All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

Accepting the sandwich with a grin wide enough to reveal crooked and graying teeth, he placed his hat back upon his head, pocketed his dollar, and with a zealous bite, he gave her another wink before going out the door.

  “Feeding him will only bring him back,” Mr. Hawkins said.

  “I simply forgot to lock the door last night,” Dessa told him, her spine so rigid it ached. “It won’t happen again.”

  With a mix of relief and disappointment, she watched Mr. Hawkins step past her to the hook beside the door. Placing the hat on his head, he faced her, so close she could see for the first time that there was a mix of light- and dark-gray flecks in his eyes. If his hair ever turned gray, it would likely match.

  “Banks have a way of foreclosing on loans that are not repaid on a regular and timely basis. If he was an example of the clientele you’re attracting—” he held out a palm in the direction of the modest box of linens nearby—“and if that is the source of your repayment fund, Miss Caldwell, then I suggest you prepare yourself for foreclosure.”

  Then he walked through the front door, calling Mr. Ridgeway’s name over his shoulder.

  7

  “WAS THAT really necessary, Henry?”

  Tobias plopped his considerable girth on the seat opposite Henry, jostling the entire carriage. He had a look of purest irritation on his normally jovial face.

  “Go back if you like,” Henry said, looking out the carriage window. But as the vehicle rolled forward, they both knew it was too late.

  “If I’d known you were going to threaten her with foreclosure, and this before her first loan payment is due—”

  “The loan was a mistake, Tobias; even you must see that now. She’s a fool to live in this neighborhood, if men like that drunken Irishman are the only people who want anything to do with her. She’s just sitting there sewing and cooking on that stove, and she’s obviously already tapped anyone who will give her the charity she needs. How is it we’ve been foolish enough to make this home a reality before either she or the neighborhood is ready for it?”

  “You don’t know that! And you must give her a chance. She’s obviously worked day and night to get settled, and I have no doubt she’ll do exactly as she hopes.”

  Henry spared his uncle a glance. Doubt was all over Tobias’s face, despite his words. “At least it’ll be easier to sell, with the improvements she’s made on the place.”

  “Huh,” grumbled Tobias, then grumbled again. “Fine and well for you to sit there, hoping she fails. Huh.”

  It was nothing to be proud of; even Henry knew that. He attempted a halfhearted smile. “You’re just angry we didn’t get any of that pie.”

  “Of course I am!” Tobias said, grinning at last. “Aren’t you?”

  The funny thing was, in spite of telling himself his actions had been justified, Henry realized he was indeed missing that very thing.

  “Why don’t you suggest she open a café?” Henry asked. “She has the kitchen for it.”

  “I cannot believe you begrudge her the purchase of a stove. You heard what she said: appealing food is part of the investment.”

  “Yes, if it were a café. I want you to tell her that.”

  Tobias leaned forward and Henry felt his stare even though he continued to look out the window.

  “Tell her yourself.”

  “Shh, hush now, Dessa,” soothed Mariadela, having pulled her chair around the table, close to Dessa’s.

  “The whole luncheon was a disaster! He—he didn’t have to be so . . . so mean!” Dessa knew she sounded like a child, but that’s exactly how she felt. Chastised as if she’d done something foolish.

  The worst part was she still couldn’t help wondering if she’d been every bit as foolish as Mr. Hawkins seemed to believe. The thought brought a fresh supply of tears. “Oh, Mariadela! What if he’s right? I thought—” A hiccup interrupted her; then another sob overtook her. “I thought women would be eager to find a safe place under this roof! And there isn’t one, not a single one, who came!”

  “They will,” Mariadela said. “They will.”

  A new thought came to mind, one Dessa hadn’t even entertained before now. “And what if the donations don’t continue as regularly as expected? Why, if a single donor decides to go elsewhere, I won’t be able to make the payments. Because Mr. Hawkins is right! I can’t pay back that loan just from linen sales.”

  Dessa used one of her carefully sewn napkins to wipe away tears that were only replaced by more. “What if I’ve misunderstood what God wanted me to do? Why didn’t I wait and work toward more donations the way Sophie would have done, so I wouldn’t have to borrow so much?”

  Thoughts of Sophie brought inevitable grief, something Dessa carried despite the nearly nine months she’d been gone. Visions of Sophie going off one day, as she so often did, to the county hospital—better known as the pesthouse—not far away on Wazee and Sixteenth, where poor and indigents came for treatment of any contagious disease. Sophie had gone there often, never with a thought to herself. They couldn’t have guessed God would allow her ministry to end because of one of those visits. Conditions in the almshouse—the greater part of the pesthouse—were what had inspired Sophie to open an alternative in this very neighborhood.

  Dessa had never cared for the irony that Sophie died in a city known for its crisp, clean, dry air that promised healing for so many of the infirm.

  “If only Sophie were still here,” Dessa whispered, wiping again at her tears, relieved they were beginning to wane. An idea rose that made the last of them stall. “I need to visit her grave. I’ve always been able to imagine better what she would do when I’m near her.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. When William arrives, he can take you.”

  Dessa sighed as they cleared away the remnants of the meal. At least the men had eaten everything on their plates, including seconds.

  “William will be pleased there’s more pie left for him,” Mariadela said with a wink.

  But the smile Dessa afforded in return was anything but genuine.

  Denver City Cemetery wasn’t far from Brown’s Bluff—the spot designated as Capitol Hill after years of delays and disputes. Building had begun on the state capitol just last year. Dessa had visited the cemetery often since Sophie’s death, having fought Sophie’s family for her right to be buried where she wanted—not back in St. Louis in the prestigious family plot, but right here in Denver, with those relegated to the edge of the cemetery, where the remains of the lower classes from respectable to criminal could be found.

  At Sophie’s graveside, tears replenished themselves in Dessa’s eyes. She knew Sophie wasn’t here, that this grave was nothing more than a testament to the way Sophie had lived her life trying to help those less fortunate. And yet standing here never failed to bring Dessa closer to her dear friend’s memory.

  Sophie hadn’t just been helping those who didn’t seem able to help themselves. She, like Dessa, had carried a sort of obligation to set something right—though in Sophie’s case the wrongdoing had not been her own. But Sophie had felt the need to make up for the wrongs done by a Pierson. Her brother had compromised more than a few women’s virtue. Including Dessa’s.

  “Did I fail you, Sophie? Did my impatience once again spoil your plans?” She wiped at a fallen tear, not feeling the dampness on her fingers for the thickness of her glove. An unexpected smile tugged at her lips. “I haven’t forgotten the times my impatience got the best of us. That horrid mail express carriage we took from Greenville to Louisville, or the shortcut we took in Chicago that ended with us hopelessly lost. My fault, both, and you missed important meetings because of my foolishness. Yet you were able to fix it all, weren’t you? And never blamed me, not once.”

  A meager laugh escaped, but her tears weren’t banished altogether. “Oh, Sophie, I knew you would comfort me. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh today, not after the way Mr. Hawkins made me feel.” She hugged her arms to herself. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know impatience
is one of my biggest faults. But this time . . . it’s more than just impatience. Did I misunderstand God’s will? Was I to put your dream in other, more capable hands than mine? I wish I knew.”

  If Mr. Hawkins’s visit had done anything, it had surfaced every doubt Dessa had secretly harbored since her unhesitating start. She’d been so convinced no one but she had the same amount of passion and pure doggedness to get the job done that she hadn’t stopped to think she might not be the right person to implement Sophie’s vision.

  Sophie had loved even those who’d turned their backs on God, not seeing their sin the way so much of society was wont to do. She saw the weakness and weariness that forced so many into a life that came with pain and loss of choice. Choice, at least, was something Sophie strove to restore.

  Raised until she was seven in an institution for orphans and indigents, Dessa knew firsthand how it felt to be bereft of choice. Upon her seventh birthday she’d been sent by train to work. Her brother went to a farm while Dessa was placed into service with the Pierson family in St. Louis. A place that Dessa herself had eventually needed to escape—an escape Sophie provided.

  Coming here today had been the right thing to do. Renewed resolve filled her. Even if opening Pierson House had been premature, even if Mr. Hawkins thought it a mistake, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Who knew better than Dessa the heartache and loss of everything from faith to dignity when a person was denied all choice, all hope?

  It was up to Dessa to prove Mr. Hawkins—and her own doubts—wrong.

  8

  “SIR! SIR!”

  Henry had barely climbed out of his carriage before a scrawny youth stepped in his way on the bank steps. He waved an envelope in Henry’s face so fiercely that Henry raised the handle of his walking stick to put some distance between himself and the offending item.

  “What is it, young man?”

  “You’re Mr. Hawkins, ain’t ya?”

  “I am.”

  “Then this is for you.” He slapped the envelope to Henry’s chest.

  To prevent it from flying in the wind, Henry grabbed the item as the boy raced off down the street. “Wait just a minute!”

  But the youth had already gone too far and obviously had no interest in answering Henry’s call. Henry found that odd; most boys who delivered notes—even those who’d been paid on the front end—expected a tip upon delivery.

  Henry slipped the envelope into his pocket with an undeniable sense of foreboding. He wished he’d had the quickness to grab the boy by the collar and demand to know who’d hired him for the delivery.

  Once inside the privacy of his office, before even hanging up his hat or putting aside his walking stick or removing his gloves, Henry pulled out the note he wished to ignore.

  He should light a match to it without opening it.

  Instead, he tore open the envelope, and a small piece of familiar onionskin floated out. On one side were scrawled the words:

  False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

  Henry crumpled both the paper and the envelope, wishing once again he’d detained that boy. He must find out where these intolerable notes originated.

  Dessa held the note in her hand, her heart dancing, fingers trembling. A prospect!

  The note wasn’t signed, but it had a clear purpose. A purpose Dessa was only too eager to fulfill. She glanced at the watch she wore like an adornment every day. Eleven o’clock. She had enough time to finish the embroidery on a handkerchief, then hire a hack to take her to City Park, where she was to meet by two o’clock the woman who’d authored the note.

  Dessa was used to seeing women from various parlor houses and brothels paraded through the city in open carriages—it was a form of advertising that Denver’s growing, more respectable population might resent but had no recourse against. And City Park, set beyond Denver’s limits—and therefore beyond its jurisdiction—was a natural magnet for anyone who wanted to leave behind the city’s noise and stench of smelters’ coal smoke along with its laws and judgments.

  Yet as she left the hired cab at the park gate, she wasn’t sure what to look for. The note said only to identify the author by a red flower on her hat. It didn’t name the person as someone from the sporting end of town, a maid who might be in trouble, or even the daughter of one of the donor families Dessa had met in the last two years. Manner of dress could be quite different depending on one’s station.

  Dessa paid the driver, instructed him to wait, then clutched her handbag and set off along the open, grassy parkland.

  There weren’t many amenities to this park, though officials promised a future in which patrons would visit a water garden, monuments, and a variety of trees and flowers. So far, though, the park boasted little more than squatters and surrounding farmland.

  But Dessa wasn’t alone as she paced herself to stroll as if she were only taking in the fresh country air. Though she saw few families, there were a number of adults—both men and women—taking advantage of a view of the mountains on the horizon that Dessa never tired of.

  She saw no one wearing a red flower, on her hat or otherwise. Dessa walked along, wishing the note’s author had been more specific. The parkland was fairly extensive. Suppose Dessa had come to the wrong end? She had no choice but to keep looking.

  A breeze cooled the air today, but under the warmth of the sun Dessa was comfortable. She occasionally stopped, looking before and behind, breathing deeply. Whenever a new carriage came along, Dessa would stop and wait. Either someone rode off or new visitors emerged. None of them wearing a red flower.

  A half hour passed, and Dessa considered returning to the hired hack and going back to the city. If the girl was serious about meeting Dessa, she would make another attempt. If only Dessa knew where she could contact the girl; she wasn’t the least bit afraid of going to her rather than meeting in a public place.

  Still, she walked a bit longer, surveying the area, occasionally turning her gaze westward toward the mountains. A squall erupted in the sky but too far off to pose Dessa any threat. She watched the rain paint vertical gray stripes on the horizon.

  Once she saw a man who, from a distance, looked like Mr. Hawkins, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Even if it were he, torn away from his beloved bank, she hardly wanted to acknowledge him. He wouldn’t welcome her anyway. She wished thoughts of him didn’t haunt her, but if she imagined seeing him at every turn, she couldn’t deny the fact that he remained on her mind.

  At last, convinced whoever had sent the note was indeed not coming, Dessa returned to the carriage that had waited all this time—for an extra charge. She couldn’t afford to wait longer.

  The ride back to the city seemed quicker than the journey out to the parkland. An hour wasted, when there was so much to do at the house. Dessa alone couldn’t produce enough textile goods to cover the loan. But she wouldn’t have help until she reached the women that so far seemed bent on avoiding her.

  Dessa’s footsteps on the front stairs to the porch were far slower and heavier than they had been earlier at the prospect of meeting with her first potential client. Have I misunderstood, Lord? What am I not seeing? What have I done wrong?

  Thoughts of Mr. Hawkins’s judgment made her steps nearly unbearable.

  The door was, as usual, left unlocked. It was said that these few square blocks near the tracks were the only ones in the city where the few upstanding citizens left needed to lock their doors. Dessa refused to do so. If someone was so desperate as to break into her home, a home that offered little as far as earthly possessions, then they were in far greater need than she.

  After removing her gloves, hanging her hat on the hook, and wishing once again she could afford a small table for such things as gloves and pocketbooks and handbags, she stuffed the gloves inside the hat, laid the handbag on the dining room table, then headed to the kitchen. Although Dessa enjoyed cooking, she had little desire to prepare anything for herself. A cheese and tomato sandwich would do for dinner.

&nb
sp; But at the kitchen threshold, all thoughts of food disappeared. Dessa wasn’t alone.

  9

  “HELLO,” DESSA SAID, half to cover her surprise and half because she had no idea what else to say. At the kitchen table, eating the very sandwich Dessa had planned to assemble for herself, was a woman still garbed in jacket and hat. A hat without a red flower. Cheese and a slice of tomato peeked out between two slices of bread left over from yesterday’s baking.

  “You the gal who runs this place?” The woman spoke with her mouth half-full, swiping her chin before taking a drink from the cup in front of her.

  Dessa approached the table, seeing upon a closer look that the woman was perhaps twice her age. Although her hair was unkempt and the tight-fitting, low-cut jacket over her equally low-cut dress was somewhat rumpled, her fingernails were clean and her skin marred only by the fine lines of age.

  “Yes, I’m Dessa Caldwell.” She smiled. All she’d needed to do was leave the house and someone was finally seeking her! “Welcome to Pierson House.”

  The woman smiled, but it was crooked in a way that might have had something to do with the food still in her mouth. “I heard you’re willing to take in women in trouble.”

  Dessa felt her eyes widen. “Are you . . . in trouble?”

  The other woman laughed so loudly Dessa winced. The laugh went on, long and hearty, so that the woman had to set her sandwich on the napkin in front of her and hold her side as if it would burst if she didn’t.

  At last she drew in a long breath, exhausted by mirth. “Any monthly irregularities in me is due to age, girlie, and not any contribution from the male persuasion.” Then she frowned as quickly as the laughter had erupted a moment ago. “Though I did have a baby once. A long time ago.” She studied Dessa with a tilt of her head, eyes narrowing to reveal new wrinkles. “Would’ve been about your age by now, I guess. Twenty years?”