by Maureen Lang
“What girl?”
Nadette wiped at her nose. “I wouldn’ta come ’cept I promised one a them girls at the China Palace that I’d do what I could.” She glared at Remee. “I don’t go back on my word.”
“What about this girl, Nadette?” Dessa asked.
“I want ya to help me get her out, soon as she’s delivered. Before . . . ya know, before someone gets his hands on her.”
“Delivered . . . you mean she’s being brought to a brothel against her will?”
Nadette nodded. “It’s Liling’s baby sister, Mei Mei, grown up to fourteen now. They say it’s her turn to come here, but Liling don’t want her to have to do the same thing they brought her here for—ya know, for all them railroad Chinamen. She don’t want Mei Mei to be no baak haak chai.” She lifted her chin as if proud she knew a second language. “That’s—”
“One hundred men’s wife,” Remee finished. “Most of us have been called that in just about every language there is.”
Dessa recalled Mariadela’s warning against getting involved in a culture not her own. . . . And hadn’t she heard there was some kind of halt on legal immigration of Chinese? That might stop the trouble before it even began.
“If she’s coming from China, they won’t be able to bring her into the country, Nadette. They’ll be stopped at immigration, and she’ll be sent back.”
Both Nadette and Remee laughed at that.
Nadette added a sneer. “You think they’d do anything legal like bringin’ her through immigration?”
Dessa sighed; she should have known. And if a fourteen-year-old girl was being brought here only to be a prostitute—too young to decide for herself—wasn’t it Dessa’s duty to see that she be spared such a fate? There must be a reason God had cleared the way for this information to reach Dessa. “When is the girl supposed to arrive?”
Nadette lifted her hands. “I dunno! But I know it’s soon, ’cause I heard ’em talking about it myself. Everybody knows about it—the more they talk, the higher the price goes for her first customer. Even my soaper’s wife is worried he’ll make a bid for her! Liling is real pretty, and they say her sister must be even prettier, ’cause she ain’t been used like Liling. Yet.”
Fury sprouted roots around Dessa’s heart. That such a thing should be planned as if a girl’s virtue—her entire future—could be bid on like some kind of thing. This was a human being made in the image of God—and just a child!
“You tell Liling if she can get her sister here, I’ll hide her.”
“Okay!”
Then Nadette spun on her heel and left before Dessa could call her back for the muffin she’d promised.
Closing the door, Dessa turned and her gaze landed on Remee’s somber one. The other woman shook her head. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
That, Dessa could not deny.
23
MR. FOSTER had already visited Pierson House twice more, and during the first of these he and Remee had discussed ideas and details without even waiting for Dessa to return from the kitchen with tea. During his second visit Mr. Foster had announced that his theater manager fully supported the musical revue they planned to present, and if they used their current talent, they could be ready in a couple of weeks. As far as Dessa was concerned, the sooner it was held, the better.
To Dessa’s surprise, Mr. Foster asked if she might consider performing as well. If Remee’s judgment could be trusted, along with Jane’s opinion, Dessa would be just what the show needed.
But she’d refused; she couldn’t fool herself into thinking that singing before an audience, even for a cause dear to her heart, was proper. She admitted she knew nothing about theater shows and was glad to leave the details entirely in the hands of Mr. Foster and his employees. She asked only that the songs performed would be respectable.
Later in the week, Mr. Foster arrived with an artist’s preliminary poster that, once printed, would be pasted all around the city as soon as possible to advertise the new revue benefiting Pierson House. She was amazed at the speed Mr. Foster worked; everything was moving so quickly. And yet it was exciting, knowing soon she would have a substantial amount of money to pay down her loan. Wouldn’t Mr. Hawkins be pleased by that!
She had to admit the poster was striking. On Sunday the twenty-first of August, it claimed, all profits of the Verandah would help keep Pierson House going. Since Dessa had insisted that no alcohol be served—something both Mr. Foster and Remee initially objected to—it would allow the Verandah to be open on a Sunday. Not that most businesses in the Fourth Ward adhered to Sabbath day closings anyway, but Dessa was glad to have gotten her way on this.
The exact function of Pierson House wasn’t mentioned, and there was a bare-shouldered woman drawn along one edge of the poster, obviously singing. But overall the advertisement was in good taste with bold, clear printing and a pretty scalloped design decorating the border. Remee had gushed over it at first sight. All Mr. Foster needed before going to print was Dessa’s approval.
Dessa couldn’t help being impressed by Mr. Foster’s eagerness and attention to detail. He was obviously well versed in planning—and promoting—whatever went on in his theater.
He always stayed for a cup of tea, a time during which Jane disappeared to her own room but Remee stayed. That was fine with Dessa. She had no conscious desire to be alone with Mr. Foster, even if he was as charming as ever. Yet if she were honest, at least with herself, she was immune neither to those charms nor to every engaging expression Mr. Foster aimed her way. His smiles were warm, and when he laughed, his brows lifted in delight. The brow with the scar could catch her attention, but no less than the apparently sincere admiration she saw in his gaze.
What was it about a man’s admiration that was so difficult to ignore? Was it some need inside Dessa that she’d ignored all these years as she attempted to emulate the focused life of her mentor? She wondered if Sophie had ever wanted the attention of a handsome man, though she couldn’t imagine her ever losing a moment’s sleep over such a thing.
But before Dessa drifted off to sleep each night, after reading her Bible, after the prayers that kept her mind where she wanted it, it wasn’t an image of Mr. Foster that she struggled to keep at bay. More often it was the face of Mr. Henry Hawkins. She thought of him sitting at her dining room table, or laughing outright in her kitchen, or sitting in church on Sunday as he’d tried so desperately to disappear from everyone’s stare.
Not that she welcomed visions of Mr. Hawkins any more than those of Mr. Foster. Despite the hopes Mariadela and Jane had inspired after Mr. Hawkins’s church visit, romance wasn’t for Dessa—and marriage certainly wasn’t. She’d given away that opportunity even before she’d decided to take up where Sophie had left off.
As the week went by, Dessa knew that as honorable as it might sound to invite Mr. Hawkins to church, it wasn’t proper for that invitation to come from her. She would be pleased to bring him a large sum of money after the benefit, but she wouldn’t indulge the personal feelings that were all too eager to command her attention.
However, on Friday morning, when an invitation arrived to none other than the Hawkins National Bank investors’ dinner, to be held in Mr. Hawkins’s home, every wish of spending more time in his company was renewed. The thought of visiting his house, seeing him there, intrigued Dessa more than she should allow.
Dessa was certainly not an investor; in fact, she was just the opposite. She’d borrowed money that Mr. Hawkins himself had expressed doubts she could repay. She was the last person in Denver whose name should appear on that invitation list. And yet he’d either allowed it . . . or thought of it himself.
She scanned the invitation again. “You are cordially invited to attend the semiannual Hawkins National Bank dinner gala on Sunday, the twenty-first day of August.”
Sunday, the twenty-first day of August . . .
The very same date as the benefit for Pierson House!
The disastrous timing w
as clear: the biggest investors of the city would be busy at the Hawkins dinner—and unavailable to attend any event benefiting Pierson House.
And somehow worse, though certainly not as important, Dessa would be unable to attend both events.
Dessa clutched the invitation to her chest, calling immediately for Jane, who’d gone upstairs to rummage through the material box in search of something suitable to replicate a hair band she’d seen in a catalog. New hair ornaments were among the girl’s favorite fashions. No sense alarming Remee with the conflict, at least not yet.
By the time Jane answered Dessa’s call, Dessa was already putting on her gloves. “I have an errand to run, Jane. Do you think you could see about dinner preparations for me? I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
Because, indeed, she might have to make two calls this afternoon. One to the Verandah, and the other to the bank.
At the Verandah, Dessa found each window as well as the ornate double doors wide open to let in fresh air, but inside it was nearly empty—at least of patrons. Various employees bustled about the huge, gilt hall. She saw immediately that for a theater there were precious few chairs. More common were tables, where employees now brushed felt-draped surfaces of various heights and lengths; round wood tables were being dusted, along with a couple of elongated tables that hosted a sort of box elevated in the center with neat squares cut out in a curious pattern. A few of the tables had high sides and white squares painted on each end while their centers held glistening circles with red and black numbers etched along the edges.
But the most impressive feature was a polished bar along one wall, complete with spittoons strategically placed along a brass foot rail. Behind it hung a huge, glittering mirror that reflected the electric chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.
Was this a theater, or a drinking establishment?
Dessa’s heart sank with each step, particularly since the stage on the farthest end of the room was the last thing she noticed. Though a green velvet curtain was pulled back to reveal an ample performance platform, it was more than clear that the theater was anything but a focal point of the Verandah’s business.
Dessa gripped her handbag even tighter as she approached one of the workers.
“Excuse me,” she said, and the man stopped brushing one of the tables to face her. “Can you direct me to Mr. Foster? Can I find him here . . . so early in the day?”
The man grinned, giving her a glance that lasted too long and traveled too far. “Sure, he’s here. See that door, over there in the corner?” He pointed to a door inset with paneling and a small plaque centered at eye level. “You want me to go over there with you? I’ll knock for you and announce your name if you tell it to me.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Then, after a single step away, she glanced back at him with a tight smile. “But thank you for the offer.”
He grinned again. “Ain’t you the polite one? Quite a difference from what we usually see around here.”
Dessa found her way through the maze of tables. How could anyone call this a concert hall, with so few chairs? At the moment those chairs were placed in a meager stack to the side while the floor was being cleaned. The only places for them would be at the various tables interspersed throughout the room. How could patrons enjoy whatever performance was being presented when some of their backs would no doubt be facing that stage?
The brass plate affixed to the door warned that whatever lay behind was private. After a moment’s hesitation, Dessa knocked, but it wasn’t Mr. Foster who answered. Rather a tall man, solidly built, opened the door only wide enough to see Dessa, blocking her either from entering or from seeing beyond his broad shoulders. The surprise on his face was quickly replaced by a large smile.
“Can I help you, miss?” As he asked, he relaxed his hold on the door, opening it a bit farther.
“I’m looking for Mr. Foster and was told I might find him here. My name is Dessa—”
“Caldwell,” the man finished for her. “I know who you are, miss. I drive the carriage for Mr. Foster and been by your place.”
Before he finished his admission, Mr. Foster approached from behind, his face full of delight.
“Miss Caldwell! What an unexpected surprise. Come in, won’t you? Can I offer you refreshment? I’m afraid I don’t have any tea, but I could send Thomas to find some cider for you.”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head, “please don’t go to any trouble. I cannot stay. I came to ask you something that couldn’t wait until your next visit to Pierson House. Tell me, have you arranged for the posters announcing the date of our benefit to be printed?” Even as the question came out, she couldn’t ignore the weight lingering in her stomach. A benefit for Pierson House—here!
Mr. Foster stood a trifle taller, brushing aside the lapels of his jacket to tuck his thumbs beneath the suspenders he wore. “Printed yesterday and being pasted around the city as we speak. One day ahead of schedule.”
“Oh . . .”
He frowned. “But I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am—by your diligence. Only . . . well, it’s what I came to ask you. It’s too late, though. No matter.” The words came out, but inside she knew it did matter, at least to her, a great deal. “Thank you, Mr. Foster. Your enthusiasm is admirable, as usual.”
He reached out a hand to detain her but stopped short. Still, his fingers grazed the sleeve of her basque.
“Tell me what’s troubling you, Miss Caldwell,” he said softly. “Perhaps there’s something I can do.”
“No, no, it’s nothing. A scheduling conflict has come up, but there’s nothing to be done about it if the announcements have been posted.” Nor anything to be done about the venue. . . .
Now he took her elbow, guiding her farther inside the room. Plush settees and chairs were clustered in small groups near another ornately carved bar. This one was also replete with a mirror reflecting bottles of various height and width set along its lower edge, though there was not a spittoon in sight.
Despite the opulence of the furnishings, Dessa couldn’t banish her uneasiness. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected of a respectable theater. Why, oh why, had she so hastily allowed Mr. Foster to arrange this benefit?
She summoned a feeble protest in an attempt to rally her spirits. Should she have refused any help if it would benefit Pierson House? Remee had reminded her more than once that the business side of supporting Pierson House was at least as important as the spiritual side. Righteous indignation tried to stand up against Dessa’s queasy apprehension. It had seemed such a reasonable idea at the start. . . .
Nearly without her knowing, Mr. Foster had deposited her in a chair deeply upholstered in red velvet. She knew she mustn’t stay. No matter how generous the offer, the fact remained that the Verandah was no theater; it was a drinking and gaming hall. She oughtn’t have agreed to the offer—or even entered such an establishment.
She must go to the bank. She’d thought she’d have to tell Mr. Hawkins that she wasn’t free to attend his party, much as she would have liked to. But now . . . perhaps she ought to confess her concern about her involvement with the musical revue.
While it was possible she might not be required to attend the revue Mr. Foster and Remee had designed, how rude would it be for Dessa not to show her gratitude? Yet how could she be seen to support the venue?
It had all happened so quickly.
“Tell me about this scheduling conflict,” said Mr. Foster. “I admit it’s only a week after an annual ball the Verandah hosts, but that one is purely for entertainment purposes, without a penny of expense to my invited patrons. With a week in between, I assure you my clientele will be ready to empty their pockets, especially for a good cause.”
“A . . . ball?”
He waved away her inquiry, as if he regretted having mentioned it, and took a seat opposite her, in another of the fancy chairs.
A glimmer of hope, nearly too small to be felt, came to life inside
her. If he hosted a society ball, perhaps he did draw the kind of wealthy people she hoped could be most generous, from the broad and respectable population that grew every day in Denver.
“What sort of ball?” she persisted.
“Nothing for you to concern yourself over, Miss Caldwell. It’s a business obligation for me; otherwise you’d have been my very special guest, I assure you. But it’s not likely to be the kind of ball you would be accustomed to.”
Accustomed to? She’d never in her life been to a ball, and though the Pierson family had hosted many, all it ever meant to the staff, including Dessa, was a change in routine, added duties, and more often than not every bedroom in the house filled with demanding overnight guests.
“But if there will be Denver business patrons attending—”
Mr. Foster’s handsome face set ominously. “No, Miss Caldwell. This one’s not for you.”
She let out a resigned sigh. What was she thinking, anyway? How could she tell him it wasn’t so much a wish to attend as a wish to know how respectable was his guest list? She hoped the ball might give her some assurance that aligning the name of Pierson House with the Verandah wasn’t the complete mistake she’d suspected a moment ago. But evidently she would have to trust Mr. Foster entirely.
She stood, holding out her hand to bid him farewell. “Thank you, Mr. Foster.”
He stood as well, taking a step that put him a bit too close. “Don’t you think you might call me Turk, Miss Caldwell? Dessa? After all, we’re friends now, aren’t we?”
His inviting gaze held her attention. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her to address him so intimately, but it had never seemed proper. Here, seeing the Verandah for what it was, the prospect of such friendly and familiar terms seemed even less so.
She pulled her hand from his. “I’m sorry, Mr. Foster. I do think it’s best to keep our relationship formal. I hope you understand.”