Betrayal at the Dominion | Mumfrom & Co. Mysteries #2

Chapter 1

Dearest,

You'll remember Gwen Hill. She's about my age and we'd been the rival sort of friends when young (I'll never forget the Great Strawberry Jam Debate of 1909 that almost ended our friendship - and, for the record, I absolutely won). She's one of the few people besides yourself who ever knew me as Miss Sarah Wicker and then Mrs. Sarah Quinn. When you and I started our life in Lockhart Ridge, it was Gwen Hill who so often popped up on our doorstep for tea (and, if I felt especially spicy, strawberry jam on toast). Even now, she makes her son, the grand banker he may be, drive her all the way over for monthly visits.

I remember clear as day when we first moved to Lockhart and Gwen's visit was a whirlwind of excitement over the spired house we now called home. She had her whole brood with her, small and excitable animals with hands that were always sticky no matter how clean their mama had made them - why were they always sticky? Staying indoors was a trial to them even with my own children there and we found ourselves at what would become my favourite shop, Chapman's. To the children, the dazzling maze of shimmering glass cases and towering shelves of bright treasures were exactly the distractions they needed to give Gwen and I the chance to start a tradition - our monthly Talk & Shop.

Gwen was doing exceptionally well for herself with a well-respected husband, healthy children, and a growing portfolio of volunteer work that would soon include the founding of the Lift Every Voice Cooperative. As I gave her the tour of my new home, new town, and new life, the stuff of which she and I had only ever dreamed of, our old good natured rivalry only appeared in lighthearted jabs that left us both chuckling and her children wondering why their mama could get away with being rude when it earned them a spanking.

In the pastel rooms of Chapman's dedicated to fluffy furs and matching hats, one of my new neighbours recognized me from afar and approached with that tight, unsure smile some folks get when they find a coloured couple suddenly living a few doors down. Our short chat included a half-embarrassed confession that she just couldn't seem to remember my name. Before I could answer, Gwen leaned forward and smugly decided, "This here's Lady Quinn - you'll remember the name now, won't you." Whatever sarcasm in Gwen was lost on our befuddled neighbour.

From there, my neighbour spread the word until everyone on the street knew. By now, it feels like the whole town calls me Lady, some with mockery, some with blatant awe. And all the while, Gwen will smile and titter about her friend, Lady Sarah Quinn.

That was in 1923, about twenty-five years ago, and it's been long enough that most folks around here call me Lady Quinn because it's tradition. I think I've taken up very naturally in my role as Lady of Lockhart Ridge so much so that even my skeptics got tired of denying it could be true.

Besides Gwen, Joseph is the first person who's come to my door in all these years who still knows me as Mrs. Sarah. Standing there on our front stoop, he gave me those puppy dog eyes he's had since he was a boy, and mumbled, "Hi, big sister."

My relationship with my brother has always been a bit distant, you know that. By the time he was fourteen and leaving school to work on the railroad across Canada, I was twenty-six and busy with a husband and the first three of seven children. Even when we were young enough to both be living under our parents' roof, he was so energetic and outgoing and I was so focused on my books and school, and we had too little in common and too many other siblings and friends to pay each other too much mind. Besides, he always hid my hot comb when I needed it most.

In all the time that's passed, he's stayed every bit as lanky, smiling, and with hair that's just a bit too long.

"You haven't changed much either, Sarah," he decided as Lorna Mae set my usual breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, soft-boiled eggs with toast soldiers, and buttermilk biscuits with butter jam on the doily-laden table between us. Joseph ducked his head this way and that to peer around Lorna Mae's thin, quick-moving form to catch glimpses of me as if I would disappear.