her shoulders. She’d never been a beauty. Before Papa’s death, she was the last girl asked to dance at parties and benefits. Of course, word of her inheritance had changed all that. But her headaches had worsened after losing him and stole what little bloom her cheeks once possessed. She studied her folded hands in her lap.

  Why were men so shallow? If looks didn’t attract them, money did. And it wasn’t as if the men of her acquaintance were prize catches themselves. Not when they droned on about their horse’s lineage or some man named Ty Cobb. Did none of them read? The world was changing. The English were building unsinkable ships. Scientists were making great medical discoveries. But it seemed men were more interested in baseball than progress.

  With her hair marginally tamed, Stella slipped into her shoes and paused for Jane to fasten the buttons. She’d rather forgo shoes altogether, but the dull edges of her headache would not withstand another of Uncle Weston’s admonitions to “act like a lady.” Her fingers brushed the silky coverlet on her bed. “Thank you, Jane.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Stella.” Jane closed the buttonhook into a drawer. “Will you be wanting to take another trip to Rodeo Beach today?” She checked the gold timepiece fastened over her heart. The one Stella had given her three Christmases ago. “If we leave within the hour, we can get there before the crowd gets too heavy.”

  Stella toyed with her fingers, shaking her head. “I’d prefer a drive along the coast. Why don’t you take the day off? Give your hip a rest and write your brother. You’ve talked about it for weeks, and I’m sure he would love to hear from you.” A day with Henry would be a welcome relief. He didn’t expect her to keep her shoes on or play the perfect lady.

  Jane gave a slight nod. “If that’s really what you be wanting.”

  Stella pulled open her bedroom door. The light spilling through the windows overlooking the street resurrected yesterday’s throbbing. “Have Clayton bring the car around at ten o’clock sharp.” She tightened her jaw. Skipping supper last night was the first step on the path to eradicating her beastly headaches once and for all. And a drive without Jane’s incessant reminders of how to carry herself might be the second.

  Jane curtsied. A wince pinched her eyes. Stella grasped her arm and helped her right her posture.

  “Now, Jane, I remember having this conversation more than once. No more bowing. It makes me uncomfortable.” She patted her maid’s shoulder. “Besides, you’ve taken care of me since I was eight. You’re family.”

  The old servant’s eyes glistened. “I thank you for saying it, but if your uncle Weston—”

  “Leave Uncle Weston to me. And have a wonderful day.” Stella descended the curved staircase, hand grazing the balustrade.

  The aroma of eggs and bacon sent her salivary glands into a tailspin. Her stomach grumbled, but she pressed her hand against it, reminding herself that if Dr. Hazzard’s claims were true, hunger pangs were a small price to pay.

  Hartsell, the butler, pulled out her chair, and she sat opposite her uncle and the wall formed by his morning paper. He lowered the p
aper then shot her a smile as he turned the page. “Feeling better?”

  She spread a napkin in her lap. “I am, thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I have some business ideas to discuss. Is now a good time?”

  Uncle Weston set his paper beside his breakfast plate. “Stella, darling, there’s no need to—”

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought.” Stella straightened her shoulders. “And Father did leave the clothing business to me. Besides, I’d like to think I’m more of an authority on ladies’ fashion than you are.” She lifted a brow.

  Her uncle conceded with a tilt of his chin. “I’d love to hear your ideas.” He lifted his cup in Hartsell’s direction, and the butler strode to his chair with the coffeepot.

  Stella leaned forward, elbows on the table. A twitch of Uncle Weston’s mustache reminded her to sit up straight, arms at her sides. “The women’s clothing styles we manufacture limit our clientele. The dress samples I saw last week were so frivolous. I’ve never seen middleclass women wear such things, let alone the women in the Mission District.”

  Uncle Weston’s cup clattered against the saucer, and his eyes widened. “And how would you know what women in the slums wear?”

  Stella lifted her chin. “You can’t shelter me from reality. And getting back to my ideas for the company, I believe we should provide a wider variety of styles at different price points. It feels silly to limit our outreach by catering to only one class.”

  “Your father named me as your advisor in matters involving Burke Clothiers until you turn twenty-five. The monthly business meeting is scheduled for Monday morning. I’ll speak with the board on your behalf.” He reached for his paper. “It’s a good idea, but we’ll need to discuss how beneficial it would be for the bottom line.”

  A smile tugged Stella’s mouth. “I could go.” She plucked her skirt’s fabric. “I’ll be twenty-five in a month, and it would be good practice to present the expansion idea myself. I’m capable of speaking on my own behalf.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” The newspaper crinkled. “But wouldn’t you rather spend tomorrow at the beach?”