Free A March to Remember by Anna Loan-Wilsey

and I never disappointed him, never having finished all the food that was prepared for me. I’d been more than happy to share. But Spencer was different. I liked Spencer. I had grown accustomed to the puppy, as Mrs. Smith was never without him, except at the dining table and social events. Even then I was assured he was getting spoiled eating gizzards and ham bones in the kitchen. But then the feeling grew to true fondness. Despite seldom being able to interact with him, as the dog was almost always on Mrs. Smith’s lap, we nevertheless regarded one another with kindness and genuine friendship. When given the chance, Spencer always took the opportunity to prick up his ears and pant in excitement whenever I entered the room. And likewise, I always had a kind word, and if the opportunity arose, a good scratch behind his ears. Mrs. Smith commented every time how Spencer was never overtly friendly with strangers but had taken an instant liking to me.
    But I’d never once heard Spencer bark like this. Still a puppy, his most valiant efforts resulted in more of a high-pitched whine than a deep growl or bark. But this, if I hadn’t known better, sounded like it came from a much larger, more ferocious dog.
    Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!
    â€œShut that dog up,” someone shouted.
    Spencer, hampered by something or someone, yelped in distress and then gave a stifled growl before falling silent. Suddenly the front door slammed, and the puppy began another round of barking. Mrs. Smith had mentioned that the breed was protective. Could she be in danger?
    I pushed back from the desk, ignoring the ache in my neck, and went to the window, my second-floor room having a good view of the street. I was in time to see a man in a black fedora, his back to me, twirling a black umbrella, stroll away from the house and through the park toward Pennsylvania Avenue. I grabbed my shawl from the back of the chair and poked my head out of my door. Claude Morris stood in his dressing gown near the end of the hall. I pulled my shawl closed about my neck.
    Before I could ask, Mr. Morris said, “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Miss Davish. All’s well. Just the silly dog barking.”
    â€œMrs. Smith? Is she all right?”
    â€œOf course.” I bristled at his tone. He didn’t say “silly woman,” but it was implied. “You can go back to bed now, Miss Davish.”
    â€œI’m still working. But I will say good night to you, Mr. Morris.”
    â€œYes, well, then, good night.”
    It took all I had not to slam my door. The nerve of that man to speak to me in that tone. Not even Sir Arthur spoke to me with such condescension. Grateful to have work to distill my anger (having falling asleep, I still hadn’t finished typing the pages Sir Arthur expected in the morning), I sat back down in front of my typewriter. Before beginning again, I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys, not dwelling on the audacity of Claude Morris, but wondering in earnest where on earth Chester Smith was going at this time of the night.

C HAPTER 7
    A fter the pattering of rain late last night, a fresh, warm breeze and the scent of cut grass greeted me when I left the Smith home to hike. Sir Arthur’s pages were neatly stacked on the desk Senator Smith had graciously relegated for Sir Arthur’s use, waiting for him to arise. Despite having finished the typing in the early-morning hours, I woke before dawn rested. I’d dreamed of Walter inching to the edge of the Bartholdi Fountain, trying not to fall and get his knees dirty before he proposed. The image brought an irrepressible smile to my face. I was happy and relished the thought of a hike in the fresh air.
    Wearing my storm rubbers, I strolled down Seventeenth Street with the intention of hiking through the Potomac Flats, an often muddy, marshy strip in and around the tidal reservoir, created by the dredging of the river west of the Washington