Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  CHAPTER 13

  Bertha found Laurel seated at the kitchen table, one hand in the cookie jar, the other pressing the remainder of an applesauce-spice cookie into her mouth. There was a half-empty glass of milk in front of her and a mound of cookie crumbs on the floor beneath her chair, indicating she’d been at the jar for quite some time.

  “Lord have mercy, child! What you doing stuffin’ yourself like that? And look at the mess you done made.” Scurrying to the closet, Bertha took out the broom and began to sweep, all the while mumbling about messy white folk.

  She had made a mess of everything, Laurel realized. And she wasn’t sure how she was going to fix it.

  Why, oh, why had she fallen in love with someone as unsuitable as Chance Rafferty? And why, that being the case, couldn’t the powers that be at least have made him love her back?

  “I’m sorry about the mess, Bertha. I was planning on cleaning it up before I went to bed.” The thought of bed made her cringe. Was Chance upstairs with Pearl at that very moment, enjoying what Laurel was unwilling to give?

  Noting the misery on the young woman’s face, Bertha set the broom aside and lowered her bulk into one of the chairs. “You going to tell me what’s wrong, Miss Laurel? I knows you don’t like my cookies that much.”

  Laurel reached across the table to grasp the black woman’s hand, drawing strength and solace from it. “My life’s a miserable mess, Bertha, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “You’s in love with Mr. Chance, ain’t you, honey?”

  Laurel’s eyes widened at the woman’s perceptiveness. “How’d you know? I thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping my feelings hidden.”

  “Maybe from that thick-skulled man. But, honey, I’s a woman. And a woman knows the symptoms of lovesickness.”

  “Well, it’s likely to kill me if I don’t leave here, Bertha. I can’t go on pining away for a man who’ll never think of me in terms other than a convenience, who other women fawn over, and who laps up the attention like a cat with a full bowl of cream.”

  “I thinks you is selling Mr. Chance short, Miss Laurel. He ain’t been lookin’ at no other woman since you came to work here.”

  “I’m just a challenge for him, Bertha. Something to win. You know how Chance loves a challenge. But once I give him the one thing he covets, he’ll lose interest.”

  “You ain’t got nowhere else to go, child. You can’t just up and leave.”

  Mr. Chance would be devastated, Bertha knew. He might not act like Miss Laurel meant anything to him, but Bertha knew her boy. He was crazy about the young woman, even if he was too stupid and stubborn to know it himself. Bertha had never seen him so moody, except when he was on a losing streak. And he’d been off his feed lately. That just wasn’t like him. Not like him a’tall.

  Laurel sighed at the truth of Bertha’s words. She’d thought of going back to Kansas. But where would she stay? The duke had his hands full with Rose Elizabeth, and she doubted he would welcome another Martin sister with open arms. She supposed she could find a job at one of the other gambling parlors. But most likely they’d be run by men like Hazen, who’d want her to sell herself to the highest bidder. And having had a taste of Chance’s lovemaking, she knew she could never be with anyone else.

  “You mustn’t fret so, Miss Laurel. Things have a way of workin’ out for the best. You just gotta believe that.”

  “I’d miss you and Jup if I were to leave here, Bertha. You’ve been like family to me.” Laurel’s eyes filled with tears, which brought Bertha’s anger to the forefront.

  “I’s going to talk to that thick-headed, no-account gambling man and set him straight about a few things.”

  Laurel shook her head. “Oh, no, Bertha! You must promise not to say anything to Chance about what I’ve told you. I’d be humiliated if he found out how I felt about him.”

  “But if you love him, honey, why don’t you tell him? That could make all the difference in the world.”

  “Chance doesn’t want to love anyone, Bertha. He likes being a carefree, happy-go-lucky gambler, with no strings attached and no wife to weigh him down. If he knew I cared for him, it would only add to his burden. I won’t have a man care for me out of guilt or a misguided sense of duty.”

  “But at least talk to him, honey. Let him know that you’re thinking about leavin’. Maybe the shock will bring him to his senses.”

  Laurel rose and circled the table. Kneeling beside Bertha, she wrapped her arms about the black woman’s massive girth and hugged her fiercely. “I love you, Bertha, and I’ll never forget you, no matter what happens.”

  Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, and she sniffed loudly. “Lord have mercy! You’re makin’ me bawl like a baby, child. I loves you, too. And I don’t want you leavin’ here. Me and Jup thinks of you like a daughter.”

  Laurel’s smile was almost apologetic as she said, “Between me, Chance, and Whitey, you’ve got yourself a very difficult trio of adopted children, Bertha.”

  “Yes’m. I knows that. But I wouldn’t trade any one of you young’ns. I loves you all like you was my own flesh and blood. And that’s a fact.”

  “What’s a fact?” Jup wanted to know, walking into the kitchen with a big grin on his face, but pulling up short as he saw that the two women were crying.

  Bertha shot him a quelling look. “Hush up, you black devil. This here’s private talk between me and my baby. And you ain’t invited to listen.”

  Laurel smiled inwardly at Jupiter’s indignant expression, the way he drew himself up all stiff and fit to be tied whenever Bertha got his goat, which was often.

  The old couple reminded her of her parents when they’d argued about something. Adelaide Martin had never let Ezra get the best of her in any disagreement either.

  Laurel hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d claimed that Bertha and Jup were like family. And she didn’t know how she would cope with missing them, if she decided to leave.

  And then there was the matter of Chance.

  How would she be able to exist without seeing him every day, without hearing his voice, his teasing comments?

  How could she go on with her life knowing that she’d left the best part of it behind?

  But can I love a man who doesn’t love me back?

  * * *

  “Do you see that young blond woman across the café? The one seated next to the red-haired woman?”

  “You mean the prostitute?”

  The heavier of the two women shook her head. “I don’t think she’s a prostitute, Gertie. I’ve made inquiries about her. Word has it that she merely sings for her supper.”

  “But we saw her dressed in that awful red satin gown. It was indecent. And she was parading back and forth across the stage like a jezebel. No decent woman would behave in such a fashion.”

  Hortensia Tungsten clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “We are here to show these unfortunate souls the error of their ways, not to cast aspersions. Perhaps this young woman can aid our cause, and we can aid hers in return.”

  Gertie Beecham gasped, clutching the cameo pinned to her collar, which was as stiffly starched as her spine. “You can’t be serious. Why, we’d lose our charter from the WCTU. Surely Miss Willard would never countenance such a thing.”

  “I’m in charge of the Denver League, and I will say what is appropriate and what is not.” She inhaled the last bit of pecan pie, patting her generous stomach contentedly. “A fine meal. Surprising really, considering the location of this place.”

  Gertie sighed. Instead of waxing poetic over her food, Hortensia needed to be paying closer attention to the matters at hand. Gazing across the cafe, she noted that the woman in question was now standing. Her subdued and attractive gown of gray foulard silk was quite in contrast to her outrageous and sinful costume of the other evening. Her companion was decked out in a green velvet dress cut much too low for daytime wear. Or any other time, Gertie decided as an afterthought, pursing her lips.

  �
�Hurry, Gertrude, ” Hortensia urged, heaving her bulk out of the chair. “They’re about to leave and I want to catch them before they go.”

  “You’re not serious, Hortensia! Tell me you’re not.”

  “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life, dear. Pay the check. We have important work to do this day ‘For God and Home and Native Land.’ ” The WCTU motto sprang easily from her lips, halting any further objection Gertie was about to make on the subject.

  * * *

  Stepping outside into the crisp November day, Laurel huddled beneath the new woolen cape she’d just purchased with some of her earnings. It felt good to have a measure of independence, not to be beholden to anyone for support. Though if she were completely truthful with herself, independence did come with a high price tag: loneliness.

  “I’m completely stuffed to my seams.” Crystal looped her arm through Laurel’s. “Your suggestion to go out for lunch was a welcome one. Bertha watches me like a hawk, even though I’m fully recovered from my . . .” Her smile of a moment ago faded. She was going to say accident, but what Al had done to her had been no accident.

  “Bertha likes to baby everyone. I guess it’s because she has no children of her own to fuss over.”

  The mention of children brought a dreamy look to Crystal’s face. “I’d like to have a child one day, wouldn’t you? I couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than to hold a mewling babe against my breast.” Her sigh was wistful, touching a responsive chord in Laurel’s breast.

  She’d never given much thought to having children. She’d always thought that someday she would, but it had never seemed important until now. Until Chance Rafferty had waltzed into her life and given her a taste of passion, the feeling of possessing someone, and being possessed in return.

  Yeah, you’re possessed all right, Laurel Martin! she told herself. But definitely not in the romantic sense.

  Trying to mask her unhappiness, for it didn’t look like marriage and motherhood were in the cards, especially with Chance stacking the deck against her, she forced a playful smile to her lips. “Especially if that babe just happens to belong to the Reverend Augustus Baldwin.”

  Suddenly Crystal ground to a halt, gasping aloud, and Laurel looked up to see Al Hazen crossing the snow-encrusted street in their direction. Enraged by the sight of the pimp, she yanked hard on Crystal’s arm. “Come, Crystal,” she urged. “Hurry!” But Crystal stood fast.

  “I’ll not show fear to that piece of slime. Al feeds on fear; it’s what makes him thrive.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Hazen said, tipping his bowler as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “How nice to see you both. You’re looking well, Crystal.” His gaze skimmed over her possessively.

  “No thanks to you. What do you want? We’re in a hurry.”

  “Is that any way to treat an old friend, after all that we’ve meant to each other?”

  “You’re a part of my past life, Al. I’ve gone on to bigger and better things.” And she suddenly realized that what she had said was true. She had Augustus now, and Al no longer had a stranglehold over her emotions.

  Crystal was released from his spell for the first time since she’d met him. Her new job, new friends, and newfound love had all blended together to give her strength. She was no longer the frightened child Al Hazen had “rescued” three years before. She was a woman. And she was free.

  At the dark look passing over his face, a lump of fear rose in Laurel’s throat. But instead of pleading with Crystal to leave, she allowed her to have her say. It was obvious that the woman needed to vent her anger.

  “What was between us is over. I’m through allowing you to control me, to use me for your own gain. Your hold is gone, Al, and I want to be left alone.”

  Hands fisting at his sides, Al’s face turned purple in rage. “Don’t think you’re so high and mighty now, babe, just because you’re working for Rafferty. You’re still a whore, Crystal, and that will never change. You spreading your legs for Rafferty, or is that honor reserved for Miss Martin?”

  He turned to Laurel. “I’ve heard about you, sweetheart. Word has it you’re fucking the boss. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, now would it? Crystal can tell you all about that, can’t you, babe?”

  Ignoring the taunts, and noting Crystal’s ghostly pallor, Laurel grasped her friend’s arm firmly. “Come along, Crystal. We don’t have to stand here and listen to this foul-mouthed animal spewing forth garbage.” They tried to leave, but Hazen blocked their path, refusing to step aside.

  Incensed by the man’s effrontery, Laurel felt her cheeks heat in anger. “Please remove yourself at once, Mr. Hazen. You’re in our way.”

  “I’m not done talking to you ladies yet.” He sneered as he said the word, and grasped their arms.

  “Unhand those women at once! And remove yourself from these premises, sir.”

  Hazen’s gaze slid to the two white-haired matrons marching determinedly toward him. Dressed in unrelenting black, they looked like buzzards swooping in for the kill. One carried a large, hand-lettered sign that read: REPENT YOUR SINS OR BURN IN HELL, and the other was wearing a familiar and very unwelcome white ribbon tied in a bow: the badge of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.

  He forced down a curse and attempted a smile, not wishing to incur the women’s wrath. The last thing he needed were do-gooders picketing the Silver Slipper. Business was bad enough as it was. “I was just having a word with these ladies,” he explained.

  “It’s obvious, sir, that these young women don’t wish to converse with you,” Hortensia Tungsten stated, motioning her friend forward. “Gertie,” she directed, “if this gentleman does not remove himself directly, please bash him over the head with your sign.”

  Wide-eyed, Laurel and Crystal looked at each other, then shared a smile.

  Al’s lips tightened. “I have every right to be on the street. You can’t tell me who to talk to, lady.”

  A crowd was beginning to gather. The newsboy on the corner stopped hawking his papers, and the wooden cart loaded with vegetables stopped dead in the middle of the street, its driver leaning forward on his knee to take a closer look. People drifted out of the various businesses, pausing to see what all the commotion was about.

  Hortensia couldn’t have been more pleased. She loved a crowd. It was how she and her flock of women spread their word. And she fully intended to make good use of her audience. “What is the name of your establishment, sir? For as sure as I’m standing here, I know you’re in the business of sin and corruption. You definitely look the type.”

  “He owns the Silver Slipper,” someone standing on the sidewalk shouted.

  “That’s the gospel truth. The Slipper’s a brothel, and a more sinful place you’ll never lay eyes on,” a sharp female voice proclaimed with contempt.

  Noting the hostility on several of the onlookers’ faces, and knowing that his saloon was sure to be targeted by these harridans, Al’s eyes glittered with rage and vengeance. “Another time,” he whispered to Laurel and Crystal before spinning on his heel to beat a hasty retreat.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Laurel held out her hand to the older woman. “I don’t know how we can ever thank you, ma’am. What you did was very brave. Mr. Hazen is a terrible human being.”

  Crystal nodded, awed by the woman standing before her.

  Hortensia Tungsten was an imposing sight to behold. Standing close to six feet tall, she was large boned and prone to excess flesh, due to the desserts she was so fond of eating. She wasn’t particularly attractive; her hawklike nose and close-set eyes stamped her homely. But she had a lot of gumption, and a commanding voice that made people sit up and take notice.

  She’d been recruited two years before by Frances Willard, the union’s intrepid leader, who recognized in Hortensia the fortitude and tenacity so necessary to winning the battle against demon rum.

  Gertie came to stand beside her friend and mentor. “We deduced as much. Hortensia knew a
t a moment’s glance that horrible man was up to no good. She’s very astute about such things.”

  “Allow us to introduce ourselves,” the taller of the two women said, holding out a gloved hand. “I’m Hortensia Tungsten, and this is my associate, Gertie . . . Gertrude Beecham. We’re with the newly formed Denver Temperance and Souls in Need League, and I wondered, Miss Martin, if I might have a word with you, while my associate escorts your friend, Miss Cummings, back to the Aurora.”

  “You know where we work?” Laurel could barely contain her surprise. These weren’t the type of women who frequented businesses on this side of town.

  “Actually, Miss Martin, I know a great deal about you, which is why I’d like to talk to you privately, if you’ll allow me.”

  At Laurel’s hesitation, Crystal patted her hand reassuringly. “I’ll be fine, Laurel honey.” She looped her arm through red-faced Gertie Beecham’s arm and said, much to the astonished woman’s mortification, “Ready, Miss Beecham?” before giving Laurel a sly wink.

  “Shall we go back inside the cafe? I fear the weather’s not suitable for a civilized discussion.”

  As if on cue from a higher authority, a light snow began to fall, giving credence to the woman’s words, and Laurel stared at Hortensia Tungsten with renewed admiration.

  Once they were seated, Hortensia, who couldn’t possibly miss the opportunity to sample the pumpkin pie she’d been eyeing at lunch, ordered two big slices and two mugs of hot coffee.

  “I understand you perform nightly at the Aurora, Miss Martin,” she said, dropping two heaping spoons of sugar into her coffee, then lacing it with a generous dollop of cream, unmindful that it was likely to add yet another fold to the pair of chins she now sported.

  Laurel blushed. “Yes, I do. But probably not in the way you’re thinking, Miss Tungsten. I’m not a prostitute. Financial constraints forced me to seek employment as a saloon singer after my efforts to find honest work at the Opera House failed. Believe me, Miss Tungsten, I endeavored to succeed at opera, but was told that my voice was unsuitable.” Witherspoon’s rejection still stung like hailstones against soft skin.