Murder in Burnt Orange by Jeanne M. Dams

heat of the sun only added to the heat of his temper.
    Hilda, for her part, heard the door slam behind him. She was awake, had been for hours. She had waited for Patrick to say something, to stroke her hair, to kiss her cheek—anything to show he wanted to be friends again. But he had left the house without even speaking to her.
    Very well, if he wanted to be stubborn, she could be stubborn, too. She did not intend to apologize for what was plainly his fault. She had done nothing wrong. He knew quite well that John Bolton was—well, harmless wasn’t quite the word, but Patrick should have more trust in her. He should know she would not permit John to take any liberties.
    Hilda rang the bell for Eileen.
    â€œOh, ma’am, I was that worried you were maybe sick again! And it wouldn’t be no wonder, the way Mr. Patrick was treatin’ you!”
    â€œI feel well, Eileen, but it is still very hot. I will have a cool bath, and then I will dress to go out.”
    Eileen’s eyes widened. “To go out, ma’am? Are you—I mean, if there is some place I could go for you—”
    â€œI will go out, Eileen, after I have had breakfast. Find me a cool dress. And no corset!” That there were corsets designed for pregnant women, Hilda knew. She considered them even more idiotic than the customary ones.
    Eileen opened her mouth to remonstrate, but closed it again. When her mistress looked at her with that icy glare, she knew she had best do as she was told.
    It was Saturday, Hilda reminded herself. With any luck she would find her friend Norah at home. Norah, companion of many years when they both lived at Tippecanoe Place and worked for Mrs. Clem Studebaker, had taken a job as a daily maid for Mrs. Hibberd when she married. After time off when her baby was born, she’d gone back to her job, now that the baby was six months old, but she worked only five mornings a week. Sean’s new job at Studebaker’s paid enough that they could afford to sacrifice part of Norah’s pay, and it gave her more time to look after the house and the baby—little Fiona, born in Hilda’s house and named, in a roundabout Irish way, after her.
    Hilda ate such a large breakfast that Eileen was dubious about fitting her into a summer dress—especially without a corset—but a gusset quickly let in at the waist made it possible, though Hilda sighed at her reflection in the mirror. “If it were not so hot, I could wear a shawl and hide the fatness. I wish we would have cooler weather!”
    Eileen wished so, too. Soon Hilda would have nothing to wear to church, even. She, Eileen, would have to ask Mr. Patrick for some muslins and lightweight silks from the store, to make up into loose-fitting dresses.
    When she was speaking to Mr. Patrick again, that was.
    Mr. O’Rourke was no happier about Hilda going out than Eileen was, and expressed himself with an inaudible rumble of disapproval all the way to Norah’s small “company house” near the Studebaker factory. “Shall I wait, madam?” he asked in his chilliest tone.
    â€œNo, O’Rourke.” He had taught Hilda to address him thus; it still made her uncomfortable. “No, thank you. Let me just make sure Norah is at home, and then you can come back for me in an hour.”
    Hilda could only imagine what Norah’s neighbors would think if a carriage waited outside the house for an hour.
    Norah came to the door, the baby in her arms. “Hilda! What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing is wrong. I came to see you. And Fiona, of course.”
    â€œBut—oh, well, come in then. But you shouldn’t be out, in your state.”
    â€œYou came to my house, ran to my house, in a howling blizzard, the day before Fiona was born.” Hilda walked past her into the tiny parlor.
    â€œThat was different and you know it. I was in big trouble or I’d never have dared do it. Besides, I’m not a fine