But surprisingly, Mother smiled. “Mr. Abbott, I have no intention of letting this paper fail.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but do you know how to—”
“I started working as a typesetter when I was Emma’s age. During the four years I spent at that, I learned everything there is to know about the mechanical needs of a printing press. Then I married the publisher’s son. My husband became publisher a year later when his father died, and he taught me a great deal about the business. After my husband enlisted in the Union army, I oversaw the newspaper’s operation for another six months. I ceased publication only because I wanted to devote my energies to war relief work. I was very active in the Sanitary Commission—which, as I’m sure you’re aware, saved countless lives by raising money to provide healthy food and medical supplies for soldiers in need.”
Emma dared a glance at the two men. Both were listening intently.
“In addition, I served on the steering committee of the 1863 Chicago Sanitary Fair,” Mother went on. “I negotiated contracts, oversaw construction of the exhibition pavilions, and managed fund-raising activities that ultimately raised more than one hundred thousand dollars to help our soldiers. I am quite capable of conducting business outside of the home.”
Mr. Spaulding blinked. Mr. Abbott’s eyebrows raised.
Mother was still building steam. “I’m here to make a success of this newspaper. And I have a very capable daughter to help me. I don’t pretend for a moment that it will be easy. We have subscriptions to solicit, advertisements to sell, news to gather. We have stories to write and set, paper and ink to secure, and a small staff to hire. All this, knowing that someone in this town already wants Emma and me to fail. But I assure you, gentlemen, that it will be done.”
That torrent of assurance left Mr. Spaulding speechless. Mr. Abbott nodded, looking pleased. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Emma’s mouth. Whoever wanted her and Mother to pack up and leave town was going to be very disappointed.
Homesickness balled in Emma’s throat that evening as she unpacked the few mementos she’d been able to bring from Chicago. She put her copy of Father’s daguerreotype on her half of the dresser and placed her precious packet of letters from him beside it. She put a little shell-covered box that Judith had given her beside the letters. The box held a mourning brooch made with a lock of Father’s hair. She propped up one of her paintings and pinned a fashion plate from Godey’s on the wall. Only then did she feel ready to slip into her own nightgown and slide between the sheets. They smelled of lye soap.
Mother was silent as she put on her nightgown and brushed her hair, then opened one window a bit to let some cool mountain air into the stuffy room. She got out her notebook and pencil, but she only stared at the blank page.
Emma finally broke the silence. “Who do you think could have left that note and stolen the lever? I can’t imagine who would be willing to sacrifice having a newspaper, and all the good it can do, just because the editor is a woman. Who would be so mean?”
Mother rubbed at a flyspeck on her notebook. “I have to believe it’s just a mischief-maker—someone who thought it would be funny to see if a woman editor would have the vapors at the first sign of trouble.”
Emma didn’t think it was the least bit funny. Did he have more tricks in mind?
Mother sighed. “Oh, Emma. Twin Pines is not at all what I expected.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have taken Mr. Spaulding’s word for everything,” Emma murmured. It was disrespectful, but honestly! Mother prided herself on her business sense!
“You’re right. I didn’t ask enough questions. After all the rejections, I was just happy to get Mr. Spaulding’s letter. I guess I wanted to believe that everything would work out.”
Emma stared at the ceiling. She didn’t know what to say.
Mother turned down the oil lamp, and darkness cloaked the room. Several moments passed before she spoke again. “I’m quite unhappy with Mr. Spaulding for misleading us.”
Emma was too, but she thought she understood his deception. “He needs you, Mother. It sounds like a lot of people around here need you.”
“They need us, Emma. I couldn’t do this without you, you know. You kept your wits about you this afternoon, just when I was at wit’s end. I was very proud of you.”
The unexpected praise made Emma feel guilty for her lukewarm support of this newspaper venture. She was still thinking that over as she heard Mother’s breathing deepen into the rhythm of sleep. She wished she could talk to Judith—
Suddenly Emma sat bolt upright in bed. Through the open window came the faint but unmistakable sound of whistling.
Someone was whistling Maggie by My Side … with the same jaunty style, the same pause on the high note, that she’d heard from Father a thousand times before he went to war. Just as she’d heard the tune whistled again in Chicago as she and Mother prepared for the journey west, and again on the road. Exactly the same.
Emma clutched the quilt to her chest as a shiver whisked down her spine. “Father?” she whispered, wishing she could claw away the darkness. Her heart hammered.
The last whistled note, held long, seemed to hang in the night air. Then—nothing, except Mother’s even breathing and faint shouts from the saloon across the street.
Emma finally lay back down. But a long time passed before she stopped trembling and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 4
MEETING THE BOARDERS
The next morning, Emma woke to the noise of male voices and heavy footsteps in the corridor—the other boarders. She kept her eyes closed, remembering the threatening note and the stolen press lever, the whistled tune and the icy ball of fear she’d felt, wondering if Father’s ghost was near. Emma wished she could stay in bed. Should she tell Mother she’d heard Maggie by My Side again? Surely she could convince Mother that she hadn’t imagined it—
“Good morning, Emma.” Mother’s cheery voice punctured Emma’s thoughts. Her spirits lifted as she splashed some water into the bowl on her nightstand and washed her face. The aroma of frying bacon beckoned beneath the door. Sunlight streamed through Mrs. Sloane’s starched muslin curtains. The last shreds of Emma’s fear faded. If Father … well, if his spirit could come back, he wouldn’t want to frighten her! The whistler was surely a real man. Maggie by My Side had been a popular tune. Probably every man in Colorado knew it.
“Well, Emma? Do you want to wear your Reform Dress today?”
Emma looked up from the towel. Mother had insisted on making her one of the horrid trouser costumes. It hung now from a peg on the wall, cranberry red with white spots. “Mother, I told you I wouldn’t!”
“I had hoped you might change your mind,” Mother said quietly. “I thought it would be a fitting way to start our new venture together. But it’s your choice. That’s what dress reformers want to do—encourage women to make their own choices.”
Emma hesitated. “Mother, maybe you should wait a day or two. What if … what if Mr. Spaulding isn’t comfortable having a dress reformer in charge of his town newspaper?”
Mother raised one eyebrow. “I mentioned my interest in dress reform in my introductory letter. It didn’t stop him from hiring me.”
Crackers. Emma tried to think of a new argument. “But someone in this town is already unhappy because Mr. Spaulding hired a woman. Maybe—”
“Emma. I’ve already said I’d accept your decision. Now I’m asking you to accept mine.”
I can’t, Emma thought, remembering the thrown egg, and Mrs. Littleton’s scorn, back in Chicago … and Mrs. Sloane’s proper air … and how beautiful Miss Amaretta Holly had looked riding sidesaddle, her skirt draped and flowing. I simply can’t.
Emma dressed slowly, hoping Mother would go downstairs without her. She chose her good wheat-colored dress with braid trim and took special care arranging her hair. Perhaps if she dressed well, people would be less judgmental about Mother’s attire. She studied herself in the mirror. Perhaps the mourning br
ooch would help as well—
“Emma Catherine Henderson!” Mother stood by the door. “I—am—waiting.”
“I’m coming!” Emma said, but she couldn’t help adding, “Mother, aren’t you at all afraid of what people will say? What if—what if someone throws an egg at you?”
Mother lifted her chin. “I believe in what this costume stands for. My husband went to war because of something he believed in. How can I be afraid of a few taunts, or even an egg or two? Come along, now.”
Emma followed Mother down the stairs, wrestling with guilt and embarrassment. Through the open dining-room door she could hear a cheerful babble of voices—
Which fell utterly silent as Mother walked into the room.
As Emma followed, she saw Mrs. Sloane, standing rigid with a steaming coffeepot in one hand. She saw astonishment on the faces of the two men seated at the table … and on the face of Miss Amaretta Holly.
Miss Amaretta boarded here, too? Emma considered pretending that she’d never met her mother before and only chance had brought them into the dining room together.
The silence became painful before Mother found her voice. “Good morning!” she chirped. “I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is my daughter, Emma.”
Miss Amaretta studied her plate. Emma’s cheeks flamed. She wished she could melt into the floorboards.
“Why … good morning!” One of the men, a handsome blond of middling age, jumped up to pull out a chair. Then he paused, as if unsure whether a woman in Reform Dress would accept his gesture. With a gallant smile he stepped back, indicating the chair with a flourish: a successful compromise. “You must be the newspaper editor we’ve heard so much about.”
Emma slid into the empty chair beside Mother’s. Mrs. Sloane collected herself and silently poured coffee for the Hendersons. Emma sipped the scalding, bitter stuff, grateful to have something to do.
The man reseated himself. “Call me Blackjack,” he said, looking mildly amused. He was dressed impressively in a pair of checkered wool trousers with a dark coat, brocade vest, and striped cravat.
“That’s an unusual name,” Mother said, reaching for a platter of chipped beef. Her cheeks were flushed. Emma suddenly realized that this first public appearance in Reform Dress was more challenging for Mother than she wanted to admit.
The second man had followed the exchange with a sour look. Unlike Blackjack, he wore the worn trousers, wool vest, and stained work shirt of the miners Emma had seen in the street. “‘Aces’ would be a better name,” he observed in a humorless drawl. “He’s usually got an extra up his sleeve.”
“I own The Raven—the saloon across the street,” Blackjack told Emma and Mother calmly. He used his knife blade to sprinkle salt on his fried potatoes. “I’m afraid my good friend Dixie John here has lost a poker game or two at my establishment.”
Dixie John. Emma sucked in a slow breath. This man was Southern! Had he been a Confederate soldier? Had he fought against Father?
Dixie John scowled. “I don’t mind losing in a fair game,” he muttered, then addressed Mother. “What will our newspaper editor have to say about a crooked gambling house?”
“I don’t write stories based on hearsay,” Mother said carefully. “But if I find firm evidence of illegal activity, I will write the truth.”
Mrs. Sloane emerged from the kitchen and set a basket of biscuits on the table. “Mind your tongue,” she warned Dixie John. “I’ll have no trouble stirred up under my roof.” She marched back into the kitchen.
“I ain’t aiming to stir up trouble. Just asking a few questions of the editor-lady here.” Dixie John leaned back in his chair. His gaze swung from Mother to Emma. “I’m trying to decide if I should subscribe to the paper or not,” he continued, looking back at Mother. “I may not be inclined toward your politics. I may not be comfortable with your family background, so to speak.”
Emma couldn’t bear his wordplay for another moment. “My father was a captain in the Union army,” she said with cold pride. “Is that what you wanted to know?” So there!
Mother squeezed Emma’s hand beneath the table. “My daughter and I are proud of my husband’s service,” she told Dixie John quietly. “But the war is over.”
Dixie John shoved away from the table. His boots clattered down the hall. The front door slammed. He began to sing as he stumped down the steps, and the words drifted through the window: “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land …”
Emma balled her napkin in her lap and willed the wave of hate within her to subside. Hate wouldn’t bring back Father.
Blackjack dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Well said, Madam Editor. But one wonders. There is not much news worth reporting in this dusty hole.”
“I must disagree,” Mother said evenly. “We’ve been here less than a day, and several stories have already presented themselves.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. I’d hate to think you would have to dig too far to find material. That could be most … challenging, for ladies in your situation.” Blackjack’s smile included them both, but Emma didn’t feel reassured. Was Blackjack concerned about their welfare? Or was he hiding some kind of threat behind his polished words and fancy clothes?
Mother met his smile with one of her own. “You’ll be relieved to know that my daughter and I are up to the challenge. Every journalist knows how to dig for a story. It’s usually a simple matter of asking the right questions—who, what, why.”
“Mrs. Henderson, I see you have matters well in hand.” Blackjack stood. “Good day, ladies.” He nodded at Mother, Emma, and Miss Amaretta in turn before ambling out of the dining room.
Mother pressed her lips together for a moment, then said briskly, “Emma, are you finished? We need to get started as well.”
“Mrs. Henderson.” Miss Amaretta Holly leaned forward. “A moment of your time, if you will.”
“Why, certainly.” Mother settled back in her chair.
Miss Holly flushed a delicate pink. “I must ask … do you truly intend to wear that—that dreadful costume—about town?”
Thunderation. Between Dixie John and Blackjack, Emma had almost forgotten the blasted Reform Dress.
“Most certainly,” Mother said coolly.
“I wish you would reconsider.”
Mother raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Emma’s cheeks flamed. Mother, please don’t argue with Miss Amaretta, she pleaded silently.
“Let me tell you a little story.” Miss Amaretta drew a deep breath. “Over a year ago, my brother left our home in Ohio and traveled west to try his luck at gold mining. When he stopped writing, I came looking for him. Our parents were already dead, you see. We just had each other.”
Emma stared at her lap. Surely this story didn’t have a happy ending.
“I traced him here, to Twin Pines, and learned that he had been shot and killed during a brawl in The Raven.” Miss Amaretta’s voice trembled a bit, but she firmed it up. “I came very close to heading back to Ohio. But I saw too many other young men getting into trouble—drinking, gambling, heading up to the hills to pan for gold instead of tending to families. I decided to help build a decent community here, so that no other sister or mother would suffer a loss as I did. Men like Dixie John, boys like my brother, even Blackjack … they need a good, womanly influence. I’ve started a small dressmaking business, but much more importantly, I’ve started holding Sunday school. And I’m organizing a musical evening, with the proceeds to go toward a reading room or school—”
“I’ll be happy to promote your efforts in the newspaper!” Mother’s smile worried Emma.
Miss Amaretta flushed again. “But Mrs. Henderson … I’m afraid that you wearing that costume will undermine my efforts. Creating a strong, decent sense of community is very important to me.”
Miss Amaretta might as well have tossed a lighted firecracker onto the table! “Then we all h
ave a great deal in common,” Emma said brightly. “Mother and I believe a good newspaper will help build that sense of community.” She stood up. “Mother, are you ready to go?”
Mother waited until they were outside before speaking. “Emma, that was very diplomatically said.” She paused. “But it’s important for me to discuss dress reform with people like Miss Holly.”
“She seems nice,” Emma mumbled as they started toward the print shop. She ducked her head when she noticed several people stop and stare.
“Yes, she does. And I respect her beliefs. All I ask is that she respect mine as well.”
Remembering the look on Miss Amaretta Holly’s face when she saw Mother’s Reform Dress, Emma doubted that that would ever happen.
Emma began her first workday by sorting type. Mother had brought three sizes, called fonts: small for news articles and advertisements, larger for article headlines, largest for the newspaper title and major headlines. The hundreds of tiny lead pieces, each bearing the imprint of a single letter or punctuation mark, had become jumbled during the trip. Emma sat before the typecases—open wooden boxes with small compartments designated for each letter—and began organizing the type. The job was tedious, but important. Whoever set type for Mother’s articles would need to know exactly where to reach for each letter.
Mother began her first workday by arguing with Mr. Spaulding. He garnered some favor by only nodding at Mother’s attire, murmuring “How practical.” But Mother had no intention of compromising her needs. “Mr. Spaulding, you promised me two helpers.” Mother’s hands were planted on her hips, and the look on her face almost made Emma feel sorry for Mr. Spaulding. “I can’t accept anything less. Emma and I have turned our lives inside out based on your hollow promises. We need to get this equipment moved to the new print shop. I need a strong man to manage the press, and—”
“I, um … I expected that finding suitable help would be an easy undertaking. There are always men in Twin Pines looking for work—miners whose claims didn’t pan out, or farmers’ sons looking for a few extra pinches of gold dust. But I didn’t quite account for the—the opposition to, well, that is …”
Whistler in the Dark Page 3