All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  Henry’s moment of temptation passed. Tobias was right. Foster, on a similar path to prosperity as his, might be ambitious and clever, but his sins were far more visible than Henry’s. He would have a tough time getting elected, even in Denver, where the veneer over corruption was thin, but there nonetheless.

  Henry stood just as a tap sounded at the door. Before responding to the summons, he said to Lionel, “It’s your job to choose the best man. I know that man is not me, but I also doubt it’s Foster.” Then Henry walked around his desk to open the sleek, paneled hardwood door of his considerably sized office.

  Mr. Sprott, his clerk, stood there with a somewhat anxious look on his face. “An appointment for Mr. Ridgeway, sir.” One of the man’s nervous habits was to adjust his clothing—a tie, collar, cuff, or anything handy—as if he wasn’t used to formal office attire. That was likely true, since most of the Denver workforce consisted of former miners, failed fortune seekers, or railroaders. “He asked me to let him know when his appointment arrived, and she has.”

  She? Henry wondered what kind of appointment Tobias had with a woman.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sprott,” Tobias said. He stood, excused himself from Lionel, and offered a brief glance toward Henry.

  Henry watched him leave, seeing nothing more than the back of a slender woman clad in the deepest purple from hem to hat. She followed Mr. Sprott into the smaller office Tobias used, adjacent to Henry’s.

  Henry frowned. It was likely the same do-gooder Uncle Tobias had mentioned yesterday, a woman whose application the bank had recently received. She wanted a loan in order to coddle those who’d have been better off back East, where life was unequivocally easier.

  If Henry didn’t have Lionel waiting to continue this unnecessary meeting, he’d have followed Tobias into his office and shown the woman to the door.

  But Lionel didn’t appear ready to be put off so quickly.

  Dessa Caldwell stepped inside the small bank office and raised a gloved hand to check one more time that her hair was still swept up neatly and her hat wasn’t askew. The Lord had chosen her for this task, and she meant to represent Him well.

  She looked around the office. One tall, barred window let in ample light, but other than that, the room was rather spartan. It offered a serviceable, solid wood desk scattered with paperwork, as well as a sturdy chair of matching varnish. Two chairs in front of the desk were also wood, stained a similar dark color. A clock and a calendar hung on one wall, but there was nothing to identify this office as belonging to anyone in particular.

  At least the bank didn’t waste money on opulence. The exterior of the building itself was impressive enough: three stories high and boasting tall white pillars flanking the doorstep. Inside, the half-dozen busy employees she’d passed presented every indication of a successfully run bank. And the vault—what little she’d seen of it on her way in—was more than intimidating. Surely those were all good signs.

  Dessa placed her parasol beneath an arm to adjust one of her gloves. This was only the fourth bank she’d tried for her loan, and she was determined not to let the first refusals dampen her confidence. After all, her inspiration came from something more than just confidence, didn’t it?

  “Good afternoon,” greeted a jovial voice behind her.

  Dessa turned, automatically mirroring the smile offered to her. The man possessed a mix of gray and brown hair, fair skin, and a round, pleasant face. His size could have landed him a position as bouncer at any one of the disreputable establishments Dessa knew existed on the darker side of town. For some reason that comforted her, even though she’d never once needed a bouncer’s aid or even met such a person.

  As he passed her on the way to his desk, he reached out to shake her hand. She accepted without hesitation.

  “Mr. Ridgeway?” she asked.

  “That’s right. Tobias Ridgeway, at your service. And you’re Miss Caldwell; is that correct? Please, have a seat.”

  She did so, leaning forward despite her desire to not appear too eager. There was something immediately inviting about this man, so warm and friendly as he sank into his chair and gave her another smile. Nothing at all like the last bank clerk, who barely gave her a moment’s attention before sending her away. Loan money to a woman! It simply wasn’t done.

  In this first instant of facing Mr. Ridgeway she knew he would do no such thing. Pushing caution aside, she let his smile inspire a lighthearted bubble of optimism.

  “I see from your application that you would like a loan.” He pulled familiar papers from one of the stacks on top of his desk. She recognized her own handwriting and the many questions she’d been asked about the intentions and risks associated with the loan she had in mind. “Quite a substantial amount. Hmmm.”

  “Yes, it is quite a sum, Mr. Ridgeway. As you can see, we’ve tried to foresee every need. But as you’ll also see, I’ve raised a fair amount in donations from churches as well as from the Ladies’ Benevolent Society. Beyond that, once Pierson House opens we intend to sell textile goods. Children’s clothing, linens, quilts, and blankets. Several stores and churches in the area have agreed to help us sell our goods, so distribution won’t be a problem.”

  She could have named a number of investors, like the owners of White’s Mercantile, who had provided a roof over her head since last fall, or the wealthy Plumstead family, who had pledged a hefty monthly donation for the next four years. There hadn’t been room on the application for such details.

  He looked up from the paperwork. “You said ‘we,’ Miss Caldwell, and yet it is only you here before me. There is no man to help you invest, to help guarantee the loan with a steady income?”

  She refused to allow her bubble of hope to be broken, despite a pinprick of annoyance. From what she knew of men, they were just as likely to bring woe to society as progress or prosperity. “I intend to offer promise of a reciprocal income, the same as any small business would do. With confidence of profits to come.”

  “Yes, so you say. But it depends upon a number of things: The reliability of continued donations. The success of reaching prospective residents. The talent of those residents and their willingness to work once you’ve attracted them to your home. Have you a number of clients ready to be welcomed into your establishment?”

  That was the one question she would rather not answer . . . at least not yet. “I’m quite an able seamstress myself, if you don’t mind my saying so,” she told him. “It’s a talent easily taught to anyone with a reason to learn. And women in the circumstances I wish to help will certainly have a reason.”

  Mr. Ridgeway referred back to the paperwork. “Yes, about that. It says here that you hope to offer women of all backgrounds and situations safe refuge, a place to live—at least temporarily—when shelter is needed. That you would offer this to young women—girls, even—who find themselves in a business not easily discussed in polite society.”

  Dessa’s heart picked up a beat. That was indeed an important part of her purpose: to serve the most vulnerable population in a state where more prostitutes than wives could be found. Though the railroad had brought families, the prospect of gold and silver had attracted even more men to the mining camps throughout the state. It was an undeniable fact that many were more than willing to pay for the intimate services of a woman without thought of marriage.

  “There are a great many women right here in Denver who need the protection of a home such as I’m proposing. Women who, if they only had the chance, could find a happier life than what circumstances have forced them into.”

  Dessa noticed his fair skin had turned a bit pink, as if the conversation made him uncomfortable. And while she found that somewhat amusing coming from a man of his age, his attitude was part of the problem. Too much of “polite society” wished to ignore the facts altogether.

  “Men in this rugged territory,” she added softly, “have been able to carve out a place for themselves whether or not they strike it rich. And as able-minded as my sisters of the
fairer sex are, it remains true that we are often at the mercy of those stronger than us. If a woman falls into desperate circumstances, she’ll often need extraordinary kindness to free her.”

  “And this Miss Pierson for whom your home will be named? Where is she?”

  “I came to Denver with Miss Sophie Pierson two years ago. We’d traveled to many other cities over the years, speaking to groups, hoping to help women at nearly every social level. But nowhere did we meet more needy women than right here in Colorado. Miss Pierson worked tirelessly with churches and benevolent societies in the hopes of gaining support to open a refuge, but she succumbed to typhus late last fall. With God’s help, it’s my goal to see her wishes become a reality.”

  Although Mr. Ridgeway continued to look at Dessa, he did not speak, as if expecting her to continue. She wondered in that moment what he contemplated. Certainly his thoughts weren’t unpleasant, as he had a look on his face of near admiration. Still, it was hard to know if his approval of her ambition might extend to an actual loan.

  He seemed reluctant to look away but did so after a moment, straightening the papers in his grip. “I’ve read your application thoroughly, Miss Caldwell, and I’d like to commend your work. Your goals are, to my way of thinking, admirable. But this sort of loan isn’t easily made. I assume you’ve exhausted your other avenues? From the churches and societies you mentioned?”

  She nodded, although thoughts of Sophie’s five-year goal came to mind. “Raise the majority of the funds first,” she’d said, “and then if more money is needed, a loan might be the last resort.”

  But why wait so long if Dessa could garner a loan now to speed the process? She needed to get into the very neighborhood she wished to reach, and the only way to do that was to become part of it. Ever since the house near Market Street had come to her attention, Dessa had known it was just the right location for Pierson House.

  That was why she would try every legitimate bank in Denver, no matter how long it took. When she exhausted that list, she would start over again and keep asking until she received the money she sought.

  Mr. Ridgeway patted the neat stack in front of him. “I’ll need to consult with the bank’s president, of course. I wanted to meet you in person first, to confirm what I guessed from your application and letter.”

  He stood, extending his hand once again. “Return tomorrow morning at ten thirty, Miss Caldwell, and I’ll have an answer for you.”

  Dessa shook his hand with renewed enthusiasm. The answer wasn’t no!

  Mr. Ridgeway walked around his desk. “Allow me to escort you out. Do you have a carriage, or can I have someone hail a hansom cab for you?”

  “I have a friend waiting, thank you.”

  “Then I’ll bid you good day.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ridgeway, for your time and consideration.”

  She extended her hand again but saw that his gaze was arrested by something behind her. Dessa turned to catch sight of two men emerging from another office closer to the vault.

  “If you are a praying person, Miss Caldwell,” said Mr. Ridgeway, his voice lowered nearly to a whisper, “and I sense that you are, that’s the man you need to mention to God. Mr. Henry Hawkins.”

  Surely he meant the one who was staying, not the older man who’d just placed a hat upon his balding head and was even then walking toward the door. But how could the president of such a large and prestigious bank be so young? He couldn’t be much older than Dessa herself. And, she couldn’t help but notice, a more handsome man she had never seen.

  But the look he possessed as he turned back into his office held none of Mr. Ridgeway’s friendliness.

  Dessa’s smile faded. Indeed, as he enclosed himself inside his office without noticing her at all, Mr. Henry Hawkins looked every bit as cold as the banker who’d shown her the door only two days ago.

  “If you could join me in that prayer, Mr. Ridgeway,” she whispered back, “I would be most appreciative.”

  2

  ALTHOUGH IT WAS barely past eight, the sun had already set behind the mountains, casting Denver into its habitually early evening. Henry Hawkins let himself inside and latched the door behind him, greeted as usual by the quietness of his own home. Twice a year this house burst with light and guests and noise—one investors’ dinner party in winter, another in summer, to impress depositors—but for the other 363 days, the house was closer to a mortuary than a home.

  He used to welcome the lack of noise, but tonight this house on the established but still fashionable Fourteenth Street felt hollow and empty.

  “Barron! Mr. Barron!”

  Instead of his butler, the cook answered his call. Mrs. Giovannini was a marvel at breads and sauces, but she was not the kind of servant—or company—Henry needed at the moment. He’d never employed a housekeeper, wanting to keep his staff at a minimum. Barron was butler, valet, and head of the staff and was paid accordingly.

  “Where is Barron, Mrs. Gio?” He refused to spend so many syllables on a single name and so had never called his cook by anything but the shortened version. He’d been told her Christian name was Giovanna, which together with her last name might sound lyrical, but Henry wasn’t in the habit of singing for anyone.

  “Barron—he go to . . . how you say? Fratello! He go see fratello . . . you non qui . . . we think you not home molto in ritardo, so he go see his famiglia. You see?”

  Henry nodded, though he did not see at all. It was simply easier to let the conversation end.

  “You want cena? Dinner, yes, Mr. Hawkins? I bring you dinner. You sit. You rest. You tired.”

  That much he did understand, and she was right. Loosening the high collar on his shirt, he stepped farther into the wide foyer and for the barest moment didn’t know whether to turn left into the dining room or right into the parlor. No doubt Mrs. Gio had kept his dinner hot; she was prompt at serving him a full meal no matter what time he arrived.

  But he opted for the parlor despite such thoughts. She could serve him in there, with a tray at his most comfortable chair. There was no question about it; Henry felt tired beyond his years.

  He didn’t welcome the realization. Admittedly, Henry had been in a hurry to grow up most of his life, but he hadn’t thought to skip his youth for old age. His own father, at age thirty, had worked over the blaze of a smith’s shop from dawn until dark. He’d pounded and forged, creating everything from mundane horseshoes and work tools to the intricate designs of fancy residential gates that graced more than a few houses like the one in which Henry now lived.

  His father’s idea of slowing down had been to sell the smithy and open a mercantile next door. Promptly one year into the reduced physical labor, he’d dropped dead. To this day, Henry’s mother still worked long hours in that very shop. What right did Henry have to be tired after a day spent sitting behind a desk?

  Only one man could be blamed for wearing Henry down. His uncle, Tobias Ridgeway. The man was like a tick on a dog’s ear, dug in for the duration. Ever since Henry had given him a job at the bank, the man hadn’t stopped bringing in projects for investment. Some had been interesting, like a product called celluloid to be used in place of ivory for billiard balls. A practical idea, until Henry learned that fire and moisture damaged the product. Since anything from a lusty sneeze to a spilled beer or dropped cigar could wreak havoc on what should be a perfectly smooth surface, it soon lost its appeal to even the most frugal billiard hall owners.

  Lately Tobias had grown more charitable in his recommendations, something Henry found unaccountably irksome.

  Just as Henry settled in his chair, a rap at the door echoed through the empty foyer. He grumbled, recognizing the force behind that rap. Only an arm the size of Uncle Tobias’s could produce such a sound.

  He let Mrs. Gio answer, listening through another round of attack on the sturdy, carved wooden door before Mrs. Gio’s halting English welcomed Tobias in. Tobias’s familiarly firm step soon crossed the foyer ahead of his escort, and there he sto
od, all six burly feet of him. He glowered as if Henry had done something wrong.

  “I hava your dinner,” said Mrs. Gio once she caught up to Henry’s guest.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gio,” Henry said briskly, then looked at Tobias. “You’re welcome to half of whatever is on this tray. Mrs. Gio always brings too much.”

  “I’ve eaten already,” Tobias said, though even as his mouth uttered the words, Henry could see his nose signaling an altogether different sort of response as Mrs. Gio passed him with the tray.

  “Bring another plate, will you, Mrs. Gio?” asked Henry. “And another tray. We’ll stay in here rather than the dining room. I won’t be leaving this chair until I go to bed this evening.”

  Mrs. Gio looked pleased at his offer to share the bounty she’d brought, though he guessed she would bring Tobias a tray every bit as filled with the fragrantly spiced and sauced eggplant and plenty of bread to soak up every drop of what she called gravy.

  “You left the bank without seeing me.” Tobias used the phrase as an accusation. “Did you forget there was something I wanted to discuss with you?”

  By this time in the day, Henry had less patience than ever. Being anything but direct only wasted time. “I assumed it was another attempt to convince me to get involved in the charity work you’ve become enamored of lately. Is it?” A single glance at Tobias’s face told Henry he’d guessed correctly.

  It was one thing to offer Tobias a job—out of old affection mixed with an irreducible residue of guilt. Keeping him on had proven a good idea, because other than this occasional lapse into civic risk he was a sound investor. Loans from his desk almost always proved reliable.

  But it was something altogether different to go along with every idea Uncle Tobias presented. Henry had built his bank, his home, his reputation, his very life upon things Denver needed. Businesses that provided goods like mining tools or, more recently, household necessities. Still other loans provided farmers with seed for crops or grain for livestock. Necessary ventures, nearly all of them.