by Iris Kelly
“Are you sayin’ you came out here not knowin’ him? Shoo. That took some nerve. Now, here it is.”
They stopped in front of the shoe store.
“It looks like they’ve got really nice selection. Though I didn’t bring much shopping money with me. But it’s good to know where it is.”
They turned and headed back to Main Street.
“Harriet, would you like to stop for a cup of tea?”
“That’s awful nice of you. But I gotta get back to work.”
“Oh, where do you work?”
Harriet hesitated. “At the Double Whiskey Saloon. Zachary Scott’s place.”
“Ah . . .”
Beatrice didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. There were a lot of jobs within a saloon: waitress, hostess, bartender, cleaning woman, piano player. As they headed down the street, they crossed paths with editor Sebastian Knight, who recognized Beatrice with a tip of the hat.
He turned and watched them as they walked up to the Double Whiskey and said their goodbyes. Harriet entered as Beatrice walked away. What a thoroughly unexpected pairing. The lady friend of one of Cheyenne’s bright rising legal talents and a common prostitute. As attentive as politicians must be to their public image and associations, Mr. Knight couldn’t imagine this would strike Avery Martin as anything other than a disastrous turn of events.
*****
Later that night, Beatrice had another light supper delivered to her room. It was a delicious meal, but it felt a bit strange to be eating it all alone. For so many years, she had been surrounded by house staff for every one of her meals. Even the lovely teas she had consumed on her ritzy outings had taken place in public restaurants with a typical amount of noise and activity around her. Too much solitude paved the way for too much troubling reflection. When she was finished eating, she couldn’t resist ringing the maid’s bell. Perhaps it was a pathetic thing to summon companionship, but she didn’t much care.
Evelyn responded. “Let me get those dishes out of your way, Miss.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. But I was also wondering—the manager said that you were available for any variety of services or errands, even at this late hour.”
“I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
“Could you get hold of a deck of cards?”
Evelyn couldn’t hide a smile. “Customers ask all the time. Mostly gentlemen.”
“And which card games do you play with your friends?” Beatrice asked.
“Whist, hearts, faro. . .”
“Evelyn, I’m thinking that if I gave you a nice tip and asked for you to draw me another bath tonight, and polish my shoes, and get a stain out of my dress, and it took you and Grace an hour or so to tend to my needs, that your employer wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course not, Miss. That’s our job. We’re on call for the entire evening.”
“Good, then tell him that. Bath, and shoe polishing, and mending, and laundry—tell him that I’m a lot of work. And then you and Grace come back and help keep me preoccupied with a good round of cards.”
Evelyn couldn’t have been more surprised.
“Same tip,” Beatrice added.
“We’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Evelyn said gleefully.
This was just what Beatrice needed before the nerve-wracking demands of tomorrow night’s concert performance. She was well aware that this was to be her debut in Cheyenne high society, and there was no telling if she had any chance of meeting with their approval. Virginia had warned her that the intermission was a particularly significant interlude, and that it provided fodder for gossip and business alliances for weeks to come. How was she going to impress them? She certainly didn’t want to reflect poorly on Mr. Martin. As these thoughts whirled in her mind, she was relieved to hear a knock at the door and to allow her mind to be more enjoyably engaged for the evening.
It wasn’t difficult to put Evelyn and Grace at ease. There were two cookies left, lots of hard sweets, and plenty of tea. It was easy to remember how special she had felt when Lydia Cooper shared a clandestine cup of tea with her in Lydia’s cozy but luxurious room. Florence Bellamy would have had a fit if she had known. Perhaps it was those precious rare moments that had given Beatrice the idea to dress up and greet the city as Miss Kirby. In any case, she wanted not only a diverting evening for herself, but for the girls whose never ending task to please she knew too well.
“Don’t hesitate to beat me, if you can. But I’m rather good at these games,” Beatrice told them.
But so were they, and Beatrice enjoyed a real competition. She engaged the girls in conversation about how they had arrived in Cheyenne and what their plans for the future were.
“Well, everyone wants to get married, don’t they?” Evelyn observed. “I’m not in that big a hurry myself. My older sisters already have, and it looks even harder than what we’re in for. At least we get a full day off and then another half day. You never can get that kind of time away from the baking and the laundry and the babies.”
“And sometimes husbands turn out to have bad dispositions,” Grace added.
“Not yours, of course,” Evelyn said. “I’m sure he’s as nice as can be. And you’ll probably have servants to take over the hard part of being a wife.”
“Will I? We hadn’t really discussed the matter.”
Servants! What a thought. Not for just the two of them, surely. But Mr. Martin had mentioned moving into a larger house to accommodate children. One thing was sure—she would never say no to a cook. Beatrice had assisted with peeling potatoes and other menial food prep in the kitchen, but taking her meals with the other servants, she had never had occasion to actually cook an entire meal herself.
After a loud, lighthearted session approaching two hours, Grace emerged the clear victor and received a large stash of sweets to take away, in addition to their tip for the evening’s “work”. The girls departed with assurances from Beatrice that she would undoubtedly need similar services from them in the near future.
As she lay in bed that night, Beatrice’s thoughts turned to another young woman, young Harriet. She represented the fate that every working class girl dreaded, the final option when all other options had run out.
Beatrice had seen the young prostitutes, and a few disturbingly older ones, several times in Boston. She had learned to avoid the streets where they congregated the most. While she was safely, albeit resentfully, under the Bellamys’ roof, she had never given these ladies much thought—just bad girls, the female equivalent of ruffians and murderers and desperados.
Later, as her own discouraging job search dragged on week after week and her landlady sternly warned her that if she ever missed rent, she would be out on her ear—that was when she had been forced to consider why those girls had wound up in the lives they had.
Probably more than a few were orphans. Like herself. Without relatives willing to take them in. Like herself. And had at one time roamed the streets in desperation, hungry and scared. That was where Beatrice could count her lucky stars. The cash gift from Lydia as well as a very modest stash of savings from her wages gave her a small but lifesaving cushion from that last unthinkable option. But what if she hadn’t been so fortunate?
Here she was on a soft goose down mattress and a heavenly pillow, after a dinner of roast venison with an indescribably wonderful sauce and a glass of wine. Not scavenged from the after dinner remains of others, but her own full glass of wine, and there would have been a second if she had only asked for it. Tomorrow, she would wear a beautiful gown and be escorted by a fine and handsome gentleman to hear a performance only available to the most privileged. As high an opinion as Beatrice held of herself, she knew that she had done nothing extraordinary to earn this—no more than Harriet had earned her regrettable fate. If only it were possible that she could give away just a small share of her own good fortune as easily as a parcel of cookies could be shared.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Beatrice and Avery prepared to enter the Ope
ra Hall, he took in yet another appreciative glance at his lovely companion. Her lavender evening gown flattered her to perfection. He had to confess to himself that he did look forward to showing her off. For once, he would no longer be the pitiable bachelor, but a secure man on the verge of marriage and the higher standing that came with it. Not to mention the credit he would receive for bringing such a stunning and fashionable addition to Cheyenne society.
Entering the lobby was a pleasurable assault on the senses. There were gilded edges everywhere, from floor to ceiling. And marble statues. And a warm, luxurious rose tone throughout. There was a full crowd milling about, not content to head immediately for their seats, but anxious to catch a glimpse of their fellow concertgoers.
Avery’s obvious satisfaction with her helped Beatrice to overcome any lingering jitters. She could face anything and anyone with his reassuring presence beside her. She plastered on an accommodating smile as she could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on her at any given moment. How comfortable they all looked, as if they were attending a grand event for the hundredth time. That was the appearance she had to strive for.
The concert had an abundance of vocal and instrumental talent. But that did not prevent a significant portion of the audience from perusing their neighbors with the greatest show of nonchalance. There were many beautiful gowns to be admired. And Beatrice herself couldn’t stop gawking at the collective elegance of the crowd. But this was novelty for her. Weren’t the others all jaded by frequent gatherings of such grandeur?
Avery was not immune to the crowd gazing.
“There are the Gentrys. We really should try to see them during the intermission. And the Roths. And the Prestons. All important people to know.”
Beatrice got the distinct feeling that Avery, and dozens of other audience members, were just biding their time until that twenty minutes of critical mingling arrived. The music provided not only a pretense for the actual business of social interaction, but also a useful topic to start all conversations.
Not surprisingly, everyone loved the music. Who would want to risk offense by saying otherwise? You might wind up insulting someone’s taste who did genuinely love it. Beatrice was a bit worried about when the topic would move on from the performance, but it was easier than anticipated. First, Avery would engage a particular gentleman in a bit of business talk, and the wife would take Beatrice aside for a more personal discussion.
“Is this only your first week? I can’t imagine what your impressions must be,” Mrs. Roth said.
“It’s much smaller than Boston, but also much more interesting,” Beatrice said. “It’s a bit exciting not knowing exactly what to expect.”
“It was a rough place not so long ago. I’m sure it’s much more civilized than you expected.”
“Has it lived up to your expectations?” Beatrice asked, deciding to turn the tables. “What do you like best about living here?”
As it turns out, Mrs. Roth had a breathing condition that had worsened with daily exposure to New York air. On top of that, the gossip had gotten to be so tedious—she was sure that Beatrice could understand. From which Beatrice surmised that Mr. Roth had probably been caught in some kind of scandal, and the family name needed a fresh start.
The Prestons also had tired of Eastern society. The laws were so complicated there, and there was just so much potential for misunderstanding in those complicated business dealings. Beatrice wasn’t sure just how badly Mr. Preston had broken the law, but clearly, it had necessitated a change of scenery. But his wife was surprisingly friendly and sincere about looking forward to seeing Beatrice again.
By the time they needed to return to the concert, Beatrice noticed a significant number of people heading for the exit instead.
“They have concluded the most important part of the evening,” Avery observed. “Having nothing to do with music. You and I, however, must be seen returning to our seats. Perhaps we can one day aspire to an early departure without wagging tongues.”
That settled the matter. They returned to their seats, and Beatrice was left to marvel at the incomprehensible lives of the wealthy and at how such events could ever become tedious obligations.
*****
Beatrice entered the Carlyle household not knowing quite what to expect. On the one hand, this was the home of Virginia, her former employer, who had possessed a very ambitious social climbing disposition. Virginia had dreamed of mansions, jewels, furs, imported ball gowns, and a social status that would leave no door closed to her. But Beatrice was well aware that Mr. Carlyle had experienced catastrophic financial losses. So here they were, living over the top of a feed store in what should have been experienced as the ultimate humiliation.
Instead, there was an elegance and comfort to the beautifully decorated apartment that lacked for nothing. It was suffused with a warm peace and the affectionate, noisy antics of the small, happy family within. Virginia had one eye on amusing the baby and the other eye on the progress of the dance lesson between her husband and Beatrice.
“You’re doing very well. Did you ever take any kind of lessons?” Virginia asked.
“Don’t you remember? When you were learning, you had me do the gentleman’s part so that you’d do well in your next lesson. But I tried to remember the lady’s part. I would practice it in my room when I was alone. I knew I would never have any need of it. It was just a way to pass the time.”
“And here you are, well prepared for your first ball,” Lewis said.
“Hardly. It’s just one kind of dance. There are so many others. I can’t learn them all.”
“Three or four is all you’ll need, and you’ll have plenty of time to learn and practice. My husband’s talents are at your disposal,” Virginia said.
“She is generous with her belongings,” Lewis complained good-naturedly.
Virginia’s features took on a sad, regretful expression. “I am not generous, as Beatrice knows all too well. I don’t know if a more selfish creature ever walked the streets of Boston.”
“You are harsh with yourself, my dear. I know that you were indulged. Perhaps a wee bit spoiled. Perhaps preoccupied with making a fine impression. But from the first moment, I always saw the goodness underneath.”
“I’m afraid I failed to show Beatrice any evidence of goodness. I have so many regrets in that regard, so many amends that need to be made. And so much gratitude that you don’t carry the resentment against me that I deserve.”
This last communication brought the dancing to a halt, and Beatrice gingerly took a seat at Virginia’s side.
“Was it your idea? Me coming out here to marry Mr. Martin?”
“I wish I could claim that. It was Aunt Lydia’s idea. And my first instantaneous thought was—how impossible. That the appearance and the manners of a lady were some characteristic of birth or a lifetime of immersion in the proper influences and training and education.”
“A lifetime wasn’t necessary. The first eight years of my life were enough to teach me what you and the Bellamys couldn’t ever drum out of me, try as hard as you might—that I was the same as anyone else. No better, no worse. Actually, a little bit better, for I was six months older, and I always was ahead of you in our lessons.”
“And you did your share of gloating, if memory serves.”
“Even after my mother died, I thought her loss was the only change to my circumstances. It was a year or more before I realized what else had been lost. I did have some child’s notion of actually belonging to the family. Hah. As it turned out, I did belong to the family, just like their horses and their brooms and their pots and pans.”
“Oh, Beatrice. It is only now, after being out here, after seeing so much of my early understanding of society crumble away, have I been able to look back and see that it didn’t have to be that way. It never should have been that way. Not for you. Not after we grew up side by side. The Bellamys could have—should have—taken care of you.”
Beatrice took a deep breath. “And if I h
ad gotten that better life that I wanted? Where would I be right now, I wonder? How could I possibly be in a place that was better than the one I’m in right now? I like being here. I like the air here. I like the city. . . I like Mr. Avery Martin. I couldn’t wish for a better situation. If I was still scrubbing the floors, or still at the factory, I would be filled with resentment. I can’t deny it. But now, my every need and hope has been answered. And the past slowly fades away, like a very bad dream.”
“Then . . . perhaps one day you’ll be able to forgive me,” Virginia sighed.
“That day arrived, possibly last Wednesday. And most certainly today.”
The two young ladies clasped hands and enjoyed a long overdue moment of true familial connection.
“And one and two and one and two,” Lewis commanded, as he balanced little Felicity on her unsteady legs and guided her through a waltz.
“I am ready to resume my lesson, Mr. . . . Lewis. If I can pass this most demanding test of life in the upper crust, then I will probably be home free.”
As Beatrice and Lewis continued their practice, she examined the lovely family man in front of her.
“Speaking of forgiveness . . . Lewis, if you had gotten married and then found out afterward that Virginia had been keeping some scandalous secret from you, do you think you’d be able to forgive her?”
“Hmm. What kind of secret would that be, I wonder? Virginia, dear, did you ever work as, say, a chimney sweep?”
Beatrice shoved him playfully. “There are many worse things than making an honest living.”
“Precisely. Just as we keep telling you.”
“But what if—let us go for the worst possible scenario—what if you were to discover that little Felicity here were not her first child?”
“Beatrice!” Virginia protested.
“An entirely fictitious example, I assure you. I just wonder that if you should ever discover that she had kept some big secret from you, how do suppose you might react?”