by Ann Parker
Molly shrugged. One pink beribboned strap slid off her bony shoulder. “The other rooms are full up.”
They moved down the hall, and Molly pulled open a door under the shadow of the grand staircase heading to the second floor.
Polly, who was nodding in the light of a single lamp turned down low, jumped up with a stifled “Shit!” The straight chair she’d been sitting in clattered over onto its side. “Molly, you scared me half to death! Is that Zelda?”
“She’s gonna take over here,” Molly said briskly, moving into the room. “Straighten up your hair and git back to the parlor.”
“Don’t know why Flo left you in charge,” grumbled Polly, moving to the gilt-edged mirror at the foot of the elegant four-poster bed.
“Because I have more brains that all of you put together, except for the schoolteacher. And she don’t know the business. Now, go on, get out.”
“Leastways Lizzie isn’t snoring, for the first time in her life.” Polly swept out of the room without a glance back.
Zelda tiptoed over to the form on the bed, nervous at what she might find. Lizzie lay, looking as if she was nothing more than asleep. Zelda forced herself to touch the hand lying slack on the coverlet.
Cold.
Zelda swallowed. “How’d she die?”
“Dunno.” Molly sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Lizzie as if searching for some clue to her demise. “We just found her this morning, lying all curled up in the mudroom. Looking about like this. Well, we cleaned her up some and put her in a shift. Flo wanted that. I think Lizzie just drank herself to death. Or maybe when Flo wasn’t looking, it was the laudanum. You know Lizzie.”
Zelda picked up the overturned straight chair and said, “I don’t have t’ sit close to her, do I?”
“Sit wherever you want, as long as you’re in the room.” Molly watched as Zelda pulled the chair over to the small warming stove in the corner and sat. “Here.” She picked up a shawl that Polly had left behind and threw it to Zelda. “It’s gonna get cold in here. But no fire. Don’t want the body warming up too fast.”
Zelda wrapped herself in the shawl, tucking the ends securely beneath her haunches. “Kin I leave a light on?”
Molly shrugged. “Sure. And you’ll have to use the pot if you have to piss, because—” She hiked up the long multi-layered skirt of the dress and pulled a key from her garter—“I’m gonna lock the door on you. Don’t want some drunken john opening the door by mistake. No one knows Lizzie’s here, but you, Polly, me, and Danny.”
“So when can I leave?” Even to herself, Zelda sounded plaintive.
“I’ll be back before dawn.” Molly looked at Lizzie, distaste plain on her face. “I don’t know why the hell Flo thinks she’s gotta be watched. Doc said she was gone. It’s not like she’s gonna rise from the dead or something.”
Chapter Twenty-one
A symphony of scents washed over Inez as she and Reverend Sands stepped into the closely packed public reception at City Hall. Shy flowery perfumes of rose, carnation, violet, and lavender accompanied the bolder citrus overtones of orange and lemon. All clashed with the astringent bass line of male pomades containing oil of bergamot, mints, ammonia, and more. This olfactory chaos was heightened by the heat created by the crush of people milling about or jostling for position in the receiving line. High windows, opened wide, did little to relieve the temperatures and humidity.
Inez righted the fan hanging from her wrist and began vigorously fanning herself, joining most of the women in the vast room. Reverend Sands kept his hand firmly on her elbow, steering a circuitous path through the crowd as a small orchestra provided a light and lilting musical backdrop for the event. Inez assumed a polite but distant smile, allowing the reverend to decide who to greet and how. She recalled her mother’s detailed etiquette guidelines for how far to incline her head at each overture.
Most of their encounters were with church members or Leadville’s religious elite. The men, many who frequented the Silver Queen, were uniformly polite if sometimes distant, bowing and acknowledging both the reverend and Inez. The wives, however, were another matter. Women of society, as Inez had observed since her earliest childhood days, were experts at delivering a fatal blow with nothing more than a slight tilt of a fan or the degree of inclination in a nod. So she was prepared for the slightly raised female eyebrows, which spoke more subtly than a verbal utterance of disgust and dismay, the hesitation as finely dressed women debated whether to apply a direct cut to Inez and how to do so without offending the charming and well-liked reverend of a local church. Most of these impasses ended in a draw, with the barest of nods and most frozen of expressions exchanged between Inez and the other ladies.
It was like running the gauntlet. Weapons threatened overhead but did not make contact. Reaching the start of the receiving line was a relief. Inez kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to identify all the individuals beforehand, lest she lose courage and determination. At least Mrs. Grant has no idea who I am nor does Governor Pitkin’s wife. As for the Leadville mayor and all the local aristocracy, they will surely be on their best behavior.
The mayor and wife were first. As Reverend Sands merely introduced her as “Mrs. Stannert,” the good woman opposite Inez provided a general smile and friendly nod. Inez allowed her own aloof smile to thaw and returned the acknowledgment in kind. Inez also noted how, on acknowledging Reverend Sands, she lit up discreetly from within, as if a gaslight had been held briefly to her heart. Reverend Sands tended to have that effect on women, from the smallest, shyest girl barely into pinafores to the most elderly of great-grandmothers.
Inez kept her expression neutral and pleasant as she moved up the line to meet the vice president of the Denver&Rio Grande Railroad and his wife. Next, Lieutenant Governor Horace Tabor, one of Leadville’s homegrown millionaires, and, Inez was intrigued to see, his wife, Augusta. Mrs. Tabor was well known for eschewing public appearances such as these. Inez thought she’d heard that Augusta seldom left her Denver home these days. Yet, here she was.
Back when Leadville was Oro City and not much more than tents, Augusta had been postmistress and ran her husband’s store. But her position had risen with his fortunes. She was now the wife of Colorado’s lieutenant governor, one of the wealthiest men in the United States. Despite the polite smile affixed on Augusta’s face, Inez would have laid bets that Augusta would have preferred to be back in the “old days,” before Leadville brought such enormous fortune and fame to her husband.
Inez inclined her head murmuring, “Mrs. Tabor,” and Augusta did the same with a “Mrs. Stannert.” Inez thought a flash of recognition passed over Augusta’s face. If so, it was now gone.
More faces and names.
“May I present General and Mrs. Grant.”
Inez bowed, thinking that the former president and Civil War hero looked tired. Something about his eyes presaged illness. She recalled that, upon his arrival the previous night, he had attempted to demur from giving a speech, citing a hoarse throat.
The realization that the short, iron-gray man before her had been not only a president of the United States but also hero of the Civil War and engineer of the Confederacy’s surrender dazzled Inez in a way that she would not have foreseen. Whereas Ulysses S. Grant struck her as stolid, unmoving, even somewhat stern, Julia Dent Grant’s eyes shone, and she nearly twinkled in the reflected glow of celebrity.
Presentations made, still musing about the Grants, Inez automatically moved forward, even as the next introduction was intoned:
“Mrs. Stannert, Mr. Gallagher.”
Shock poured through her as an icy waterfall upon bare skin as Inez turned to face a former lover.
It was only years of innate breeding and her mother’s stern tutelage in manners of deportment that allowed Inez to keep a calm, polite demeanor.
Harry Gallagher, who had been chatting to the couple who were presented before them, turned to Inez and Reverend Sands. The two m
en exchanged greetings in the style of men who’d known each other a long time. Harry bowed to Inez, face impassive, as if, Inez reflected bitterly, she held no more meaning for him than a lamppost. Returning his bow with one that skimmed the line between propriety and rejection, Inez resolutely turned to the next introduction.
“Mrs. Lucretia Wesley and John Wesley, Esquire.”
So. This is Mr. John Quincy Adam Wesley’s most fearsome mother.
Not quite five feet in stature, she seemed nearly invisible standing next to her tall, gregarious offspring. Her dark eyes were mirrors of her son’s, but she had a firmness about the mouth that was her own, that hinted of adversities overcome.
A mutual inclination of heads ensued.
Reverend Sands stepped before Mrs. Wesley, preparing a cordial bow. She suddenly grasped his hand, and turned to Inez, saying, “Ah, you are the companion of Reverend Sands! He is so well regarded by all. Mr. Gallagher has mentioned him as a valiant comrade in arms during the late War. Mr. Tabor has naught but good to say of his works here in Leadville, and his church. General Grant himself mentioned him favorably on our train trip up to Leadville.”
Inez listened in fascination to the list of illustrious folk tripping from Mrs. Wesley’s lips. Sands smiled. Inez was intrigued to note that, at least on the surface, Mrs. Wesley seemed immune to his charms.
“Mrs. Wesley, you are too kind with your praise.” He slid his hand from her silk-gloved grasp.
Coming back to her manners with a guilty start, Inez turned to the young Mr. Wesley. She caught him staring at Sands with what appeared to be amused fascination. Behind Wesley, Kavanagh stood at a respectful distance with a ghost of a smirk on his face. Catching Inez’s eye, he lifted a hand in a sketch of a greeting.
The rest of the receiving line went by in a blur for Inez. No sooner had she and Reverend Sands completed the introductions than Doc came hurrying up as fast as cane and limp would allow in the crowded room. “Reverend! And Mrs. Stannert! So good of you both to attend. Ah, Reverend Sands, this means we have a full complement of the city’s ecclesiastical representatives. A good showing from the spiritual side for the general, wouldn’t you say?”
Doc beamed as if he were personally responsible for the presence of God’s agents at the reception, which could, Inez thought, be the case. Doc had had a major hand in organizing the events for Grant’s visit. She suspected that, behind the public faces of the mayor, the governor, all business, political, religious, and military representatives in attendance, Doc stayed busy oiling the machinery, keeping relationships and schedules smooth and untangled. His adoration and respect of Grant was such that it came close to nearly heathen worship, but then, Doc was hardly alone in that. Inez had observed within the saloon and about town that Grant seemed to inspire either great love and respect or great hatred and disdain, but rarely anything in between.
She allowed her rigid smile to relax into the genuine article. Doc grasped her gloved fingers and bowed low over them, as if she were no less than a queen.
“Doctor Cramer, you have done a splendid job, and we know it is all due to your hard work and diligence that General Grant and his wife should have such a splendid reception.”
Doc straightened, flushed with pleasure or exertion or perhaps from the blood rushing to his head during the prolonged bow. “Well, m’dear, ah, Mrs. Stannert,” he quickly corrected himself. “Our fair city can do no less. We made sure that his first full day here was extraordinary. Extraordinary!” He beamed at Reverend Sands, who gave him an encouraging nod. Thus encouraged, he continued, “Colonel Curry—you know he is head of the committee put together by the Veterans Association—had a carriage awaiting for the general and his party at ten this morning to take them to visit the mines.”
He began steering both Inez and Reverend Sands toward the heavily laden reception tables as he talked. “That unseasonable shower ante meridiem caused the schedule to slide a bit, but the Grants had ample time to view both Iron and Morning Star mines. Ah, you should have seen the hero of Appomattox at the Iron Mine! He and some of the party dressed to go below ground. In the rubber coat and slouch hat of a miner, he looked like any other underground explorer!”
An usher slid up next to Doc and cleared his throat tentatively. “Excuse me, Doctor Cramer? Colonel Curry wishes to speak with you.”
“No doubt another fire to put out. Oh, pardon me, bad choice of words, given last night’s arson. Excuse me.” Doc bowed again to Inez, and then to Reverend Sands, before hurrying away.
“Our august visitors hardly have a moment to rest, do they?” Inez paused by the punch bowl, with a slight dip of her fan. Sands obligingly retrieved a cup for her. Their gloved hands brushed as he handed her the cup. “That’s probably a good thing,” she continued, “considering young Wesley’s penchant for the bad side of town.”
She waited, to see if Sands would respond to this subtle overture. When he didn’t she continued, “So, tell me, you spent some time with them today. Is it true that he’s being groomed for political greatness? I heard he’s got eyes on a seat in Congress. Isn’t that what Tabor is angling for? I’d not put money against the Silver King of Colorado. Seems like a losing proposition, unless young Wesley has an ace up his sleeve.”
Sands gazed at her, his own crystal cup of punch raised halfway to his mouth. “And where did all this conjecture arise from?”
She shrugged. “Talk at the Silver Queen. Men come. Men drink. Men gossip. Worse than women, actually. I’d say the more they keep young Wesley busy going from mine to mine and touring smelters and such, the better off he’ll be. He seems to like roaming the red-light district. A young man’s lark, I suppose. But such can be dangerous for those with higher aspirations, or an eagle-eyed mother.” She sipped the punch and wrinkled her nose at the too-sweet taste.
Sands leaned forward, and said softly, “Don’t underestimate Mrs. Wesley.”
“I?” Inez feigned surprise and astonishment. “I’ve nothing to do with the woman. I’m just voicing what I’ve heard.”
“General Grant!” A birdlike voice rose above the nearby swell of voices. “I understand you support women’s higher education, is this so?”
The tumult quieted and heads swiveled to see who was speaking. A diminutive figure swathed in purple satin stood squarely before General Grant.
Chapter Twenty-two
“And in that case,” Mrs. Clatchworthy continued, “Do you not think that the next step after supporting higher education for women would be to grant them the right to vote?”
As the crowd grumbled, two Leadville policemen appeared, almost as if they’d been primed for such a disruption. They grabbed Mrs. Clatchworthy’s arms and escorted her out with such alacrity that Inez would have bet her purple dancing slippers did not even skim the ground.
Satisfied mutterings moved in a wave throughout the attendees. Inez heard a man behind her say: “Only a fool’d answer in the affirmative. Political suicide, it’d be, to back this folly of women’s votes. And Grant’s no fool.”
Another, quieter voice answered, “Aye, but there are many who’d not be sad to see him hoisted by his own petard. And some who’d hurry him along to that fate.”
Inez turned her head, searching out the speakers, but their voices had disappeared into the general murmur. The sea of men in somber black eveningwear gave no hint as to the speaker’s identities.
Reverend Sands sighed. “Why am I not surprised. Pardon me, Mrs. Stannert. I want to be sure she is not mishandled nor mistreated. That she has a way home at this hour. I’ll return in a moment.” He guided Inez to an empty chair, one of many lining the wall, and began pushing his way through the crowd.
Inez, tracking Mrs. Clatchworthy’s hasty departure, startled at a light touch on her shoulder. Mrs. Wesley took the empty seat beside her. “May I?”
“Please do.” Inez was intrigued to have young Wesley’s mother at such close quarters.
The opening notes of a
quadrille sounded. Dancers paired up, moved to the center of the floor, and formed squares of four couples.
Mrs. Wesley stared at Inez with a discomfiting intensity. “You know my son.”
Taken by surprise, Inez allowed a beat to pass. The music moved swiftly through the violins as she gathered her thoughts. Then: “Pardon me, Mrs. Wesley?”
“Lucretia. Please, Mrs. Stannert, call me Lucretia. I’m well aware of the business you’re in. The selling of spirits. The corruption of young men’s morals and their souls.”
“Mrs. Wesley. I don’t see, really, why my business is any of your business,” Inez responded more politely than she felt. “And, as your son is well past the age of majority—”
“He’s as ignorant as a child. A boy still in skirts.” The fan she snapped open did nothing to hide the tightness about her mouth. “All that he is now, he owes to me.”
“Indeed.” Inez was intrigued. “And, why are you telling me this?”
“That woman.” Lucretia nodded toward the door. “Do you know who she is?”
“Her name is Mrs. Clatchworthy. Our city’s suffragist, is my understanding. Runs a small newspaper. Our paths do not intersect.”
“Ah, but they do.” The intensity had moved from eyes to voice. “She talks of votes for women. True parity with men. What do you think of that?”
Inez hesitated, thinking this was a very odd conversation to be having at a reception for General Grant. And even odder as it was with a woman she didn’t know, but had been warned about. She took the neutral path. “I’ve no particular opinion. Politics do not concern me, unless talk of such involves a large consumption of spirits at the Silver Queen.”
Mrs. Wesley’s eyes narrowed. “I have been here but a couple days, but I have my sources. After my son was so unwise as to wander into your saloon—” she made the place sound as unsavory as a whorehouse— “I put out inquiries. I was, at first, appalled at what I heard. A woman, whose husband deserted her, in business with her husband’s partner. A colored man. This quite goes beyond the pale. But, this is Leadville, not Boston. I then learned that this woman is having a liaison with one of the city’s most well-respected ministers.”