Siri Mitchell

by Unrivaled

  “Of course I have. Last year, just after you left for the Continent.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did you try? Which bank?”

  “Our bank. And they won’t consider extending a loan without your father’s consent. And he won’t admit to having failed again.”

  “But it’s your money.”

  “Yes, Lucy. I know that!” Exasperation had made her voice testy. “It’s my money, but according to them, it’s his company. You’ve had your chance. I’ve given you the time you requested. Now it’s my turn.”

  “What about Aunt Margaret and Uncle Fred?”

  “Absolutely not! I will not have my own sister throw our failure up in my face.”

  I couldn’t imagine my aunt or uncle ever doing that. “You mean you haven’t even asked them?”

  “No. And I never will.”

  “But they wouldn’t mind. I know they wouldn’t. I could—”

  “I forbid you to do it.”

  “But I don’t see why—”

  “Because she has everything she’s ever wanted. She has everything I ever wanted! I would rather move down to South St. Louis than let her know how destitute we’ve become. It was bad enough that she was the one to take you to the Continent . . .”

  “But what if I could find some money?”

  “Find some? As if it’s hiding somewhere?” Mother sounded incredulous. “I’ll tell you where it all is. It’s tied up in the building and all the pots and the kettles and those huge piles of ingredients that your father only used once before discarding. It’s in the pockets of the people who aren’t buying Fancy Crunch because they’re buying Royal Taffy. That’s where you can find it.”

  “But what if I could?”

  “What if you could.” She threw up her arms. “If you can . . . if you can, then I suppose you can consider yourself the savior of the company.” She folded her hands atop the ledger book. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ve run out of alternatives. If we don’t sell soon, we may lose everything. As it stands now, I might still be able to preserve something. Waiting isn’t delaying the inevitable. It’s costing us. At the moment, I still have something to bargain with. The more we delay, the worse our position becomes.”

  What she hadn’t said in all that was no. We needed money. Who did I know that had some?

  Mr. Arthur.

  Mr. Alfred Arthur with his big house on Westmoreland Place.

  At some point I would have to marry someone, and Mother had already said that she wanted me to marry well. If someone had to marry Mr. Arthur and all his money, why shouldn’t it be me?

  I didn’t really know him.

  But I could get to know him.

  I couldn’t really talk to him.

  Perhaps I would learn to . . . given enough time.

  I didn’t really like him.

  But I didn’t dislike him. And besides, that had never stopped anyone I knew from marrying. Just look at Father and Mother.

  Deep inside a worm of doubt began to squirm in my stomach and a little voice suggested that perhaps the better place to look for an example was to my aunt and uncle. Wouldn’t I rather have a marriage like theirs?

  “In any case, finding money is neither here nor there.”

  I jumped at Mother’s words, startled from my thoughts.

  “The candidates’ reception is down at the club this evening. I don’t want us to be late.”

  Me. She didn’t want me to be late. I didn’t see why I’d been invited at all. Sighing, I went upstairs to change into something suitable. Something proper. I found my new dove-gray dress with its gored bodice and French lining. I liked the plaited flounce that flowed from the bottom of my hips toward the floor. The lacing at the yoke and sleeves was so singular that I hadn’t yet seen anything like it in the city. I drew it on and fastened it up. Then I repinned my hair, teasing some of the waves from the pins so they would curl around my face.

  I took my new silk hat from its box and set it on my head as I smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked eminently respectable, completely proper, and wholly suited to be the wife of someone like Mr. Arthur.

  But it still didn’t quiet that voice. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t quite squash that worm.

  As we entered the dining room of the club, Mother inclined her head toward the back of the room. Through the jostling of the crowd I could see Mr. Arthur. “Why don’t you go over and greet him? I’ll be along in a moment.”

  My heart sunk straight to my toes. That meant that I would have to talk to him by myself, and I’d already used up the topic of Christmas, which ought to have been good for at least an evening’s worth of conversation. It wasn’t that he was so terrible a person. Really, he was terribly nice. It’s just that he was so . . . serious. And stolid. There wasn’t anything indecent or disreputable about him. I doubted he had ever once contemplated doing anything scandalous. I hadn’t either, of course, but it would nice to think he had the capacity to.

  I girded up my courage as I approached and smiled at him as if he were the most fascinating man I’d ever had the pleasure to meet. “Good evening, Mr. . . . Arthur.” Had I chosen the right name? I cursed my schoolgirl games.

  “Miss Kendall!” He shook the hand of the man he’d been talking to and then he turned to me. “Good evening. But please, do call me Alfred.”

  I might if I could remember it. As I stood there beside him, Mother came toward us and smiled at Mr. Arthur in greeting.

  “I hope you won’t think me rude, dear ladies, but I invited someone to join us.”

  Thank goodness! Maybe it would be someone I could talk to.

  “He’s new to the city. Seems like a lively fellow.”

  Even better.

  “How kind you are, Mr. Arthur, to think of him.”

  “There he is! Perhaps you know him.” He hailed someone with a salute. I fixed a Queen of Love and Beauty smile on my face in preparation of a greeting. I was determined this friend of Mr. Arthur’s would be my savior.

  And then Charlie Clarke sauntered into view.

  Mr. Arthur pumped his hand enthusiastically. “Good to see you, Charles. Thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Have you met the Kendalls, then?”

  He smiled as he looked at me quizzically.

  I gave my head the slightest of shakes.

  “No. I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction.”

  “Well, then, Mrs. Kendall, Miss Kendall, may I present Mr. Charles Clarke.”

  I glared at him. “Are you associated with the Standard Candy Manufacturing Clarkes?”

  “I am, Miss Kendall. However did you guess?” He flashed a set of dimples as he smiled.

  I’d dimple him, given half the chance!

  “That’s right!” Mr. Arthur was beaming as if he had done us all a favor. “You’re both in the candy business. Must have a lot in common.”

  Mother looked at Charlie in an apprising sort of way. “Mr. Clarke.” She held out a hand to him.

  Traitor.

  Charlie took it up and kissed it. He spouted some sort of nonsense that had Mother blushing and then turned his attention to me. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Kendall?”

  I’d enjoy myself more if I could hit him over the head with one of those brass spittoons that sat in the corner of the room.

  Mother patted me on the hand. “I think I’ll go find some punch.”

  Mr. Arthur stood. “I’ll join you.” He bowed. “Would you care for some, Miss Kendall?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I waited until they were gone before I let my smile slide from my face.

  Charlie had turned toward me. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk to you again.”

  “Why? So you can tell me more lies?”

  His brows crumpled. “It’s not like that, Lucy. I never intended to mislead you. It’s just that I never had the chance to really introduce myself. I was goi
ng to at the airfield, but by then it was too late.”

  “And if you’d known then what you know now . . . ?”

  He took up my hand. “Then I would have told you that you’re right not to trust my father for a second. I don’t. And I never have.”

  I pulled my hand from his and wrapped it firmly around my handbag. “A lot of good that does us now! How would you feel if our positions were reversed?”

  “Desperate. Angry. Frightened.”

  He was so . . . so right that tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

  “Do you think . . . is there any way we could still be friends? You were the one person in this city I felt like I could really . . . talk to.”

  And he was the one person in the city who had really seemed to understand how I felt about candy. The one person who didn’t try to talk me out of my ideas or try to convince me that girls shouldn’t be meddling in business. He looked so lonely and so hopeful standing there that I almost said yes. “I wish . . . I wish we could but . . .”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath. When he opened them and looked at me, it was with the profoundest regret in his eyes. “Don’t say any more. I know. I knew it when I first met you, that day you ran into me on Olive Street. Some things just don’t belong together.” He bowed and turned away and I had the oddest sensation. As if I’d lost something, something important, that I didn’t know how to get back.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped.

  “I—” Couldn’t let him leave. Not like that. He was right in a way: Why should our fathers ruin what had been a blossoming friendship? I’d enjoyed his company. I would have enjoyed it still if I hadn’t known who he was. “I want you to know that if your father hadn’t stolen our company, then—”

  He swung to face me. “He didn’t steal it.”

  “He did.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Charlie seemed very certain about something of which he had no knowledge! “He stole the company and our candy.”

  “No. He didn’t. There was an agreement between my father and yours.”

  An agreement! “If there was an agreement, then why has my father always told me your father stole it from us?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “He’s always told me that because it’s the truth!”

  “My father might not be the most trustworthy man in the world—”

  I gave a most unladylike snort.

  “And he might not have been exactly aboveboard in the things he’s done, but I don’t think he’d lie about this.”

  “Apparently he has.”

  There was a hesitation of indecision and a confusion in his eyes, but then it was replaced by a narrow-eyed stare. “I don’t think so. I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re wrong.”

  Wrong! I grabbed at my handbag with both hands to keep from reaching out to strangle him. “I almost felt sorry for you a moment ago, but I’ve changed my mind. I hate you.”

  His brows peaked, then dimples flickered in his cheeks as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh. “Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

  “No, I haven’t. You don’t have any.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Stop talking to me.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Stop it!” Unfortunately, the words came out right as the band ended their song with a flourish. I feigned a spasm of coughing as Mr. Arthur returned with a glass of punch, which I didn’t want and didn’t need, but somehow had to manage to drink.

  The candidates for office at the city and state level spoke for much longer than was necessary on issues like street paving and telephone taxes. Things that were extremely important and truly tedious. No wonder we were the only women in attendance, though none of the candidates failed to have his photograph taken while clasping my hand.

  Afterward, Mr. Arthur collected our coats and helped us on with them. Then he escorted us to our waiting carriage. Charlie came along. Though I refused to speak to him, Mother stopped to thank him for his attentions that evening.

  Charlie bowed.

  “I think—” Mr. Arthur paused. “I think this was a most enjoyable occasion. I was going to ask Mrs. Kendall and her daughter to accompany me to a lecture next week. Perhaps you’d like to come as well, Charles.”

  Charlie’s eyes rested on me for just a moment. “I think . . .” His lips twitched. “I think I’d like that.”

  22

  “So what do people do around here for Christmas?” I asked Nelson the question as I helped him wax Louise on Sunday afternoon. It was the end of October, but a stiff wind had blown in from the north that made me think of Christmas rather than Thanksgiving.

  “Oh . . . this and that.”

  “Isn’t there any big event?” There had to be something, somewhere that would be the perfect place to sell Royal Taffy. Since the candidates’ night at the club, I found myself, surprisingly, agreeing with my father. The sooner we could put City Confectionery out of business, the better. Better for us, but more than that, better for Lucy. I’d come to believe that my father was telling the truth. It wasn’t a matter of whether we’d buy the company, it was a matter of when. And with Lucy’s father dying, it seemed kinder to put an end to her misery—and her hopes—than to prolong them. “Isn’t there something everyone in the city looks forward to? In Chicago we had Marshall Field’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Marshall Field’s. One of those big department stores. They always did the windows up for Christmas.”

  “We got one of those, too. Only it’s called Stix. Stix, Baer and Fuller. December first, every year, they have a big to-do when they unveil the display.”

  A big to-do. That’s what I’d been hoping for.

  As soon as I got to the factory, I asked Mr. Mundt to telephone the store manager and arrange a meeting.

  “For what purpose, Mr. Clarke?” he asked as he picked up the telephone.

  “Money, Mr. Mundt. I’d like us both to make a whole lot of money.”

  I met with the store manager the next day and asked how they planned to decorate their window for Christmas.

  “Windows, Mr. Clarke! We have several of them. And we’re quite proud of our decorations.”

  “Have you planned the display yet?”

  “Planned it? We designed it back in May! We’re already building it. It’s the end of October, after all. We’ve really only a month left!”

  As I sat there feeling foolish, I pushed my hands into my pockets. My fingers closed around something. I brought it out. A taffy wrapper. “I was hoping Standard Manufacturing could be a part of your display.”

  “Standard? As in . . . candy?”

  “Every kid dreams of candy, don’t they? Think of all those . . . sugar plums dancing in their heads.” I didn’t even know what a sugar plum was. “I know Santa is usually thought to bring big gifts, but sometimes a Royal Taffy is all a child really wants.”

  His brow folded in doubt.

  “I’m not saying that Royal Taffy should be the only thing in the display.”

  “Certainly not! Our customers expect a certain sophistication. If they want Royal Taffy, they can find it in the confectionery department.”

  This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. “I know they can, but Christmas is about wishes, isn’t it? Children wish for candy. And . . . besides . . .” I looked down at the Royal Taffy wrapper in my hand. “They’re red!”

  “They’re . . . red?”

  “Royal Taffy wrappers. They’re the color of Christmas.”

  Now he was looking at me as if I were crazy.

  “Can’t you can find some way to use some of these?” I pushed the wrapper toward him.

  “I suppose . . . maybe . . . ?”

  “What is the display this year?”

  “It’s a parlor, filled with gifts. With an electric fire in the
fireplace.”

  Gifts. That was good. “Why couldn’t Royal Taffy be one of the gifts?”

  “It’s just . . . candy.”

  “It might only be candy to you, but to the newsie on the street corner, it’s a symbol of . . . luxury and everything that’s good in the world. He might not be able to afford a . . . train set or a . . . a sled. But a Royal Taffy is something he might just be able to hope for.”

  “Maybe . . .” He fiddled with the wrapper I’d pushed toward him, crumpling it into a ball in his hand.

  “Stix, Bauer and Fuller should be about Christmas for everyone, not just for the few who can afford to do it up big. What if . . . what if I gave you some Royal Taffy?”

  “And . . . ?” He was looking at me as if he wanted more.

  “And . . .” What? What else could I do? “You could . . . make . . .”

  He twisted the wrapper and looped it around his finger.

  “You could make—what are those things you hang on the wall? You know . . . those big circles that have holes in the middle?”

  “Wreaths?”

  “Yes! You could make wreaths with these wrappers. See, if you twist them just so . . .” I tried to make a flower the way Jennie had, but I failed in the doing of it. “If I brought you enough of them, could you do that? And you could make . . . garlands. Garlands out of the Royal Taffy wrappers too. It would be like a . . . a child’s best fantasy come to life! A real candyland.”

  He pursed his lips as he seemed to consider my words.

  “And we could make you a poster. Special. Just for the store display that would say Santa’s Sweetest Gift.”

  “It’s unorthodox.”

  “But then, Stix isn’t any old store.”

  “No . . .”

  “And just think, you’ll have children staring at your windows all day long. And when their parents ask them what they want for Christmas, they’ll say. . . .”

  “They’ll say they want what they saw at Stix.”

  “You want to give away how many?” My father frowned as he thumped on the desk with his fingers.