by Maureen Lang
“A note?” Jane said, following Dessa inside.
Dessa brushed a loose tendril of hair from her face. Between the morning’s exertion and the heat of the sun, she wanted to take a bath. But that would have to wait. “We’re going to invite whoever was living here to come to the door.”
“But you don’t know who it was! It could be anybody. A criminal, even!”
“Then they probably won’t take advantage of the offer. But I don’t want someone staying here without knowing who it is. They must come to the door to find welcome under either this roof or that one.”
Dessa wrote the note, then nailed it to the first plank she’d righted, at the back of the building.
Just as she returned inside the house, her thoughts on that bath, someone knocked at the front door.
Henry stepped out of his carriage and approached the door to his bank, but something prompted him to take a look around. It had been a long time since he’d felt a pang of nervousness that someone was watching him. Those pangs had faded once he knew he was no longer liable to go to jail for his youthful mistake, particularly after he’d repaid the money he’d stolen so long ago.
But there it was again, the feeling that someone had followed him out to City Park and was even now watching him walk into his bank.
Memories of those two notes came to mind. He’d received only the two, so he’d preferred to forget about them. Until now.
On the top step leading to the door, Henry turned around, pretending he’d forgotten something in his carriage. But instead of going back to the carriage, he scanned the street again. There were a few pedestrians walking on the other side of the road, coming out of the market. A boy ran from one doorway to another, while a delivery wagon sat outside. Nothing unusual, no one even remotely shady.
He shook his head, then continued on toward the bank’s entryway.
Dessa opened the door just in time to see the back of a woman dressed in one of the loveliest gowns she’d ever seen. It was far more ornate than something Dessa would wear, the shade a pink of the ripest watermelon, with shirred sleeves that were pulled low off the shoulders to complement a satin basque fading into a pleated skirt drawn tightly at the back. When she turned, Dessa’s eye was immediately drawn to the low and wide cut of the square décolletage, made almost decent by a threadlike trim along the edge.
“Hello!” Dessa said, opening the door wider. She wished she hadn’t exerted herself quite so much this morning; she felt soiled and ugly next to this light-haired beauty. “Come in, won’t you? I’m Dessa Caldwell.”
The young woman looked momentarily indecisive, as if she might turn around again. She clutched a velvet pouch so tightly that Dessa saw her knuckles were nearly as white as the handkerchief sticking out the side of one hand.
Dessa neared her. “Is that one of the handkerchiefs I made?”
The woman held it out, not so much to hand it back as to simply show it. “I stole it from another girl.”
It didn’t matter. “Come in, won’t you?” Dessa nearly whispered the invitation, but it was enough. As she held the door, the other woman came inside. “Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps? Would you like breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch?”
She shook her head. “No . . . I don’t know why I came.” She turned back to the door, but Dessa still stood near it. “I need to go.”
“Oh, but do stay!” Dessa insisted. “Just for a visit.”
Dessa led the woman to the settee in the parlor just as Jane joined them from the kitchen. Dessa introduced Jane, though she couldn’t offer the name of their guest in return.
Jane looked between the visitor and Dessa. “Do you want me to keep sewing those pillowcases?”
Dessa nodded, grateful the girl had noticed the other woman’s tension. “Yes, Jane. There is more material upstairs. Take your time finding something suitable, all right?”
With Jane gone, Dessa turned her attention fully on the woman who sat on her settee. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like something? Tea?” Dessa gave a quick smile as she watched the woman twist the ribbon on her little pouch. “I don’t like tea much myself, but I’ve always welcomed it when I’m looking to do something with my hands.”
The woman’s light eyes took on a hint of what could only be relief. With that simple observation and admission, Dessa had broken through, tipped the woman’s indecision in favor of staying. The woman burst into tears, and Dessa moved immediately to a spot next to her so she could put her arms around her.
“Oh!” She leaned back from Dessa’s touch.
“I’m sorry,” Dessa said gently, settling her hands back in her lap. “I only wanted to offer comfort.”
The woman stood, but thankfully did not go near the door. She moved to the chair Dessa had vacated. Then she wiped at her tears, using the handkerchief in the very manner Dessa had hoped it would be used. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s touched me without wanting something.”
“I shouldn’t have assumed you’d welcome such contact,” Dessa admitted. “I’m so very sorry.”
The woman shook her head, then wiped away another tear and offered an unexpected, brief laugh. “I’m a little nervous, but I suppose that’s obvious.” She took a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes, stiffening her shoulders. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Dessa curiously. “Do you know that we can hear you singing those hymns at night? Here you are, singing to God while Miss Leola curses you. She’s just happy you go to bed early, or you’d ruin her business altogether.”
“I never meant any harm. Is my voice so unpleasant?”
“No, not at all,” she said. “It’s what you’re singing, not how you’re singing. Men don’t tend to stop in when they hear words like ‘Sinner, come home.’”
“I suppose I should offer an apology,” Dessa said with a smile, “but it wouldn’t be a very honest one.”
“Miss Leola always has the piano player play his loudest while you sing, so anyone who makes it past the door won’t be bothered. I suppose she should apologize for that.”
Dessa thanked her, then said, “Do you mind if I ask your name? I’m so glad you’ve come, but I don’t know what to call you.”
“I’m known as Miss Remee to everyone around here. You’ve probably guessed I live at the bordello down the street.”
Dessa nodded. “You’re most welcome here, Miss Remee. For as long as you like.”
Miss Remee looked around the room, her gaze settling on the stenciled wall. “My mother used to have curtains in the kitchen with pineapples on them. A symbol of welcome, she used to say.”
“That’s what I hoped they would be here, too.”
Miss Remee’s delicate brows tried to gather, but her forehead was too smooth for such an expression to mar her appearance. Her eyes were a lovely shade of amber, nearly gold, and just now they seemed to be swimming in a pool replenished with diamonds.
“My mother’s kitchen wasn’t very welcoming, though. Not once it was obvious I wouldn’t attract a suitable husband.”
“Does your mother live here in Denver?”
She wiped her eyes again, dabbed at her nose. “My folks are in Indiana. Far enough away, even with the railroad.”
“Sometimes distance is just what we need.”
“That or a shotgun.” She smiled at Dessa’s raised brows. “Say, do you have a family you left behind somewhere?”
Dessa shook her head. “Plenty of bad memories, though.” Then she asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some refreshment?”
Miss Remee hesitated, but a slow smile soon appeared. “I overheard a couple of the girls claiming you bake a good scone.”
19
A LOUD BANGING roused Dessa from a deep sleep. She sat up with the sense that before she’d even awakened, her heart rate had quickened. The pace only multiplied when she heard Jane’s frightened voice.
“Miss Dessa?”
Dessa jumped from her bed and opened her bedroom door, ushering in the girl.
“Did you hear that banging? There! Someone’s trying to come in. And it’s not even sunrise yet!”
Dessa looked at the watch she kept by her bedside, lit by moonlight streaming in from the open window. It was just before four in the morning, and the sun was nowhere in sight.
“Stay up here, Jane. I’ll see who it is.”
“But, Miss Dessa!” Jane grabbed her hand. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Yes, she wanted to say. But she shook her head, though she was sure it did little to convince the girl. At the top of the stairs she met Miss Remee, who’d taken residency in the third bedroom.
“Has this ever happened before?” Remee asked, pulling closed a robe provided from the donation box. She’d left behind all of her fancy gowns and nightclothes as payment for what she owed Miss Leola, bringing with her only one small satchel of belongings.
Fortified by Miss Remee’s presence—even in the few days since she’d joined them, Dessa had learned she was as tough as mutton—she answered with a voice far more brave than she’d felt a moment ago. “Only once. A drunkard. Perhaps it’s him again.”
Downstairs, Dessa approached the door while Remee went to the window to peek out. “Do you see anything?” Dessa whispered.
Remee shook her head.
“Who is it?” Dessa shouted through the door.
“It’s me, Miss Molly Malone. Fergal. Fergal Dunne. I have your note.”
“My note?”
“The one from the carriage house, don’t ya know?”
Miss Remee joined Dessa at the door. “That’s Fergal Dunne, all right. I’d know his voice anywhere. Let him in. He’s harmless.”
Dessa shook her head, having recognized the Irishman’s voice too. “And drunk, no doubt. I can’t let a man in here. Donors would stop their support the minute they found out.” Thankfully the Plumsteads had sent the donation she’d feared would not come, and she’d been able to make her first bank payment. But that didn’t mean such a thing would continue if the reputation of Pierson House were compromised. The Naracott donations were every bit as vital, and Dessa still worried their support could easily waver.
Remee reached past Dessa to pull open the door. “Then they won’t find out.”
A moment later the same drunken man who’d shown up shortly after she’d moved in was once again tottering into Dessa’s parlor.
“Why, Miss Remee!” He swayed before the other woman, his eyes blinking as if to clear his vision. “I heard a rumor ya might have come down here. And here ya be!”
“Yes, it’s true. But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Miss Anabel’s?”
“Got sacked.” Fergal Dunne wandered unsteadily to the chair nearby and plunked himself down. “Ah, ’tis a sad day when a man canna hold a job.” He looked up at them, swiping a sleeve over his mouth. “’Tis the drink, you know. It’s me ruin; it has an evil grip.”
Dessa stepped closer. “So you’re the one who’s been living in the carriage house, Mr. Dunne?”
He pulled off his hat and attempted to bow while still seated. “Only between—” he burped—“jobs.”
“And what is it you do?”
“He’s a bouncer,” Remee said. “Only no one keeps him on because he drinks all the whiskey meant for the girls and patrons. And when he promises to stop, the moment he has any money he goes out to buy his own. What kind of bouncer can barely keep on his feet, Fergal? It’s no wonder you can’t hold a job.”
He placed his hat over his heart and closed his eyes. A week’s worth of stubble lined his chubby chin, and his hat was every bit as crumpled as it had been the first time he’d visited.
“Too true, all.” Then he opened his eyes, took a moment to focus as his drunken gaze sought Dessa. “Which is why I shall be needin’ the use of the carriage house, if ya please. I’ve noplace else to go. Perhaps I might be the bouncer here, since ya have a few girls with ya now?”
Just as he asked the question, Jane peered around the wall separating the parlor from the staircase—wide-eyed but without the fear she’d exhibited earlier.
“I’ll work for meals,” Mr. Dunne offered. “Meals and a roof . . . such as it is in the carriage house, with more than a wee bit of a hole up there.”
Now Remee and Jane both looked at Dessa, as if wondering whether she could turn out someone in such obvious need.
She folded her arms against the chill. “Only until you find other employment, Mr. Dunne. And only as long as you stay sober. Do you understand? You’ll find no strong drink here, and I want none of it in that carriage house.”
He wobbled to his feet. “Ah, bless ya, bless ya indeed. ’Tis a true saint’s heart ya have beatin’ in there, Miss Molly Malone.”
“Miss Caldwell,” she corrected him but doubted he’d heard or would care, at least not until he was sober.
“And no cigars, either, Mr. Dunne,” she said as she steadied him on his way to the back door.
“So that’s how ya found me out,” he said over his shoulder. “Cigars and whiskey. Never was there such an evil pair. . . .”
Dessa shook her head, wondering all the way to the carriage house if taking him in was what Sophie Pierson would have done.
Somehow, she doubted it.
Henry sat at his desk, having arrived earlier than usual since rain had gotten in the way of his morning walk. He stared at the paperwork before him but saw not a bit of it. Too many thoughts were in the way. Wasted thoughts, useless ones. All centered around one person.
To his surprise and Tobias’s delight, Miss Caldwell had delivered her first payment in person. Henry had missed the momentous occasion, having been in an investment meeting, but Tobias had told him about it with a gleam of pride in his faded-blue eyes.
Irritated with himself for wasting a full five minutes simply staring rather than working, Henry leaned over his desk once again. But nothing could make him concentrate, not even his irritated impatience.
Such preoccupation was what came of being dragged back into society. He’d been happy enough on his own before this, hadn’t he? Well, perhaps happy wasn’t the right word. Certainly content. At least he hadn’t been unhappy living withdrawn from the world, detached and dispassionate. It was a life he’d been resigned to ever since the day he left Chicago. It was there he’d realized the choices he’d made before had allowed business success but destroyed any hope of success in personal matters.
When Tobias rapped on the door as he opened it, Henry was relieved at the interruption.
For the first ten minutes as Tobias went over various reports he’d brought with him, Henry kept his mind where it ought to have been all morning. No more visions of Dessa Caldwell—or worse, Turk Foster calling on Dessa Caldwell. Perhaps he would have a productive day after all.
When Tobias rose from his chair to leave, he shifted his paperwork from both hands to one, then put his free hand into his pocket.
“Henry,” he said, as if unsure of his next words. He pulled something from that pocket—a familiar handkerchief, although it was an odd shade for anyone’s taste, a lackluster beige. Henry had seen that particular slip of material before, when Tobias had stuffed it into one of the drawers of his desk. An odd handkerchief, indeed, that he seemed strangely protective of. “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”
Henry looked up at him, not annoyed but not interested, either. “I thought that was what we’ve been doing?”
Tobias shook his head. “No, this is rather more personal than business. It’s just . . . I’m not sure how to approach the subject, or if it’s my place to do so.”
Henry folded his arms over his chest. “Neither of us has time to stutter and stumble through some awkward uncle-to-nephew conversation. Why don’t you go back to your own office, and once you’ve figured out what you want to say—and if you still want to say it—come back and have done with it.”
Tobias opened his mouth, once again tugged on the material from his pocket, only to return it to where it had been.
Then he shook his head, turned, and walked to the door. “No.”
“No?”
He turned back at the door. “I haven’t any peace about it just yet. Perhaps the subject is unnecessary, after all. Good day, Henry.”
Henry glanced at the clock on his wall. “Good day? Are you leaving, Tobias? The day’s barely begun.”
But Tobias didn’t answer; he walked from the office, not bothering to close the door on his way out.
Henry watched his uncle as long as he could, but Tobias disappeared once he rounded Mr. Sprott’s desk.
Henry scowled as he tried shifting his attention back to his work. He knew exactly what Tobias wanted to talk to him about. They may have settled into a bank-president-and-manager relationship over the years, but the fact remained that Tobias was the only relative Henry still had any contact with. As Henry’s uncle, perhaps he felt it his duty to speak up about Henry’s choice to live the life of a social recluse. Heaven knew he’d tried many times to draw Henry out. Those dinner parties he held to impress investors hadn’t been Henry’s idea.
And now Tobias probably suspected Henry’s growing, unwieldy infatuation with Dessa Caldwell. Tobias had already tried nurturing it, and he’d no doubt push them right down the aisle if he could. Why not? Wasn’t his nephew like every other healthy young man, wanting home, hearth, and family?
And Henry did. Oh, how he did. He wasn’t foolish enough to forget the fact that he was getting older. If he didn’t marry soon, obtaining a wife and having children would become more a burden to them than a blessing. What wife wanted an old husband? Worse, what child wanted a father who more resembled a grandfather? Henry knew what it was like to lose a father; it wasn’t something he wished upon his own children.
There was only one question that trumped all of those. What wife, what child, wanted a man who might very well be destined for financial and social ruin?
Unfortunately for Henry, even the most somber answer did not keep him from devising possible reasons to see Miss Caldwell—even without Uncle Tobias’s interference.