by Judith Pella
“Mr. Chittenden is only part of the problem, I assure you. My brother started this whole thing by making unreasonable demands on me.”
“What’d he do? Ask you to fix supper?”
She stopped and looked up to give him what she hoped was a fierce expression of complete disgust. “No, he did not ask me to fix supper. He wants to send me away. He wants to go gallivanting off with the railroad and send me back to some prim-and-proper setting where I can’t get hurt.”
“What an irrational and unfeeling monster,” O’Brian declared in mock sympathy.
Jordana narrowed her eyes. “Yes, he is.”
She began walking again, angry at O’Brian’s inability to understand, angry at the throbbing of her arm, and angry that no one seemed interested in what she wanted. “I’m sick and tired of being controlled.”
At this, O’Brian laughed. It was not the reaction Jordana had hoped for. She again halted to glare at him. “And what is that all about?”
“As far as I can tell, Miss Baldwin, no man has been able to control you,” he said, refusing to be intimidated by her anger.
Jordana had had more than she could take. Surprising herself and O’Brian, she began to rant and rave. She accused him of insensitivity and lacking any ability to communicate with the female gender. She declared Damon Chittenden the biggest bore in the country, lacking social graces and any idea of what women were about. By the time she moved on to Brenton, Jordana suddenly realized she was yelling at the top of her lungs. It shocked her so much she fell silent and stared at Rich with a feeling of sheepish embarrassment.
“Feel better?” he asked softly.
She grinned in spite of herself. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Sometimes it helps to just get it all out by talking to a friend.”
“Men and women can’t be friends,” Jordana countered and once again began walking in the direction of the setting sun.
“I believe you are wrong on that account, Miss Baldwin,” Captain O’Brian said, following close beside her.
“I had a friendship with a man once before,” she said, thinking of G. W. Vanderbilt. “He would talk to me like I was an equal. Like I had a brain in my head. Then I thought I could be friends with Mr. Chittenden, and in both cases they ended up asking me to marry them, then getting mad when I refused. Women just can’t be friends with men. They always think our friendliness means something else.”
“I think it probably depends on the man, Miss Baldwin.”
She gave a bemused shake of her head. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me that we could be friends.”
“If you agree to stop knifing me and clubbing me, we probably could. I have no intentions of getting married or of making myself an unwelcome nuisance, so we could probably share an amicable friendship. Maybe even have an intelligent conversation, when time permitted.”
Jordana glanced up at him but kept walking. He wasn’t teasing her or putting her on. His expression was completely serious, and his eyes, blue as the summer sky, suggested an unspoken commitment to the words he’d just issued. She wanted to believe him. Surely a woman could be friends with a man and not cause him to go all crazy with passion and desire to marry. Then again, maybe this was just Captain O’Brian’s way of gaining her trust. Maybe he would turn out to be like all the rest. Sighing, she refused to answer or even comment. Instead, she just kept walking, her gaze fixed on town.
13
Church did little for Jordana’s attitude or spirit. She maintained a heavy heart, resenting her position in life, fearful that nothing could ever work to benefit her desires. She told herself she wasn’t mad at God. What sense would there be in that? God was clearly in control of all situations, she reminded herself, but He also expected her to be strong and obedient. That word—obedient—stuck in her throat like a piece of dry toast.
Obedience meant that she might have to yield her will to someone else—in this case, Brenton.
Monday morning dawned with the threat of rain and Caitlan’s breakfast-time announcement that she was moving into the Cavendish mansion. Brenton said nothing, and Caitlan gave Jordana a look that made it clear the matter was not up for discussion. But, Jordana being Jordana, she wasn’t phased by a mere stern gaze.
“You can’t go moving off like this,” she protested. “We’re a team. We must stick together and work together.”
“It’s for the best,” Caitlan insisted. “I can be savin’ me money, and when I’ve earned enough, I’ll make me own way to California.”
“This is all your fault!” Jordana accused Brenton. “If you men would stop thinking you had the right to order us women around, we wouldn’t have to suffer so.”
“Now, Jordana, please don’t be blamin’ yar brother,” Caitlan said, putting her hand out to touch Jordana’s shoulder. “’Tis not his fault. I’ve been thinkin’ on this for a long time. Ya know full well that Mrs. Cavendish preferred me to move in when I took on the job working for her. It’ll be better this way. I’ll not be causin’ anyone further worry.”
“Oh bother!” Jordana said, slamming down her fork. “If that’s the way you want things to be, fine.” She got up from the table and went to the door. “I’m going to the bank.”
The morning had progressed downhill from that point. First Damon had come to her desk with the biggest bouquet of roses Jordana had ever seen. Why, there had to be at least three dozen.
“I don’t want your peace offerings, Mr. Chittenden.”
“Please forgive me, Jordana. Being a good Christian woman, you can’t very well hold this against me. Not when I’m begging your forgiveness.”
Jordana looked him square in the eye. “And being a good Christian man, you shouldn’t have acted the way you did.”
He looked down at the floor most mournfully. “I know. I was just overcome. You are so beautiful, and your dress was so fetching, and your smile so warming.” He looked up at her with a sheepish grin. “And your hair was all wet.”
Jordana shook her head. “It’s a good thing that doesn’t happen to be a public fashion, or all the women of Omaha might well find themselves victims of your ardor.”
“Not all the women, Jordana, just you.”
“Stop calling me by my name. We aren’t engaged or even courting. I refuse to be handled by you or anyone else.”
She turned to busy herself at her desk but quickly found that Damon was not put off. Coming up from behind her, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her back against him. “I love you, Jordana. I won’t be put off.”
Jordana felt once again an air of something threatening in his tone. She stood stiff and still, not wishing to do anything that might encourage his behavior, but also doing nothing to anger him.
“You must know that I’m a wealthy man,” he continued. “I can give you anything your heart desires. I’ll build you a wonderful home, take you to Europe every year, and provide you the most marvelous gowns money can buy. Can’t you see I adore you?”
Jordana bit her lip and wondered what she could say. Her mind flooded with angry retorts, but something warned her that this was not the smart way to handle this particular situation.
“Mr. Chittenden, I’m flattered,” she began slowly. She stepped forward slowly, hoping he wouldn’t restrain her. He didn’t. She walked around the desk to put the length of it between them, then turned to face him. “I’m sorry if you see me as being unreasonable, but I’m not of a mind to settle down with anyone. I wish I could make you understand.”
Damon leaned back against the teller counter and crossed his arms. Jordana had to admit he looked very nice in his navy blue suit and silk waistcoat. If she were just a different kind of woman, she might have truly been honored to be so ardently sought after.
“I never meant to upset you,” he said softly.
She watched him study her for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind what to do next. He seemed quite perplexed at one point, and so she offered him a weak smile. “I know you didn’t
mean to take liberties. I do forgive you, but in return I would very much appreciate it if you would just allow us both to put the matter aside.”
The clock bonged out the hour, causing Damon to take his eyes from Jordana. He grabbed for his pocket watch to confirm the time. “I have a meeting in my office in just a few moments.” He glanced out the front window. “Yes, there are my colleagues even now.” He quickly pocketed his watch and smiled. “I suppose I shall just have to be patient and wait for you to change your mind.”
Jordana didn’t know what to say and so said nothing. Damon didn’t even seem to notice—not her silence, nor her rejection. She had simply never met a man so persistent, so impervious to rebuffs. It was almost as if he truly had not heard her. What could one do with a man like that?
Damon quickly became preoccupied with the situation at hand. “We’re having an important meeting, and I’m not to be disturbed.”
“But I didn’t see your father come in,” Jordana commented, knowing that all of the meetings in the past had included Hezekiah as well as his son. “Should I send him to you when he arrives?”
“Father won’t be in attendance. He’s taking care of some long-standing business at the capitol.”
Jordana nodded as three well-dressed men filed into the bank. One of the men Jordana recognized as a Union Pacific official. She had seen him with Brenton once but could not recall his name. The other was Terrance Clayton, a local financier like the Chittendens. The third man was unfamiliar but, though well dressed, had the look of a man more accustomed to dark alleys than respectable banks.
Damon, quickly forgetting his and Jordana’s recent conversation and his romantic intentions, turned his attention to the men at hand and all but ignored Jordana.
“Ah, gentlemen, welcome.”
An hour later, the men were still working behind closed doors in Damon’s office. Jordana’s curiosity was aroused when Damon’s voice bellowed out in anger, “I don’t care what the old man says, we can make this work!”
Glad that no one else happened to be in the bank at that precise moment, Jordana moved from behind her desk and tiptoed down the hall to Damon’s office. The door was firmly shut, but the voices carried through the thin wood.
“Old Homer Stanley has had that land for some time, Chittenden. It’s going to be difficult to persuade him to just sell out.”
“But without it, we can’t proceed with Mr. Florence’s hotel, now can we?” The voice belonged to Damon, but the ominous tone was like nothing Jordana had ever heard from him.
“If you can assure us of getting that property, Chittenden, I will do what I can to guarantee the railroad’s position. It might seem a bit farther south than the original surveys had planned for, but you leave that to me.”
“It would mean a great deal of money,” Damon announced, “for all of us. The hotel and the railroad would make a fortune. Look at the number of people passing through this town already. And they only have a steamer or ferry to bring them across the Missouri. Once the Union Pacific is in place, complete with bridges across the river, we’ll be a prosperous city to rival the likes of St. Louis and Chicago.”
The front door of the bank opened, and Jordana hurried back to her teller window. She smiled at the widowed Mrs. Shoemaker.
“Come to make a deposit?” Jordana asked, knowing full well that this was exactly why the woman had come. She could have planned a calendar by the old woman.
Having set up one of the nicer boardinghouses in town, Mrs. Shoemaker collected her rents on Monday morning at precisely seven o’clock. By nine-fifteen she was standing before Jordana’s window, money in hand.
The old woman handed the cash to Jordana. “I’m full up again,” she announced. “Had a couple of men take my last room just this morning.”
Jordana smiled and recorded the money in her ledger. “I would imagine they heard about your wonderful pies. Next thing we know, they’ll be coming to church to enjoy the socials.”
Mrs. Shoemaker laughed. “You do go on, deary. But because you’re so sweet, I brought you a treat.”
This, too, was the routine. Jordana beamed her a smile and sniffed the air. “Fresh muffins? Cookies?”
The old woman brought up a basket and plopped it down on the counter. “Raisin bread.”
“Oh, that’s my brother’s favorite,” she declared, then added, “and I’m pretty partial to it as well.”
“I knew you were. I saw both of you gobbling it up at the dinner last week.”
Jordana nodded. “Nobody can come close to outdoing your cooking, Mrs. Shoemaker.”
“I’m planning on you and your brother to sit with me at the church dinner. Bring that sister-in-law of yours, too.”
“I don’t even know if Brenton and I will be there,” Jordana replied, remembering Brenton’s anger.
“Why is that? Are you fretting over what old Mrs. Phipps said about seeing you riding without your sidesaddle?”
Jordana blushed but shook her head. “I know I’m always scandalizing the citizens of Omaha for one reason or another. I don’t know why some of those ladies get so riled. I had two pairs of woolen bloomers under that dress and enough skirt to cover it all good and proper.”
Mrs. Shoemaker laughed. “I imagine they’re just jealous.”
“Maybe so, but they give my brother cause to complain.”
“Oh, there’s always someone complaining about something. I wouldn’t worry over it for long.”
After the old woman chatted about the affairs of her boardinghouse, she departed just as the clock struck nine-thirty. Jordana busied herself with paper work at her teller window and nearly forgot about Damon and his meeting until she heard Damon’s voice again. This time she knew the door must be open because the sound of his voice was sharp and clear—and rather chilling, too.
“I’ll take care of it!” he growled.
“Just remember that we—” began one of the other men.
“Quiet, you fool! We need not speak on the matter again. I have it in hand,” Damon said. Then in another moment, he appeared in the main part of the bank with his three companions in tow.
“Until next week, then,” Damon told them as he opened the front door.
When the men had gone, he closed the door and headed back as if to go to his office. His face was a taut mask, or perhaps she was glimpsing him before he’d had a chance to don his usual mask. The thought sent a chill down Jordana’s spine. The contrast between the man she’d just heard in his office and now saw and the one she had known previously was quite pronounced.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Chittenden?” she asked. “Was there a problem with your meeting?”
The mask now jerked quickly into place. A smile slipped across his face. “Just banking business. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
“But I’m in the banking business. In fact, you told me I was a very important part of this bank’s business.”
“That you are,” Damon replied. “We’ve had a great deal more business these last months, thanks to your wit and charm with the men of Omaha. At first I thought Father had gone positively daft hiring you, but you have proved to be a most valuable asset to this organization.”
Jordana rankled at the tone he took with her. He sounded like a father figure soothing and reassuring his child. “So if that’s the case,” she pressed, “why can’t you tell me about the meeting?”
He grinned. “Why can’t you say yes to marriage?”
She crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Because I’m not ready to marry just yet.”
“And I, my sweet Jordana, am not ready to divulge the purpose of my meeting.” He turned to go, then called back over his shoulder, “Just yet.”
There had been a glint in his eyes that made Jordana shudder. “I’m being silly,” she convinced herself. “Some men, perhaps most men, deal with business matters far differently than they deal with women.”
If Damon was upset about something and he didn’t w
ant to talk about it, then it wasn’t her place to pry. She certainly wanted no more involvement with the man than necessary. And after today’s display, she wasn’t sure she even wanted that much. She didn’t care if men generally behaved that way. It seemed rather two-faced to her.
14
Caitlan finished dusting the front parlor, mindful to ensure that not a single speck of dirt remained to mar the beauty of Hazel Cavendish’s collections. The woman had traveled extensively in her youth, and now as she neared sixty, the collections were prominently displayed as constant reminders of her glorious days abroad.
Caitlan found herself fascinated by the pieces. Sometimes they were not at all the expensive pieces of crystal or porcelain that she had seen in other homes of wealth, but instead were strange pieces of bric-a-brac crudely fashioned from wood or stone. Mrs. Cavendish had grown up the daughter of missionaries—a hearty stock who took it upon themselves to visit the darkest reaches of Africa and beyond. Why, they’d even gone to Australia.
Caitlan had heard a few of the stories. Near-death experiences from snakebites or native uprisings. Strange new tastes and smells originating in native cooking so very foreign to Hazel and her parents.
Caitlan stopped and reached up to wipe a bit of dust away from an oil painting of Mrs. Cavendish as a teenager. The woman had been quite striking—her skin beautifully smooth and clear, her cheeks rosy with color, and her eyes bright, almost mischievous in their glint.
“I was only fifteen when that painting was commissioned,” the woman said, coming into the parlor. “We were living in India at the time. It was completed just before I came down sick. Eventually, Mama sent me to Aunt Louise in Liverpool. It was there I made a rather poor recovery from the aftereffects of malaria and smallpox.”
Caitlan looked at the short, softly rounded woman. Her face still showed the scars of smallpox. Her once beautiful skin was pitted and shallow, never again recapturing its youthful glow—or so Caitlan deduced.
“And were ya very sick, ma’am?” Caitlan asked lamely.