Out of breath from her brisk walk, Emma could do nothing but fan the air in front of her in an attempt to communicate.
Clara whisked her inside, closing the door perfunctorily behind her. "For heaven's sake, Emma, what is it?"
"IIWeWe"
"Sit down over here," Clara said, pulling her to a straight-backed wooden chair. "Would a glass of water help?"
Emma nodded, trying to slow down her breathing. Be calm, she told herself over and over while Clara disappeared into the kitchen. Just be calm!
When Clara returned, Emma had better control of herself. She sipped from the glass.
"Now. What has gotten you so excited, Emma Gregg?" Clara asked, depositing herself on the edge of a very plain settee.
"Mr. Hollister." She had to say this slowly or she would certainly lose control again. "I heard him say he wants to put beds in the room above the saloon." She waited for Clara's response.
Clara's face hardened and her eyes narrowed to tiny slits.
"And a heating stove," Emma added quietly, almost sorry she'd brought the news. Never had she gotten such a reaction from Clara.
"He won't get away with this," she said with deadly intent while rising from her seat. She tugged on the bodice of her black dress as if adjusting a military uniform. "It's time."
"For what?" Emma squeaked, wishing with all her heart she'd never overheard that conversation.
Clara pierced her with a look. "For what? Isn't it obvious?"
Not to Emma it wasn't, but she didn't say so.
"A meeting. Here. Tonight." Clara began pacing, her plans forming, sharpening with each and every step. "You pass the word along to Polly, Lucy, and Irene. I'll tell the others."
Gathering her wits about her, Emma rose. Polly, Lucy, and Irene; she repeated the names over in her mind. "I will." So with her knees nearly knocking together, she left Clara's house with her mission clearly imprinted on her brain.
First, she would go to Irene's, then to Polly's and Lucy's.
Walking through Irene's open picketed gate, Emma's mind rushed ahead to the probable events being planned by Clara. There was little doubt that another smashing spree was on the agenda of tonight's meeting.
"Oh dear, oh dear," she mumbled. After the last time, she'd promised herself she would never get involved in anything like that again. She'd also promised Howard.
With a worried sigh, she knocked on Irene's front door. Another knock and the door opened to reveal Winnie Barrett.
Still very agitated, Emma could hardly keep her voice from quavering. "Hello, Mrs. Barrett, is Irene home yet?"
"Yes, she's upstairs resting, but would you like to come in anyway?"
"No. No, thank you. I have some business to attend to. But perhaps you could give her a message."
"Of course," Winnie replied. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in? We could have tea."
Emma flashed what she hoped was a friendly smile, shaking her head. "Thank you. Some other time. Just tell Irene there's a meeting at Clara's tonight. She'll understand."
"A saloon meeting?" Winnie asked, carefully surveying the nervous woman before her.
"Yes." Emma glanced away, biting her lip. "Would you tell her?"
Winnie smiled sweetly. "Of course. Now you run along to your business and don't worry about a thing." She continued holding the door open while watching the young woman make her way across the porch and down the street, barely aware of the sharp December wind.
Easing the door closed, Winnie stood with one hand fiercely clutching the doorknob. Her temper flared with irritation at Clara, that meddlesome woman! She paced the parlor floor, her stomach churning, her blood racing. Coming to a halt, she stamped her foot on the soft carpet.
It was time! How fortunate she had a plan ready. Glancing up the stairs, she knew the first thing to do was to keep Irene home tonight. That would be easy. She had no intention of telling her about the meeting. And if Emma Gregg had any sense, which she doubted, she'd stay at home with her husband.
Irene lay on her bed with a quilt thrown over her, mulling over the possible solutions to her many problems. All day long between lessons, and even during them, she'd considered what the alternatives were and which ones she could bear to live with.
There were the children. Before they'd arrived, her life had been simple, but lonely. Until now she'd had nothing but a beautiful house full of beautiful things, and no one to share them.
And of course, she must consider her teaching, which now hinged on her willingness to participate in protesting at the saloon and her lack of association with Ross Hollister. Which in turn related directly to Jonathan's well-being.
She'd made little headway with him on her own. Not until she'd accompanied them to the woods had she seen a change in him. Acceptance? Was that the word for it? And later, when they'd gone skating, he'd opened up even more until, finally, one day after school, he'd placed his small hand in hers.
And if she ended the friendship between Jonathan and Ross, how would he react?
She already knew the answer to that before she'd asked the question. He would run away. Just as they'd done, she suspected, before arriving on her doorstep.
Forcing all those worries aside, she wondered about a man like Ross and why had he befriended a small boy. It wasn't in character for a man who catered to a saloon clientele. But lately she'd been having trouble remembering that he did indeed make his living with drink. Instead, she thought about the laughter he brought and the contentment she felt when he came to call. These were new things in her life and in her usually silent home.
Until now, she'd kept to her determination to shield herself from the company of men, to protect her heart from the pain of betrayal. But somehow, with the arrival of the children, there had also appeared a small fissure in that determination.
When had she ever been so tossed about with such turbulent emotions? Not since Andrew, she acknowledged silently, and her last-minute decision to stop their wedding. The comparison did little to ease her mind.
From downstairs she could hear the sound of voices drifting up, but the closed door to her room muffled them. With a sigh, she threw off the quilt and rose to check her hair in the mirror before going down. Small frown lines creased her brow, and she smoothed them with a fingertip, wishing it were that easy to remove the worries that caused them.
When she stepped into the hall, the house was silent. She glanced out of the window facing town in time to see the hurrying figure of Emma Gregg being swept along by the wind.
Once downstairs she found her mother pacing the floor, a storm brewing in her determined features.
Suddenly aware of Irene's presence, Winnie halted.
"Was that Emma you were speaking to, Mother?"
Winnie forced herself to breathe calmly in an attempt to control her initial angry reaction. "Yes. Yes, it was."
With suspicion, Irene eyed her mother's agitated state. "What did she want? I was only lying down. I would have gotten up."
Unable to come up with a plausible answer that hid the truth, Winnie hedged for time. "She wanted to see you."
"Did she say why?"
"Not at first." Winnie turned to the cherry-wood table she'd been dusting before Emma knocked. Carefully, she ran her rag around the curved edges, which had the feel of glass.
"Mother," Irene said firmly, determined to get to the bottom of this. "What did she want?"
Winnie braced herself for the coming confrontation. She'd triedoh, how she triedto ward it off, but now she stood ready to fight for her daughter's future.
"There's to be another meeting tonight at Clara's." Winnie's chin lifted stubbornly. "Irene, I forbid you to go."
Irene felt as though she'd been slapped in the face, not once but twice. Her heart sank at the news of the meeting. Then it raced when her mother uttered her command.
In a hushed voice, Irene demanded, "You forbid me?"
"Yes."
With a full three feet between them, it seemed t
o each woman that they stood nose to nose, staring, unflinching.
Never had Irene felt so angry!
Never had Winnie been so determined!
"You cannot forbid me like a naughty child."
"Then don't act like one."
"You're forgetting whose house you're in," Irene reminded her.
"No, I'm not." Then, with emphasis, she added, "You are."
Hurt by her mother's words, Irene gasped. Along with everyone else in the town, Winnie believed that the house had belonged to Andrew, and that only through his love and generosity had he allowed her to keep it after she had so heartlessly left him standing at the altar.
But that was far from the truth, although no one would ever know. Irene had vowed never to publicize what had actually happened, since that would also mean public humiliation for her. So she bore the secret of her rejection silently.
And now, the ghost of that lost love loomed between her and her mother, becoming as palpable as the furniture surrounding her and as stifling as the dust in Winnie's rag.
Without another word, Irene turned on her heel. Nothing good could come of this continued stand-off; she would do as she saw fit, regardless of her mother's wishes.
Or maybe in spite of them. She would go to her room and make her plans in private, although her mother would undoubtedly think she went to sulk. Let her, Irene thought, as she slammed the bedroom door.
Whether she'd wanted to attend the meeting at Clara's or not, her decision was made. She was going.
Chapter Eleven
Sitting on one of Clara's stiff, straight chairs, Irene surveyed the over-filled parlor. By the looks she'd received from Polly Anderson and a few others, she felt as conspicuously present as Emma was absent.
Of all the women in the room, Irene was the only one who had little cause to be a part of this meeting. She'd come strictly for the sake of her teaching positionand perhaps to prove her own independence.
Ringing a small bell, Clara called, "This meeting will now come to order." With a quelling stare, she quieted those who continued talking.
Silence encircled the group of women.
"Something of great importance has been brought to my attention, and I feel it my duty to pass this along to you." She studied the face of each woman, finding strain, anxiety, even anger on some. "We all know about the new saloon owner, Mr. Hollister"
A few titters interrupted her while several women cast side-long glances at Irene.
''and his defiance, along with the other saloon owners, in continuing to remain open for business. But now he's gone a step further than the others, just as I had predicted he would."
Once more silence girdled the room.
Clara's pause held everyone captive. "He's opening a brothel."
The entire group inhaled with one great gasp.
"That's absurd!" Irene said, coming out of her chair. "Mr. Hollister would never do such a thing."
All attention swerved to Irene. Appalled, they gaped at her, some with their mouths open, others with an I-told-you-so look on their faces.
"It's the truth," Clara said firmly.
"Well, I don't believe it."
"What makes you so sure it can't be true?" Clara prodded.
Uncomfortable with the subject matter, Irene stared straight at Clara and nobody else. "He's too kind to children to be a man who'd do such a thing."
"We can hardly judge what a man will do by his kindness to children," Clara replied. "Many of those who frequent bawdy houses have families and profess to love their wives and children."
Irene could not comprehend the idea of Ross, who had taken her and the children on an adventure in the woods and skating on the canal, in the business of selling the favors of women.
"If a man will drink and sell drink, why is it so inconceivable that he would bring fallen women to our town and sell the wares of the flesh?" Clara's eyes peered into Irene's, and her harsh voice softened. "You haven't forgotten that he comes from the wild part of our country, where these goings-on are common place. Have you?"
Unable to dispute most of what Clara said, Irene felt her defense slipping, although she clung stubbornly to her belief.
"If that's the way you feel, Irene Barrett," spoke Polly Anderson, her chin raised haughtily, "then perhaps our children have been incorrectly placed in your care."
A murmur of agreement rose up around her.
Clara rang the little bell once more. "This meeting has not been called to discuss Irene." She impaled each one with her gaze.
A disquieting silence followed, as though all were reserving judgment on that statement.
Taking her seat, Irene vowed to hold her tongue. Now was neither the time nor the place for a discussion of her beliefs about Ross Hollister.
"We are here," Clara went on, "to prevent this venture from ever taking place. We must consider the lives of our children." She would like to have added "and the souls of our husbands," but Could not bring herself to do so.
This time Polly stood up. "Are you proposing we go back to singing and praying before the saloon? That's hardly gotten us anywhere," she said with a hearty dose of disdain. "Signing promises won't work with a man like Ross Hollister."
"I'm afraid you're right," Clara said. "This last bit of news verifies the fact that he's a man who needs to be dealt a severe blow."
Irene held her breath, waiting, like every other woman in the stuffy little parlor. She'd thought she was willing to do her part, to do what was right for the town and, she admitted, to keep her job. But this wasn't fair. It smelled of vigilante justice, when the accused had no opportunity to defend himself.
"We will not only attack his saloon," Clara began, her eyes roving over the mesmerized group, "but we'll roll his barrels out into the street and demolish them before his eyes. Afterwards, Mr. Hollister will barely be able to scrape enough cash together to get out of town."
Peripherally, Irene saw the satisfied smirk on Polly's face as her head turned toward Irene, her chin tilted. Irene ignored her.
"Are there any questions?" Clara asked.
"Have you decided when?" Polly stood in her eagerness to hear the answer.
"Friday evening. That gives us four days to assign every woman a specific job. We'll have another meeting the night before. I want all of you to be here." Clara imprinted her words on the brains of each woman by staring into each face. "We will adjourn."
The ladies retired to the small kitchen, where Clara served tea, giving everyone an opportunity to voice her feelings about the coming Friday night. Irene politely sipped her tea, but her growing anxiety would hardly allow her to swallow it. At the first opportunity, she tried to slip away.
"Wait, Irene," Clara called to her just as she pulled on her coat. Then she added quietly, "I'd like to have a private word with you. Stay until the others are gone."
Slipping off the coat once more, Irene refilled her cup and found a seat in a corner of the parlor. The voices of her friends and neighbors filled the rooms, but no one spoke to her. Undoubtedly, they considered her a spy, infiltrating their ranks, and gave her a wide berth. And, truthfully, she felt like a spy. At least her views were enough different from theirs that she might have been one, which only added to her discomfort.
Finally, the crowd dispersed, Polly being the last one to leave.
Clara closed the door.
"Irene," she began, taking a seat opposite the young woman, "I know this is difficult for you. But perhaps you haven't considered everything."
Looking at the older woman, Irene replied, "You mean my position at school and in the community."
"No. I'm talking about you." Seeing Irene bristle at the mention of her personal life, Clara searched for a way to say her piece as carefully as possible. She wasn't used to worrying about the feelings of others, having treated everyone the same in her quest for decency and honesty, finding little if any of those qualities in most other human beings. But Irene was different.
"I want you to think abo
ut what I'm going to say before you make a reply." Clara fingered a seam in her plain black dress. "What do you plan to do about the children? Are you going to keep them? Raising a family is difficult enough with two parents, let alone a single woman who must work. Have you thought about what would be best for them?"
"Actually, that's being taken care of. I've been searching for their aunt, who will undoubtedly want them." A stab of regret pierced her heart at the words, and she wished they weren't true.
"I see." Clara fingered the seam again. "And Ross Hollister? What about him?"
Irene didn't answer. She forced her features into a look of composure and control, giving nothing away.
"Irene, do you suppose a man who lives by drink can ever live without it? What would he do to support a family? Could he support a family?"
"I really don't think" Irene started to rise.
"No, wait." Clara stayed her with a hand. "He won t stay in town long. That kind never does. He'll go from town to town, dissatisfied with life but unable to change." Then softly she said, "Could you live like that? Be honest with yourself."
Sitting the teacup on the plain, sturdy table beside her, Irene let Clara's words sink in. Could she?
Clumsily, Clara patted Irene's folded hands. "You think about it."
Without answering, Irene rose and drew on her coat. At the door she turned. "Good night, Clara."
"Good night." Clara caught herself just in time, before she'd added "dear."
Outside, a brilliant moon shone in a winter sky so clear that it appeared more blue than black. Far above her head, a million stars winked and blinked in a sparkling display, while beneath her feet the packed snow crunched noisily with every step.
Irene pulled her coat tighter.
Clara's words had served to remind her of just how alone she really was, and how lonely she would be.
"Mr. Hollister," Winnie began, "I'm here to do you a favor."
Ross sat at the table across from the older woman and raised his brow, questioning her remark. She'd practically accosted him in the lobby of the inn when he'd come down from his room on his way to town. And now, in the semiprivacy of an off-side little table, she presented her case. He'd bet a week's worth of liquor that it had something to do with Irene.
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