The Telegraph Proposal

  But Lily Forsythe’s death changed everything.

  Mary reached inside the top left drawer of her desk and took out her personalized stationery. A few minutes later, she called Nico into her office and gave him strict instructions to deliver the sealed letter into Mrs. Pauline Hollenbeck’s hand.

  He returned an hour later, during which Mary had written five more letters to her bankers, notifying them of her intention to withdraw her entire balance the day after tomorrow.

  Nico handed over a letter, saying Mrs. Hollenbeck insisted that he wait until she’d written it and that she needed an answer to her inquiry as soon as possible.

  Intrigued, Mary broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper.

  Mary hardly knew what to think. The bond between them was mere business, a brothel madam who happened to rescue young girls from prostitution and a Christian woman who provided those girls with an education at a school in Kansas. But Mrs. Hollenbeck’s letter made it sound as if she was inviting her dearest friend over for tea and a leisurely chat.

  “I think you should go, Miss Lester.”

  Mary tilted her head to gauge Nico’s sincerity. “Why?”

  “Because she treated me like I was something other than a dirty street urchin messing up her carpets by walking inside her house. Same as you did when I first met you.”

  The comparison formed into a lump that settled in her throat. Afraid she’d turn into a watering pot if she tried to speak, she set Mrs. Hollenbeck’s letter on her desk, reached for another sheet of stationery, and wrote out a reply accepting the invitation.

  The lump had moved to her stomach by two the next afternoon.

  Why had she agreed to this?

  The answer eluded her, but she lifted the brass knocker and rapped it three times. She stepped back, waiting for the door to open. Her palms itched inside her black lace gloves. She’d chosen a dark blue dress, was wearing a stylish brunette wig topped with a hat with a netted veil covering the top half of her face, and kept her decorative parasol open to hide what the hat and wig couldn’t.

  And every moment she stood on the front step of the gingerbread mansion, she was afraid she’d be unmasked. Perhaps she should have come in her hag costume.

  Just as her nerves were about to get the better of her, the door swung open. A tall man with round cheeks and a meager amount of silver hair combed over his bald head appeared. “Welcome, Miss Lester. Mrs. Hollenbeck is expecting you.”

  But why?

  The mystery would remain unsolved by staying outside, so Mary stepped across the threshold like she visited great ladies every day of the week. The butler took her parasol, then escorted her across a black-and-white-checkered marble floor and into a cozy breakfast room flooded with light.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck rose from the table set for eight. The yellow tablecloth matched the silk-papered walls, the white china a match for the wainscoting encircling the room, and the gold candlesticks gleaming in the sunlight.

  The lump in Mary’s stomach doubled in size. “Are you expecting more guests, Mrs. Hollenbeck?”

  “None more important than you.” She crossed the room and took Mary’s elbow. “Please be seated. I’d like to introduce you to my friends.”

  Hardly knowing where to look, Mary allowed herself to be led deeper into the cheerful room.

  As soon as she was seated—at the foot of the table, as the guest of honor—Mrs. Hollenbeck called, “Ladies. Please join us.”

  A steady stream of church-going types filed into the room. Mrs. Ellen Palmer, Mrs. Marilyn Pawlikowski, Emilia, Mrs. Abigail Snowe, and Mrs. Joan Babcock. Each of them paused to greet Mary with a smile and a word of welcome. She stammered through her responses, waiting for the moment their smiles turned to frowns and their fingers pointed to accuse her of harlotry.

  But they all sat down, picked up their white silky napkins, and draped them over their laps. One chair remained empty. Was another lady coming late?

  Mrs. Hollenbeck waited for her guests to be seated before settling into the chair at the head of the table. “Thank you all for coming, particularly on such short notice.” She turned her smile on Mary. “Miss Lester, I’d like to introduce you to your benefactors.”

  “Excuse me?” The question was harsh, more suited to a brothel madam than the honored guest at a lady’s afternoon tea.

  “I understand your surprise.” Mrs. Hollenbeck looked to her left and lifted her finger. “We’re ready to be served now, Katherine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mary jerked her attention to her right. A young brunette dressed in black with a white apron and a matching cap stepped to the side of the door the church ladies had entered. Five more similarly dressed girls paraded into the room. The first carried two pots of tea, which she set at the ends of the table. The second and third carried triple-tiered serving stands holding scones, crustless sandwiches, small cakes, and miniature china bowls topped with whipped cream. The fourth placed a large platter of fruit arranged in concentric circles near the center of the table. The final girl carried in a single layer cake on a crystal stand and set it next to the fruit platter.

  As soon as the young ladies left the room, Mrs. Hollenbeck said, “Shall we pray?”

  Every head bowed.

  Mary followed suit, but only to be polite. God had abandoned her long ago, so she’d returned the favor.

  The prayer consisted of thanking God for a whole passel of things He’d done nothing to earn. Friendship, blessings untold, and the sweet assurance of heaven.

  “Amen.”

  Mary snapped up her head, prepared for them to pass around their condemnation. But the only things that came her way were tea and delicious treats.

  Once the china plates were full, Mrs. Hollenbeck stood. “Ladies, I gathered you today because Miss Lester wanted to thank us for supporting her cause and because”—she looked directly at Mary—“if I interpreted your letter correctly, you think we need to be warned.” Mrs. Hollenbeck gazed over the food-laden table as though she’d said nothing more sinister than, Please tell us about your shopping trip to Billings.

  Mary swallowed the bite of chicken salad sandwich stuck halfway between her vocal chords and her stomach. “Am I to understand that the six of you know what I’ve been doing these past twelve years?”

  Mrs. Hollenbeck smiled. “Some of us”—she glanced at Emilia—“have known about it for less time than others, but most of us have known from the beginning. You have assumed I alone was your benefactor. I wanted you to know the truth.”

  “How is it possible—?” Mary bit back the rest of her surprise. It wasn’t polite to ask how a gaggle of women had kept such a delicious secret for years. One woman was somewhat believable, but six? Seven, if whoever was supposed to be filling the empty chair was included.

  Mrs. Pawlikowski turned to look at Mary. “You likely aren’t aware that I came to Helena before it was even a named city. In those days, we had an area of town we called Prostitute Alley. For a time, I feared I might become a resident there myself.”

  She would have made a fortune.

  Marilyn Pawlikowski was in her late forties to early fifties and was by far the loveliest woman in the room. Like her sons, she had blond hair and those distinctive two-toned eyes. Men would have paid triple what any other girl could expect.

  She raised her brows, the look in her blue-brown eyes making Mary feel that her private thoughts were as readable to Mrs. Pawlikowski as a written note. “I vowed that, were I ever fortunate enough to be in a position to do so, I would help those women.”

  One by one, the rest of the ladies gave their reasons. It was all Mary could do to hold up her head when Emilia talked about joining the group after the misunderstanding about Finn Collins bringing her to Helena to sell into prostitution.

  It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a rumor Mary had started to protect her own skin.

  Shame burned under her breastbone, radiating down her arms and up the back of her neck.

  “
Miss Lester, there are still good people in this world. We”—Mrs. Hollenbeck swung her hand in a wide arc to include all the ladies seated around the table—“also wanted you to know that, for the past twelve years, we have prayed weekly for you and for each of the girls we’ve sponsored.”

  The Bible talked about heaping coals on a person’s head. Mary remembered it because she’d never figured out how being nice to someone made their head burn. She understood it now.

  “In light of your decision to leave Helena,” Mrs. Hollenbeck continued, “we wanted you to know that we intend to continue sponsoring girls at the academy in Kansas. We are creating the Lily Forsythe Scholarship Fund.” Her voice splintered. She dropped her gaze to her plate.

  Several of the other ladies did, too. Only Emilia and Mrs. Pawlikowski kept their heads up, but both looked at the empty chair.

  Mary now understood its significance. It was where Lily Forsythe was supposed to be sitting. Her friends were honoring her memory by including her at the tea in the only way they could. Did they blame her for Mrs. Forsythe’s death? Had Jonas said something in his wild ramblings—or his sane ones?

  Mary never meant for anyone to die. Her aim had been to prevent bloodshed by keeping Jonas’s quest for power in check. Poor man. Death would be better than to live half the time in a fantasy world where his beloved wife was in the next room fixing dinner or on her way home from the market, only to be stabbed with guilt and grief again and again and again when he came to his senses.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck pressed a fist against her lips and cleared her throat. “We have heard about your commitment to educating the young women who pass through your house.”

  Mary shot a look at Emilia, who shook her head to say, They didn’t hear it from me.

  “In light of that,” Mrs. Hollenbeck continued, “and knowing this day would eventually come, I took it upon myself several years ago to contact the headmistress of the academy. Should you desire to join the staff there as a teacher, a position is open to you. May I telegraph Mrs. Stillwell tomorrow letting her know to expect you?”

  “What about my son, Nico?” Mary cringed at how ungrateful she sounded, but it was only because she was too shocked to keep her voice under control.

  But Mrs. Hollenbeck didn’t look offended. In fact, her smile was so warm, Mary’s scalp began to burn afresh. “I purchased a home near the school in February of last year. It has been used as a guesthouse, but it’s ready for you and Nico to occupy immediately should you decide to accept. It has three bedrooms and comes fully furnished.”

  February of last year was when Sheriff Simpson died getting a girl to the train line. They didn’t know if he’d succeeded or failed before he was killed, and Mary had sent a letter like the one she had Nico deliver yesterday. The only difference being that she wasn’t sure she was leaving town then.

  And Mrs. Hollenbeck, God bless her, had made sure Mary had a safe place to hide. What was she supposed to do in light of that kind of generosity?

  “Why?” Mary was glaring at the widow when she should be grateful—humble even—but no one had looked out for her interests since she was fourteen. “Why would you do all this for me?”

  “Because someone once did the same for me.”

  Mary shot a look at Emilia, who shook her head again, another denial that she’d shared a part of Mary’s life with the circle of ladies.

  Eighteen months ago, when they’d first met so she could enlist Emilia’s help in keeping the rescuing operation a secret, she’d asked Mary why she—a brothel owner—smuggled young girls out of prostitution. Her answer was, Because it’s what I wish someone had done for me.

  But she’d deserved her fate. Girls who disobeyed their parents and met men in alleys could hardly expect different. Even so, she preferred for people to think she’d chosen her life rather than fallen into it.

  Mary narrowed her eyes, trying to bring into focus everything she knew about Mrs. Pauline Hollenbeck. “You were never a prostitute.”

  “You’re right, I wasn’t. But I was mired in a mess I couldn’t get out of on my own, and a man rescued me.”

  “Are you getting religious on me, Mrs. Hollenbeck?”

  “Would that be so bad, Miss Lester?”

  Would it? Forty years of struggle and she was in as much need of rescue as she had been at fourteen. At fifty-four, she didn’t have forty more years in her. Mary took in the faces of each of the women seated around the table. They had accepted her into their midst like a friend rather than turning up their noses like she wore the stench of her life into the breakfast room. They had prayed for her—and she believed it was for her rather than about her—for twelve years. They had paid for her girls to have a home and an education while they unlearned their fear.

  She glanced at the empty chair. If nothing else, she owed it to Lily Forsythe to listen. So Mary shoved her antagonism toward God an inch to the left. “I suppose a little religion wouldn’t be all bad.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  For the next five weeks, Hale buried himself in business. There were funeral arrangements, depositions, debates, the funeral itself, settling his uncle’s debts, the Cannon v. Fisk land dispute, and the Harvest Festival, where he made the briefest appearance possible because he couldn’t stand being surrounded by happy people whose lives weren’t shattered by loss and betrayal.

  He’d lost Yancey, too.

  She came to the funeral, asked how he was doing, but didn’t stand near him or offer any comfort beyond laying her hand on his forearm for an instant. The moment he tried to cover her hand with his, she drew back. She came to the office to collect flyers for distribution but always came with her mother or Carline, and they stayed mere minutes. She took his messages across the counter at the telegraph office—ones he didn’t need to send and certainly not from the train depot—with the same professional courtesy she showed every customer.

  He was at a loss to explain the change. It wasn’t retaliation for the way he’d ignored her while gathering proof of his uncle’s guilt.

  His uncle. Hm. What to do about him?

  Hale pushed away the thought. Uncle Jonas was in jail, where he belonged. Only ... at the funeral, Mrs. Hollenbeck had pulled Hale into a brief hug and whispered, “Be careful how you respond to this tragedy. People are watching.”

  He’d taken it as a warning about his candidacy, but was that the only reason?

  The sound of the outer door opening made him check his appointment calendar. No one. There hadn’t been any new clients since his uncle’s treachery was revealed. Maybe it was time to leave Helena and start over somewhere else.

  Mac walked through the double doors, his limp gone. “It’s time we had a talk.” He took off his hat. “What I’ve come to say won’t take long, so please don’t kick me out of your office before I’ve had a chance to say it.”

  Hale had never heard that particular tone of voice from his friend. It made him feel small. Petty. Guilty.

  Mac tapped his hat against his thigh. “How often have you and I sat in this office and talked about people being free to make their own mistakes? Not the least of which was a year and a half ago when Emilia sat here”—he pointed at the wooden chair with his free hand—“determined to pay off Finn’s debts when both of us knew she was better off going back to Chicago.” Hale opened his mouth to answer, but Mac cut him off. “Don’t answer, because that’s not my point.”

  “Then what is?”

  Mac tossed his hat on the chair next to him. Picked it back up. Stared at it for a long time before speaking. “I never realized that when you said people were free to make mistakes that the rest of the sentence was, ‘And I’m free to cut them out of my life for making them.’”

  “That’s not—”

  “Please don’t interrupt me.” Mac looked up, pain and pleading in his eyes. “Do you think you’re the only one hurting over your Aunt Lily’s death? We all are. Zoe Gunderson can’t get through a single day without tears. Emilia, whom I think should be r
esting at this point in her pregnancy, is over at The Import Company every day so Isaak can care for his wife. Eli Alderson quit.”

  “Good.”

  Mac sighed and shook his head. “No. It’s not good. He’s a fine, intelligent young man who will make an excellent deputy given half the chance.”

  Hale dropped his gaze to his lap, the blood in his veins hot and throbbing.

  But Mac wasn’t done. “I’m speaking to you as a friend now, not as the sheriff. You need to decide what to do about your uncle, and then what to do about the rest of us who have let you down. We’d prefer not to be cut out of your life, but that choice is up to you.”

  Silence.

  Hale raised his chin. “Are you quite finished?”

  Mac picked up his hat. “I am.”

  As Hale opened his lips to declare his innocence, the memory of Yancey’s face after their picnic stopped the words in his throat.

  She’d asked him to find a way to take the good with the bad—to figure out what forgiveness looked like. Hale had shoved her request aside because there were more important matters needing his attention.

  Which made him sound like his babbling uncle. I’m an important man. I have important appointments. I must have important appointments. Where’s my calendar?

  Hale sat back. Was he so sure of his own importance—of his own rightness—that he was becoming his uncle? A man who acted without counsel from friends. Who did what was right in his own eyes.

  Something he’d blamed others for in the past.

  His mother’s choice to move to England, where she could start over as Countess of Devon, leaving behind her name and the shame of being cast aside for a younger woman, wasn’t bad from her perspective. But after what his father had done, her decision had felt like a second abandonment to Hale. She’d reached out to him over the years with letters and Christmas cards. But he’d ignored them all.

  Because he’d judged her unworthy.

  Hale squeezed the bridge of his nose, his glasses lifting out of place. Not too long ago, Isaak Gunderson sat across the desk and admitted he had a problem with pride. Hale had agreed, all the while feeling superior because he’d never had a problem with that particular sin.