All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  God knows my secret.

  The words repeated themselves in his mind, far louder than the rustle of the sheer paper as he crumpled it. He walked to the corner of the room, to the pitcher and water glasses, then stuffed the paper into one of the glasses, poured water over it, and watched it dissolve.

  Dessa marched through the center of the bank, her gaze on the door to Mr. Tobias Ridgeway’s office. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye for fear of seeing rejection there.

  Lord, Your will be done.

  With barely more than a glance, she asked the clerk between the only two enclosed offices to let Mr. Ridgeway know she had arrived for their meeting.

  The door to his office opened before the clerk even stood to knock.

  “Miss Caldwell!” He emerged from his office and greeted her warmly, holding out his hand to take one of hers with something more than a handshake. This was just the kind of greeting she’d hoped for . . . and yet she imagined Mr. Ridgeway was the sort of gentleman who might be too kind to issue even a rejection any way but considerately.

  “It’s good of you to be so prompt,” he said. “I was just coming out to Mr. Sprott’s desk to see if everything I asked for is in order, and then you can be on your way without delay. I’m sure you’re eager to let the property holder know you’ll be proceeding with your plans.”

  Dessa’s head went so light she was afraid she would faint—she who had never swooned in her life. She was close enough to Mr. Sprott’s desk to reach for its corner, a solid object with which to steady herself. “Do you mean to say . . . that is, my loan has been approved?”

  With a grin on his round face and a gentle touch to one of her elbows, as if he knew she needed a reminder she wasn’t in a dream, Mr. Ridgeway nodded. “Yes, Miss Caldwell. You’ll soon have what you need to take ownership of the property you have in mind.” He turned to Mr. Sprott and received an envelope the other man held.

  “Oh, Mr. Ridgeway!” To her embarrassment, she felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes. Hardly the most professional reaction to a business transaction! She fought them back, grabbing one of Mr. Ridgeway’s hands in a heartier handshake than a moment ago, even as with the other she received the thick envelope, no doubt containing paperwork along with the banknote she needed. “Thank you!”

  Mr. Ridgeway waved away her gratitude. “It’s Mr. Henry Hawkins you should thank. Without his consent, this institution would not be contributing to your endeavors.”

  Dessa pressed her fingers to her mouth in an attempt to hold back more flowery words of thanksgiving. She cleared her throat, determined to fit the picture of a woman who’d never doubted for a moment that this loan was deserved. “May I extend my gratitude to him, do you suppose? I wouldn’t take more than a minute of his time.”

  Mr. Ridgeway’s brows rose approvingly. “I think that’s a fine idea! Come with me, won’t you?” Without delay, Mr. Ridgeway led Dessa past the clerk’s desk and to the adjacent office. He tapped once, then before waiting for an answer, opened the door wide enough for Dessa to see the bank president standing in front of a tea cart holding a crystal glass of water.

  “Henry!” Mr. Ridgeway greeted him, leading Dessa inside.

  She nearly floated toward Mr. Hawkins, her feet felt so weightless. She held out her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the unsteadiness in her breathing or the tremble in her fingers. Though she reminded herself there was nothing personal about this introduction, she couldn’t help but be struck once again by the look of him. Perhaps he wasn’t as young as she’d guessed from across the room the day before. There was a settled look to his features that seemed on the brink of lost youth, though there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen. Nearly as tall as Mr. Ridgeway, Mr. Hawkins was half the other’s width. Still, his shoulders were broad and his chin well carved, giving him the look of slender strength.

  As he accepted her hand in his and she looked into his face—into the darkest eyes to match the darkest hair—she was hard-pressed to summon a coherent thought about her mission, her calling, or her vision to help others. In that moment she was simply a woman meeting a man—not a servant meeting a godsend—for the very first time.

  “Henry, may I present Miss Dessa Caldwell, whom I mentioned to you just yesterday.”

  Mr. Hawkins didn’t look as though he heard the introduction, or if he did, the announcement didn’t seem entirely welcome. He issued the most unexpectedly intense—and unfriendly—glare.

  “Perhaps I’ve come at the wrong time,” Dessa said, her heart pounding so hard that she wondered if he felt its beat through the tips of her tingling fingers. She withdrew her hand.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “Henry, you can spare a moment, can’t you? Miss Caldwell has come to speak to you.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, the warmth of gratitude washing over her once more, leaving no room for uncertainty. “I’m so very grateful for your approval of my loan. In fact, I wish to extend an invitation to you—and Mr. Ridgeway as well—for one week from today. I’m eager to show you the home your generosity will help me to establish.”

  Mr. Ridgeway filled the slightest gap of silence created by the lack of response from Mr. Hawkins. “Yes, of course; we’d be delighted. One week from today, you say? Will that be enough time to get yourself settled?”

  Her enthusiasm, only slightly dampened by Mr. Hawkins’s steely silence, burst upon her again. He’d approved her loan, hadn’t he? He must believe in what she was doing; she only wanted to fortify his faith in her. “I have so many household donations only awaiting collection! I won’t rest until the doors to Pierson House open.” She shifted her gaze back to Mr. Ridgeway and his welcoming, friendly face, sparing only a glance at Mr. Hawkins before finishing. “Would you care to come at lunchtime? That is, to share luncheon?”

  “Delightful!” Mr. Ridgeway said. He placed a hand on her elbow, directing her with his other hand away from the office in which Mr. Hawkins stood.

  Dessa moved to retrace the steps they’d taken only moments before, but confusion stopped her. She turned back to Mr. Hawkins and conquered what she suddenly realized had been disappointment, not just at his reception but at the general lack of welcome in his demeanor. She’d taken his approval of her loan far more personally than she realized.

  “Mr. Hawkins, if you have any doubts about the loan, or about me, I’d like to assure you your trust is well placed. This home will be a shelter for women in need, a place of refuge not otherwise to be found in our lovely but all-too-human city. If you’ll visit me, I can show you exactly what I mean.”

  Another silence followed her words—one that even Mr. Ridgeway dared not fill. Mr. Hawkins’s gaze was neither harsh nor friendly, but she could not fathom what thoughts lay behind that piercing look of his.

  “I’ll be there at noon,” he said at last. He started to turn away but stopped to assess her a moment longer. “One week from today.”

  Rather than a simple acceptance of an invitation, it seemed almost a challenge.

  But Dessa refused to dwell on it. She miraculously held the banknote in her hand. Nothing short of death could pry it away until she gave it to the seller of the home she wanted. Now she had all she needed to finish the transaction for Pierson House, to begin the mission God had placed on Sophie Pierson’s heart—and through her, upon Dessa’s.

  Soon—very soon—Mr. Hawkins’s loan would produce all the fruit it was intended to bear.

  She let Mr. Ridgeway lead her from the office, closing the door behind them.

  “All right, then,” said Dessa, taking in a breath she seemed to have forgotten she needed. She looked from the closed door to Mr. Ridgeway, whose face shifted quickly from concern to an eager and now-familiar smile, and held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ridgeway. I look forward to seeing you and Mr. Hawkins one week from today.”

  She clutched her handbag and walked from the bank, conscious that clerks and tellers alike watched every step she took.

  4

  DE
SSA STOOD ON the cement porch of the home on Nineteenth Street that she now had every right to claim as belonging to her. Well, to her, the bank, and the many who contributed cash donations both past and future.

  She went inside, an echo and a prayer of thanksgiving following each of her steps as she made her way through the vacant parlor. It was easy to envision the donated furniture that now awaited only collection and delivery. Not every room would be filled just yet, but she had no doubt all her needs would be met soon.

  Sophie Pierson herself hadn’t expected to open such a home for another two years, and that at the very earliest. She’d been prepared to work toward it for five!

  But here it was. What had once been the home of a Market Street merchant would soon boast the name Pierson House. Mariadela White had been the first to hear it was for sale for far less than it was worth, and Dessa quickly pursued the opportunity. Yes, opium dens and gambling houses had encroached on the neighborhood, which was why respectable families had moved farther from Cherry Creek and the railroad yards that had sprung up in the last decade. They’d left behind those Dessa’s heart ached to serve.

  This was precisely where Pierson House needed to be. Surely even Sophie would have followed this quicker plan, despite her caution about borrowing. Hawkins National might have refused her as easily as those first banks had done. But considering the relative ease with which Dessa had procured the funds, she couldn’t help believing God had hurried the schedule for a reason.

  Even though at the moment Dessa had not a single girl committed to joining her. That was to have been the next phase in Sophie’s plan, once the funds were raised—actually getting into the neighborhood, even in a rented room or storefront, to befriend the residents. Dessa’s plans had bypassed that step altogether. Certainly it would be far more appealing for women to find immediate shelter in such a comfortable home!

  Dessa knew she had work to do, but it was work she had no doubt God would bless.

  On his way home from the bank, Henry instructed his driver to go well past his house and to slow once they reached Nineteenth Street in the Fourth Ward. He wanted plenty of time to assess the building that Tobias—and through him, Henry himself—had allowed to pass into the hands of one young and obviously optimistic young woman.

  Seeing the house, he acknowledged it looked sound enough, with a roof that appeared in fine condition over a brick structure that would last many years to come. Fire had taught the city well.

  Still, the trim was in need of paint, and he wondered if Miss Caldwell had taken on more than she could handle. Not that any of the homes along this street looked as though their owners took much pride in the neighborhood. It was far too close to the worst vice in the city. Everything was for sale around here, from women to gaming to cheap liquor to opium beds.

  Nor was it far from the edge of another section, the one that mimicked respectability. A place where people like Turk Foster attracted a better-dressed clientele to his gambling den.

  Miss Caldwell’s house was the filling in a sandwich made of the worst elements of society, and from what he’d seen of her, she wouldn’t last long.

  Derision filled him. How long would it be before the darkness around here blotted out the foolish light that had filled Dessa Caldwell’s eyes?

  It was a shame, really. He wondered if she would be so pretty once the realities of the harsher side of life snuffed out that light.

  One last thought trailed along with Henry as the driver continued their slow progress down the street. It was a wonder Uncle Tobias wasn’t fretting over a woman left so vulnerable in a neighborhood like this. Tobias mustn’t know.

  The thought only irritated Henry, because now he wished he didn’t know either.

  5

  DESSA FAIRLY COLLAPSED onto her bed, well after dark. In the past week she’d scrubbed, painted, hefted furniture, and unpacked crates of donations in between sewing and hanging curtains and cooking for helpers. Whenever she sat, she worked on a collection of linens to be sold at White’s Mercantile in the hope of starting an income separate from expected donations. All of which left precious little time for sleep.

  Yet even as she rested her head on the pillow, a smile spread once again across her lips. She was doing it. Not alone—the proprietors of White’s were her biggest donors and best friends since Sophie’s death—but it was hard not to feel satisfied that Sophie’s vision was becoming a reality so quickly. She’d carefully budgeted the expenses for the next three months, and if everything continued as expected, she could use that time to welcome new boarders and build up an inventory of items to sell.

  As Dessa drifted off to sleep, she assured herself that tomorrow’s luncheon with the investors from Hawkins National Bank and, soon after that, a dinner for her biggest donors would prove nothing but successes. They would see she was ready to open the doors to those in need.

  If only women were already applying for the help she’d advertised in every corner of the neighborhood and beyond. . . .

  Perhaps she dozed, though it felt only a moment later when something awakened her. Disoriented, she looked toward her bedroom’s freshly curtained window. But it was still dark.

  She listened. Around the corner, Holladay Street—now known as Market Street since the Holladay family no longer wanted to be associated with what was sold along the avenue—came alive after dark. She’d heard music from pianos and fiddles meant to draw people in from the boardwalks. Dessa had tried countering with a song of her own on several nights since she’d moved in. Sitting on her porch singing a favorite hymn was quite different from the invitations to cribs and bawdy houses that paid protection money so authorities would ignore what the women were really trying to do. From balconies at the parlor houses or doorways of the cheaper, one-room cribs on the frayed fringes of the neighborhood, women flaunted their wares amid raucous music.

  But sitting up in her bed, Dessa realized the streets had gone quiet. Surely she must have slept, because the younger the night, the noisier the neighborhood.

  Turning over, she hoped to get a bit more rest before another busy day ahead. She had fresh bread to make in the morning, and a pie. Thankfully, Mariadela White would come early to help—

  A crash sent Dessa’s heart to thumping. She threw off her covers and sprang to the cool wood floor. Had she locked the front door before coming to bed? It was her habit to leave the door wide open during the day; although she had yet to receive her first visitor, she wanted curious neighbors to come calling, to ask what their new neighbor was about if they hadn’t seen her flyers. But at night, while she slept, she’d taken the precaution of locking the door.

  Yet she’d been so tired she couldn’t recall if she’d done so tonight.

  Ear pressed to her bedroom door, she listened again. Whatever the crash had been, it had come from the floor below. That gave her some comfort. The stairway creaked at nearly every step. If someone were coming up the stairs, she would hear him or her.

  In a moment, though, she heard something else. Singing. Loud, off key. And decidedly male.

  “In Dublin’s fair city,

  Where the girls are so pretty,

  I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,

  As she wheeled her wheelbarrow

  Through the streets broad and narrow,

  Crying, ‘Cockles and mussels! Alive, alive, oh!’”

  With a prayer on her lips, Dessa listened a moment longer as the singer evidently forgot the next verse and filled in with a “la-la-la.” Whoever was downstairs must certainly be lost, and perhaps drunk.

  And she must be rid of him.

  Grabbing her robe, Dessa donned it while opening the door and rushing to the top of the stairs. There, she stopped once again just to be sure she heard only the one voice, then crept down to determine the best plan to send away whoever had come calling.

  The stairway was hidden in a hall of its own, set to the back of the parlor so the wall space was not shorted. She peered around the edge of the sta
ircase hall, noticing first that the chair donated only yesterday was toppled over. Beside it, flat on his back, was a shadow that did not belong—somewhat reminiscent of the smooth, rounded tops of the foothills. His hat had come askew and covered all but his mouth, from which he picked up the tune of “Molly Malone” with a thick Irish brogue.

  With a glance around the rest of the parlor to be sure he’d arrived alone, Dessa stepped into the room. The parlor floor was every bit as cool to her feet as the stairs and bedroom floor, despite what had been a warm July day. Less frightened now than annoyed, she was prompted by the feel beneath her bare feet to think about garnering some rugs before winter.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You mustn’t sleep here!”

  “What’s that?” The man struggled to sit up, slipping from the wobbly support of his elbow and back to the floor, inspiring Dessa to help him to his feet. Between his size and unsteadiness, the task was no less challenging than moving the heaviest of deliveries, but she wrestled him to the settee nonetheless. Thankfully, it accepted both his weight and her own when she fell beside him.

  “Many thanks, young Molly Malone,” said the man, the unpleasant scent of strong drink on his breath.

  Dessa popped back to her feet, clutching together her robe. “I’m afraid you have me confused, sir. This is Pierson House, and there is no Molly Malone here.”

  He laughed, loud and hearty. “To be sure, little lady, that I know. Molly Malone is long dead, if ’twere true she ever lived a’tall.”

  She extended a palm toward the door behind them. “Then can I help you out?”

  He made a move to stand but fell back on the settee, which creaked to accept him yet again. “Ah, now, miss, I heard a rumor this is just the place for someone in need.”