The Carousel Painter by Judith Miller

down the hallway. She obviously hoped to see Tyson emerge from the dining room.
    Frances scrunched her brow. “He said to tell you that he decided to return home and see his parents for a short time.”
    “That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” Augusta’s voice had taken on a shrill tone.
    Frances looked toward the ceiling and tapped her index finger against her lips. “Oh. Yes. He said he’d be back in time for the housewarming.”
    Immediate disappointment clouded Augusta’s eyes, and I squeezed her hand in a show of support. Although I had harbored no desire to spend the afternoon with Tyson, his disappearance was the cause of my friend’s pain. At that moment I disliked him even more.
    I couldn’t help but wonder what had precipitated such a hasty departure. Not for a minute did I believe he’d gone to visit his parents. Only last evening he’d told me they were off traveling. Tyson’s behavior left me to draw only one conclusion: He was up to no good.

CHAPTER

7
    I would have preferred to leave the Galloways’ house quietly on my own the next morning, but Augusta vehemently disagreed. She insisted upon eating breakfast with me, instructing Frances to pack a lunch for my noonday meal, and riding along in the carriage with Thomas and me. Her company would have been appreciated had she not been so gloomy.
    From the time we sat down in the dining room for breakfast until I bid her good-bye at the carousel factory, Augusta lamented Tyson’s departure as well as my move to The Bottoms. Had I not been resolute in my refusal, she would have followed me into the factory to watch me paint. She’d avowed her father wouldn’t mind in the least. Though I didn’t doubt her claim, I’d shuddered at the idea. Being the only woman in the factory would be difficult enough. But if I arrived with a friend in tow—especially when the friend’s father was the owner—the workers would never accept me.
    When Augusta bid me farewell, it was with a promise that she and Thomas would deliver my trunks to Wilsons’ Boardinghouse before they returned home. She offered to have the driver call for me after work so that we could eat supper together at her home. I declined. The sadness in her eyes was almost enough to make me change my mind. Instead, I promised to join her another evening. Although obviously unhappy, she mumbled her agreement. Thomas had stopped the horses a short distance from the factory. I didn’t want the workers to see me arrive in a fancy carriage.
    Once Augusta departed, I squared my shoulders and strode toward the factory door. A stiff wind caused an unexpected chill, and I pulled my cloak tight around my neck. Had I realized what a drop in temperature the breeze would create, I’d have tucked a pair of gloves into my pocket. Bending my head against the wind, I continued onward. But the closer I got, the slower I walked. A number of men brushed past me and hurried toward the door, obviously eager for the warmth inside the factory. If I dallied much longer, I’d be late for my first day of work. So I inhaled a deep breath, forced one foot in front of the other, and pulled open the door.
    I took a quick survey of my surroundings. Now that I was an employee rather than a visitor on a brief walking tour, the place looked different, although the pungent smell of glue remained. A man with graying hair and stooped shoulders stood near a desk not far from the entrance. I decided he must be Josef Kaestner. Mr. Galloway had told me Mr. Kaestner would be expecting me.
    The workmen entering the factory stared at me as though I’d grown a second head. My heart slammed against my chest and hammered a reverberating beat that ascended and pulsated in my head. There really was no reason for apprehension, yet I could barely swallow as I closed the short distance to greet the older man.
    “Good morning.” My voice squeaked like an untrained bow being drawn across taut violin strings.
    The man appraised me with