All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  Jane took a step nearer, having been close enough to hear the entire conversation. “It’ll help if you have Miss Dessa on one side and me on the other, won’t it? If anybody frowns your way, we’ll meet them with a smile times three. That’ll be like heaping hot coals of kindness on them, just like in the Bible. Right, Miss Dessa?”

  But Mr. Dunne, just opening the door, spoke before Dessa could. “A smile times four, if ya please.”

  He winked and ushered them out the door.

  Henry sat in his carriage, staring across at the empty seat opposite him. Despite assuring himself this was the right thing to do, he wasn’t at all sure his effort would be accepted.

  Suppose Miss Caldwell remained as embarrassed as he was? Suppose she didn’t want his help? Suppose she thought he believed less of her, regardless of how she’d received Foster’s kiss?

  When he’d left Pierson House so rashly last night, he’d convinced himself he ought to wash his hands of this whole mess. Dismiss the loan as a lost investment, should it come to that. Not get involved in trying to save the place, and only hope from afar that it survived.

  But he knew he couldn’t do it. If today’s struggle was ultimately one of pride, it was a foolish struggle. Perhaps what he felt wasn’t only embarrassed regret over the way he’d broken into her parlor, but fear that his own would-be kiss had been just another of its kind. From what he recalled of the moment in his office—and he recalled it in detail—she’d have accepted his kiss. Had he misread her? Had Foster done the same, in whatever had taken place before he’d kissed her?

  The slowing of Henry’s carriage drew his attention from such unpleasant thoughts. He looked out the window, seeing he was still more than a block from Pierson House.

  Just as he wondered why Fallo was stopping the carriage, he spotted a foursome walking along the sidewalk. At this hour on a Sunday morning, and on this end of the city, there was little activity to attract attention. He saw immediately that among those four walking were Jane Murphy and Dessa Caldwell.

  It seemed as if he would face his embarrassment a few minutes earlier than expected.

  “Oh, look! Isn’t that Mr. Hawkins’s carriage?”

  Dessa wasn’t sure who had spotted the carriage first, she or Jane. But Jane’s call commanded Remee’s attention as well as Mr. Dunne’s.

  Dessa stopped just as the carriage came to a halt before them, but her heart rate picked up as if extra blood flow were needed for a sprint. She’d convinced herself she wouldn’t be seeing him this morning. Not after last night. If he’d meant to come to church today in support of Pierson House, she was sure that had ended the moment he’d burst into her parlor.

  She didn’t flatter herself to even think jealousy had been the cause of his reaction. Wounded pride, perhaps, was the most personal motivation she should ascribe to him. She hadn’t forgotten their own near kiss, and there she’d been, fully accepting the kiss of another—or so he obviously thought.

  Mr. Hawkins jumped from his carriage, and she knew she had no choice but to face him. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he was here, in her neighborhood. That realization alone brought a faint glimmer of hope.

  “Thank you for stopping, Fallo,” Mr. Hawkins called up to his driver. Then he stepped closer to Dessa. If last night had embarrassed him at all, she saw not a trace of it now. “I came to offer my carriage. Although . . .” His voice dwindled somewhat as he took in the four of them. “I’ll sit atop with my driver, so the four of you will easily fit.”

  “I haven’t any objection to sittin’ up top, sir,” said Mr. Dunne. “Never been inside such a fancy rig anyway—wouldn’t know how to sit in one.”

  “All the more reason you should sit in one now.” Replacing his hat, Mr. Hawkins climbed to the driver’s seat while the driver himself offered assistance to the others.

  So he was embarrassed after all. He may have been kind enough to offer transportation today—or perhaps it was his way of assuring that she would face the trouble her errors had created—but he couldn’t bear to sit in the same carriage with her.

  At the church, Mr. Hawkins once again sat directly behind Dessa. Although her concentration was somewhat divided, she knew her prayers were answered, particularly when Remee afforded her a smile. No one had so much as lifted a condemning brow in her direction.

  Those who were interested in meeting about the future of Pierson House funding were invited to remain in the sanctuary after the service ended. Reverend Sempkins began the discussion with the facts. To one or two gasps, he revealed one of the posters that were even now being taken care of. Mr. Hawkins stood to assure everyone that his Mr. Ridgeway had hired an army of boys to search the city and remove every one of them.

  Then Mariadela stood. “If any of you wish to cast blame, I shouldn’t be spared from receiving some. Denver has been my home nearly all my life. I know what goes on at the Verandah. Until Friday, Dessa didn’t.” She lifted her chin ever so slightly. “If I hadn’t been so busy at the store, I’d have prevented this whole mistake. Not that I think it was that, entirely. Mr. Turk Foster likely knew exactly what he was doing.”

  As grateful—and humbled—as Dessa was, she could not remain silent while Mariadela made her offer to share the blame.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, standing as well, “please don’t cast blame anywhere but at my own feet. It was foolish of me to risk the good—but new—name of Pierson House. I didn’t realize how foolish until seeing the Verandah for the first time. If I have any excuse, however feeble, it’s to cite the speed with which the plans went forward. Mr. Foster came to Pierson House a little more than a week ago and offered his theater as the venue for a musical revue. That was all I knew. I know ignorance is hardly an excuse, but unfortunately that’s the truth. The arrangements accelerated so fast, all I could think was not to refuse a donation—of any kind. The apostle Paul himself once said so long as the gospel was preached, he was happy. I’m afraid I used that to soften whatever qualms I might have had. If the funds were garnered legally, then I was willing to accept them.”

  Mrs. Naracott stood, gloved hands folded tightly in front of her. “That’s just it, Miss Caldwell. Any funds you might receive from a place like the Verandah would be quite illegal. How could you not know that?”

  Dessa turned to her in surprise. “But . . . the Verandah operates openly. I realize Mr. Foster calls his business a theater and more goes on there than just musical entertainment, but—”

  Mrs. Naracott cut in. “It’s still an illegal gambling den. Illegal, Miss Caldwell.”

  Mr. Hawkins, who’d kept his seat behind Dessa, now stood as well. “Everyone knows the ordinances against gambling are ignored. How many residents in Denver are gamblers themselves? Wasn’t your father a silver miner, Mrs. Naracott? What are miners, except gamblers?”

  “That doesn’t make the money raised in a place like the Verandah legal.”

  “No, of course not, but if Miss Caldwell believed it to be one kind of place, only to learn it was another, she can’t really be blamed, can she?”

  Though Mrs. Naracott had looked away when Mr. Hawkins raised the origin of her family’s wealth, she now squared her shoulders and stared directly at Dessa. Dessa had all she could do not to cower, feeling once again like the maid she’d been reared to be. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Naracott’s father hadn’t inherited his wealth; Mrs. Naracott had, and with such an inheritance came audacity that Dessa had seen before.

  “With Pierson House’s name and reputation yet to be firmly established, and so thoroughly dependent upon the goodwill of others, you are obligated to keep your motives clear and your efforts free of anything remotely scandalous.” Mrs. Naracott’s gaze fluttered over the small crowd of fifteen or twenty people seated around them. “How do we know something like this won’t happen again?”

  “I assure you it won’t,” Dessa said quietly, looking submissively toward the floor, just as she’d been taught when addressing anyone of wealth or status.


  But Mr. Hawkins evidently wasn’t finished. “Has anyone considered another fact? Something Mrs. White alluded to? This might not have been a mistake of Miss Caldwell’s as much as a plan of Turk Foster’s. What of his motives? Does anyone find it remotely suspicious that he approached Miss Caldwell such a short time ago and within a few days put an entire musical program together, then plastered advertisements all over the city? Should we ascribe this to altruism, or does his haste speak of something else? A desire to cause the very kind of trouble we’re having right now? Wouldn’t he wish to see a place like Pierson House closed?”

  Reverend Sempkins nodded. “I do recall those days when one alderman or another tried to shut down the gambling halls. Mr. Foster was the biggest protestor. I suppose having a haven like Pierson House is a reminder of virtue he’d most like forgotten.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement with the suspicion, which Mrs. Naracott likely didn’t miss.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m willing to overlook what happened this time. If everyone else is.”

  So support remained intact for Pierson House, but the benefit was not to be. Dessa was too relieved over having retained the trust of the donors—however shaken—to mourn the loss of whatever added funds a benefit at the Verandah might have brought in. She’d made the first payment on her loan and somehow, even without the Plumsteads’ help, she would make the second and the third and every payment thereafter until the entire debt was freed.

  Soon after the meeting ended, Mr. Hawkins escorted Dessa out of the church. If she wasn’t mistaken about the lack of tension on his face, he was relieved to have it over as well.

  “I wish to thank you for all you’ve done, Mr. Hawkins,” she said. “Not only for showing your support here today, but arranging to have the posters removed. I am once again—or should I say more deeply—in your debt.”

  “It was Reverend Sempkins who made the most difference, I believe. If you’d lost his support after last night’s disaster, I think today’s meeting might have ended differently.”

  She swallowed hard at the reminder.

  “Now it’s I who should apologize.”

  She spared a quick glance. “Why?”

  “For even bringing up last night. An evening best forgotten.”

  Dessa nodded. “Yes, I agree. I’m trying to do that myself.”

  At his carriage, he stopped short while the others boarded with his driver’s assistance. “I wonder, Miss Caldwell,” he said, so low she was sure only she could hear him, “if we might have a word. Privately.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  With both hands on his walking stick, he leaned slightly forward but looked to the side rather than directly at her face.

  “I’d like to reissue the invitation to my dinner party.” His gaze briefly shot to hers, then eluded her again. “Now that you have that evening free.”

  Warmth circled her heart, settling in comfortably. “Yes, I’d like that, Mr. Hawkins.” She turned to the waiting carriage but stopped to face him again. “Thank you for everything you’ve done to help me. Considering . . . everything . . . I’m very appreciative.”

  “Everything?”

  The heat of a blush rose to her cheeks. “Only that you weren’t initially in favor of Pierson House. Your support now means that much more.”

  His gaze lingered on her, and she wondered what he was thinking. He always looked so serious that she was afraid she would never be able to guess at his thoughts. Perhaps, despite his support today, he didn’t really believe in her mission. He did, after all, have a vested interest in keeping the donors happy.

  But he only tipped his hat her way without another word for or against her assumption of his sympathies. He offered her assistance into his carriage; then after his driver closed them all inside, both Mr. Hawkins and the driver hopped up top to take them back to Pierson House.

  27

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Dessa kept herself busier than ever in a vain attempt to forget her most recent mistake. Through Mariadela, she’d arranged to provide several restaurants with a variety of pies and muffins to sell to their patrons. She also provided a steady supply of cookies to Mariadela’s store, where they were becoming increasingly popular.

  Unfortunately, creating baked goods she could concoct in her sleep did little to make the days pass quickly—days she was tempted to count until Mr. Hawkins’s dinner party. As much as she’d tried ignoring the unbidden feelings developing for him, she knew she couldn’t.

  Still, she couldn’t help but call herself foolish for not fighting harder to banish her thoughts of him, let alone allowing herself the hope of spending time in his company. The struggle reminded Dessa that as much as she wanted to follow in Sophie’s footsteps, she did not have the same gift of undivided focus on God and the task He’d assigned her. She truly did still hope to earn a man’s love someday. Not just any man’s. Henry Hawkins’s.

  But how, if she could not be honest about her past? Mr. Hawkins, I hope you don’t think me forward, but there is something you ought to know about me. . . . Mr. Hawkins, I hope I’m not misunderstanding your intentions, but there really is something I ought to share. . . . Mr. Hawkins . . .

  Oh! Nothing sounded right. How could she admit that although Sophie Pierson had rescued her from public ruin, that ruin was nothing less than secretly complete?

  But she was the first to tell women like Remee that God had forgiven them of anything in their past. Wasn’t the same true for Dessa?

  And so, even while her mind still cried caution, she fought less and less those dreams of getting to know Henry Hawkins better. He’d already provided the next occasion to do so.

  Mariadela supplied an answer to the one dilemma Dessa faced in having accepted his invitation. She eagerly offered the loan of a ready-made gown hanging on a mannequin at the store, a copy of a gown designed in Paris. Lacy sleeves of cream satin displayed swirls of beaded black circles, completed by delicate black striping along the bodice that cascaded down the full skirt all the way to the floor. It was a gown Dessa had noticed when Mariadela first hung it for show—never imagining she would one day alter it to fit herself.

  Those alterations were nearly complete, but today she had an order for a half-dozen pies. Finishing the gown would have to wait.

  “Miss Caldwell!” The sound came from the backyard, through the open door from the porch. “Miss Caldwell!”

  Dessa welcomed the interruption to her thoughts. She set aside the lemon cream that she would add to the four pie shells cooling on the table and went to the back door, spotting Nadette and calling her in.

  “Would you like a couple of cookies? I have two different kinds ready for delivery to the store. Gingersnap and shortbread. I can offer you some milk, too—”

  “Miss Caldwell! Stop!” Nadette waved both hands in front of her frantically. “I can’t think of food right now. You promised to help me, remember?” She looked over Dessa’s shoulder at the empty kitchen as if to be sure they were alone. “Liling’s sister, ya know? You’ll still help, won’t ya?”

  Now it was Dessa’s turn to glance nervously over her shoulder, even though she knew both Remee and Jane were in the dining room, sewing table linens.

  “Yes, I remember. What I don’t understand is why you want to help so much, Nadette. I thought you approved of working girls?”

  “If they’re paid! They don’t pay Liling, and they ain’t gonna pay her sister nothin’ neither. It ain’t fair, is all. Ya ain’t changed yer mind, have ya?”

  “No.” Her hesitation to get involved in a culture she knew nothing about wasn’t enough to stop this wrong if she could. “Just so long as you understand I’m getting involved to save her from prostitution. Not so she can branch out on her own to make money.”

  “She ought to be the one to make that choice, don’t ya think? ’Stead a bein’ forced?”

  Dessa nodded, although if she succeeded, the girl wouldn’t ever have to make such a choice. “Has s
he arrived?”

  “They got word she’s on the train comin’ in today.” She blew a disgusted puff of air through her thin lips. “With a escort to keep her intact, if ya know what I mean. It’s like keepin’ a man bound for the noose healthy enough to climb the steps to the rope. The sale of her first time is set for tomorrow. You know how much money they’re gonna make offa her? And she won’t see a cent, not a red cent! So Liling wants to sneak her away right off—tonight. I’ll bring ’em both here, but I don’t know what time. It’ll be in the middle of the night, though. Ya sure no one else’ll tell? I don’t trust that Miss Remee no more. Nobody can know she’s here, Miss Caldwell. Nobody.”

  “She’ll be safe here, Nadette. I promise you that.”

  Nadette nodded. “Okay, then. Tonight.” She started to turn away, but stopped. “Can ya be out here, on the porch? All night, so you can let us in? I don’t wanna have to throw stones at yer window in case somebody sees us. Never know who’ll be out around here while the sun’s still down. Can ya be waitin’ for us?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right here on the porch. All night, if necessary.”

  “Henry?”

  He looked up from the papers on his desk, papers he must pretend had held his attention. He hadn’t produced more than fifteen minutes of work in the entire hour since he’d arrived in his office. The fact that it was not only Miss Caldwell but a worn edition of a Bible left behind by his father that had held his attention was something he wasn’t ready to share—even with Tobias, who was likely to welcome either subject.

  Going to church these past couple of weeks had stirred something in Henry he hadn’t felt in years. All this time he’d been convinced his business success had been undeserved. Striving to alleviate his guilt, paying back the money—none of that had worked.

  But if Reverend Sempkins was right, forgiveness was as undeserved as Henry’s success had been. He was just beginning to realize that was what made it a gift.