Leaden Skies

by Ann Parker

  Inez was speechless.

  “No matter.” The metronomic fan never missed a beat. “We all have our secrets. It just seemed to me that we might find ourselves with similar goals. And, if so, we might work together, at least for a time, to be sure those goals aren’t derailed. But perhaps I was wrong.” She began to rise.

  Inez tapped Lucretia’s arm with her own fan. “Wait! What do you mean, similar goals?”

  Lucretia sank back into the chair. “Do you believe women should have the vote?”

  “As I said, I haven’t an opinion.”

  “Well, perhaps you should.” Those eyes were dark enough to swallow all the light in the room. “As a woman who works hard, supports herself, does it seem fair that a man can simply come and reclaim all that you’ve done? I’m sure if you think about it, the answer becomes obvious.” She leaned forward. “I lived a life like yours. All my work, all the benefit, all the plaudits, went to my husband. Not a bit to me. Then, he found a younger woman.” She paused. “Alas, he met with an untimely end. I could have ended up in your place, but for God’s will. As it is, my late husband’s businesses and most of his wealth have passed on to my dear son.”

  Lucretia turned her head as if checking her son’s whereabouts. Inez noticed that he was standing with the same group of young men he had been with in her saloon. Wesley’s mother said softly, almost as if to herself, “I sent him to Boston to get a proper education. Set him on the road to greatness that is sure to come. If—” she turned around to face Inez—“he doesn’t misstep.”

  Just beyond young Wesley stood Horace Tabor with the governor and his own circle of intimates. Inez noticed that Mrs. Tabor had withdrawn and was in conversation with the mayor’s wife. In postures of man and wife, Inez sensed a separation far wider and deeper than the mere ten strides that separated them.

  Almost as if she knew the direction of Inez’s gaze, Mrs. Wesley continued, “Mr. Tabor has great ambitions. Ambitions not shared by his wife. Oh, I’ve had occasion to chat with Augusta. Her son and mine are of an age and struck up a recent friendship. Augusta and I have much in common. We come from humble beginnings. Our husbands made fortunes in silver—hers, here in Leadville; mine, in Virginia City. Yet, again, all the profits, all the benefits, go to the husband. Is that right, I ask, is that fair, when we put in just as long hours, kept the books, tended the business side as we would our gardens?”

  I’m not like that. The thought flashed through Inez’s mind, a stubborn denial. Mark always gave me my separate cut of the profits when we were traveling. I never had to ask or beg for money. He won the Silver Queen in a poker game but split the saloon equally with Abe, his business partner, and me, his partner for life. I’m not like this embittered woman. What she is saying has nothing to do with me.

  “My son,” Lucretia said, “has a gift. He draws people to him. He speaks, they listen, and they believe. He can accomplish what I cannot.” She seemed to be looking beyond Inez, now, off into a realm far away from the stuffy, noisy, crowded reception hall. “He knows the depths of his father’s sins, and the sins of men. He has a name full of destiny. John Quincy Adams, I named him so. It’s a prophecy. He will champion our cause in Washington. Mr. Tabor cannot dictate the motion of the stars. My John will rise above him. The stars have said.”

  Inez had had enough. Enough of the over-sweet punch. Enough of Lucretia Wesley’s odd ramblings.

  The end of her patience coincided with the quadrille’s end and young Wesley’s realization of where his mother was and with whom she was talking.

  Wesley hastened over as the orchestra struck up the introduction to a waltz.

  Inez saw that Jed Elliston was also making his way through the crowd toward them on a direct collision path with Wesley. She had no doubt, given the narrowness of the reporter’s glare and the general hungry look about him, that he was after Wesley for some journalistic tidbit or other.

  Behind Jed, Kavanagh closed the gap between himself and Jed. Kavanagh’s expression suggested that, if he had his way, Jed would not reach Wesley at all.

  I need a dance partner. Jed is here, and he will do. And maybe I can find out more about all this business of son and mother.

  Inez stood in a rustle of skirts and placed her half-empty cup on the small nearby table. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wesley. I wish you and your son well. But I’ve nothing to do with politics. My life is full enough without taking up a lost cause.” She smiled to lessen any sting from her words.

  Before Mrs. Wesley could respond, her son stopped before them. “Maman.” There was a touch of concern behind the filial salutation. The hint of a question. “And Mrs. Stannert, is it not?” He performed a bow and topped it with a charming smile. “Such a pleasure to meet you just now, in the company of Reverend Sands.” There was a touch of warning in his voice that telegraphed to Inez: Don’t say anything.

  “Maman, are you feeling all right? I know it’s awfully warm in here.”

  “Perhaps a touch tired. But it will pass. And this is such an historic moment. The reception. The Grants. The governor. And us here.” Mrs. Wesley gazed at her son, years falling away as her face softened and brightened. She reminded Inez of a sunflower turned upwards to the sun.

  Wesley smiled down at her indulgently. “In that case, if you feel well enough, may I have this dance? It will be my only chance before the politicians and giants of American industry present insist on having their turns with you on the dance floor.”

  He held out a hand. She placed her hand in his, and rose.

  Inez hastened to Jed, planting herself in his path, between him and the Wesleys. He skidded to a stop before her.

  “Why, Mr. Elliston, thank you, I would love to dance with you,” said Inez holding out her arms and cocking her head to one side.

  “Dance? Mrs. Stannert, if you’ll excuse me, I have business with—” His gaze darted over her shoulder.

  “John Wesley? Or his mother? Well, as you see, now is not the time to bring it up as the dance is about to begin, and they are engaged. Now, be a good fellow and don’t embarrass me. After all, don’t I allow you to run a tab as necessary?” Inez closed the distance between them and placed a hand on his shoulder, nearly forcing him to take her other hand in his. She lowered her voice. “I have information for you about the son and mother, and a few questions about them as well.”

  “Information?” He automatically placed his hand on her waist, his gaze pinned on the Wesleys as though he were afraid they might vanish into thin air.

  Kavanagh paused in his trajectory. He then continued, bumping Jed’s shoulder with an unapologetic “pardon me,” before veering toward the refreshment table. Color flooded Jed’s anemic complexion. He made to drop Inez’s hand. She increased her grip to a ferocious pressure and murmured, “Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s hoping to goad you so you’ll be thrown out. Yet again.”

  The music began in earnest. Inez took a small step forward, forcing Jed to step back. They swung into the rhythm of the dance as Jed grumbled, “I should mash that fellow’s head in.”

  “His name is Kavanagh, and he’s only doing what he’s been hired to do.” Inez was gratified to discover that Jed was not a half bad dancer. In fact, he was quite good.

  As they moved about the floor, Jed reversed his gaze to her. “So what was Mrs. Wesley saying to you? Was she trying to talk you into joining the Women’s Temperance Union?”

  Inez smiled at that. “Well, it was nearly as bad. In my view, anyway. Mrs. Wesley is quite the suffragist. Ah, I’m supposed to call her Lucretia. In any case, Lucretia was weaving a story about her son and how his path was set for politics. She told me that once he became senator, governor, president—the pinnacle of achievement she hoped for was a bit unclear—he would work for women’s right to vote.”

  Jed’s grip tightened convulsively, cracking Inez’s knuckles.

  “Uhng.” It was a garbled, half-choked, completely nonsensical res
ponse.

  Inez looked at him in alarm. “Mr. Elliston. Jed. What’s wrong?”

  He was gabbling fast, under his breath. Inez caught, “It’s true! I didn’t doubt, but I wondered. And now, independent corroboration! I can now state, ‘a source close to the mother said.’”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His brown eyes burned with journalistic fervor. “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert. You have given me a great gift! Read tomorrow’s newspaper and you’ll understand.” He whirled her in a tight, joyous circle. “I owe you. I will send every thirsty journalist I know your way for the rest of my days in Leadville.”

  “Well, you’re welcome, although I’ve no idea what I said to make you jump so. If you really want to thank me, send not the penniless journalists, but the well-heeled investors behind the papers, if there be any.” She smiled, to show she was joking, but just. “Now, what can you tell me about Mrs. Wesley and her son? Surely you’ve done some digging. I’m curious as to where they’re from and how they made their fortune.”

  “Most of my information was picked up from the out-of-town scribes over beer earlier today.” Jed led absent-mindedly, his thoughts elsewhere, but he continued readily enough. “In a nutshell, old Mr. Wesley—and he was old, by all accounts, nearly half a century—made it rich in Virginia City silver and married Lucretia Lawson, who was…well, her age varies from fifteen to nineteen. Miss Lawson’s occupation at that time varies from runaway turned dancehall girl to daughter of a respectable man fallen on hard times. Anyhow, the Wesley pater familias died at sixty-five, having led a long and lusty—oh, pardon me, Mrs. Stannert—life. We’ll not go into the latter, but it seems he never lost his taste for dancehall women. Ahem. I’ll add, since I know you love a bit of rumor and gossip, that there was some question regarding the nature of his death. But, he was old, she was young, and lovely, and now very, very wealthy. Or rather, her son was wealthy, which really came down to the same thing in this case. So, mother and son relocated to San Francisco.” Jed shrugged.

  “We pick up a year or two later, when Mrs. Wesley, with all her charms and her departed husband’s money, sends her son, John Quincy Adams Wesley—a truly ridiculous name, there—packing to Boston and the very respectable side of her family. By virtue of said money and Boston connections, J.Q.A.W. slides easily into Yale and subsequently joins a prestigious family law firm. John Wesley is then sent to Denver to establish a new office, and the happily reunited mother and son settle in the lovely city at the foot of the Rockies, where they make quite a splash, society-wise. And politics-wise.”

  “Thank you. Most interesting. You have also provided me with food for thought. I think we’re even, Mr. Elliston.”

  The orchestra finished with a flourish.

  “And thank you, too, sir, for the lovely dance.” Inez could see Reverend Sands making his way to her, through the crowd.

  Jed bowed over her hand, for once, the gallant. “The pleasure, believe me, Mrs. Stannert, is all mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Zelda woke with a start.

  The lamp, turned down low, guttered. Clouds had cleared, allowing a wash of moonlight to enter through the single window and bathe a swatch of the room. A slash of silver light touched the small hump that was Lizzie’s feet under the coverlet and poured across the luxurious rug by Flo’s bed.

  She heard a crash as the Murphy bed in the room upstairs was pulled down, blocking the door shut for a modicum of privacy. A low murmur of voices, a squeak of boards as weight settled into the mattress, and then a muffled moan. The moan was replaced by the rhythmic squeak-thump, squeak-thump, squeak-thump of the Murphy bed alternately smacking wall and door as a customer proceeded to get his money’s worth of pleasure.

  Zelda snuggled back into the shawl, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of Flo’s signature violet perfume and her distinctive muskiness. She closed her eyes, determined to ignore the sounds of purchased joy, if possible.

  An unmuffled snort caused her eyelids to snap open. Zelda straightened up in the chair, looking around, trying to identify where the sound had come from. She stared, in disbelief, as the shrouded feet in the bed twitched.

  The sound again.

  A definite snore.

  Zelda felt as if the spirit part of her was rising straight out of her body from sheer terror. It hung below the ceiling, observing, as her earth-bound body gathered its courage, rose from the chair, and crept toward the bed.

  Lizzie’s nose, which had been pointed up toward the rafters three stories up, was now angled toward the window. An unmistakable snore bubbled from the presumed-dead woman. Then, some murmured words stumbled out. “Don’t, Flo. It’s no good.”

  Zelda shrieked, ran to the door, and wrenched the French hand-painted porcelain doorknob nearly from its mooring before remembering that Molly had locked it from the outside.

  She pounded on the panel. “Molly! Someone! Come quick!”

  A hasty creaking of floorboards, the unmistakable rasp of key in lock, and the door flew open to reveal Molly and Danny. “What the hell is going on?” whispered Molly harshly. “What’re you raising a stink about now?”

  “I heard,” Zelda pointed a shaking finger at the bed, “I heard Lizzie. She’s alive.”

  Molly’s and Danny’s faces looked white as masks in the moonlight, dark shadows painted the eyes as empty while silver light glazed the cheekbones.

  “She can’t be.” Molly hastened to the bedside, picked up Lizzie’s hand, and let it fall. “She’s cold as death itself.”

  “Look at her! She ain’t all stiff. And I, I heard her snore. And, and she talked.”

  Danny, who had moved to the bed, swung around at her words, slow as a mountain pulled from its mooring, and stared at Zelda.

  But it was Molly who spoke.

  “You’re dreaming, Zelda. It’s a nightmare or maybe someone walked across your grave.”

  “Stop that! I heard her. She was telling Flo to, I dunno, to not do something.”

  Molly bent toward Lizzie.

  Lizzie was mute, as if in defiance.

  Molly picked up Lizzie’s arm more firmly now, held the wrist, then dropped it. “Shit.” She backed away from the bed, addressed Danny. “Go get Doc.”

  “She’s alive!” said Zelda. “I told you!”

  “Shut up.” Molly said, staying calm. “Danny, go. Fast as you can.” She turned to Zelda again. “I’m gonna close the door, lock it again. If something happens, just sit by her. Bring that chair over, and hold her hand. I don’t want nothing to happen if…How could she be alive?” Molly’s voice was full of wonder and disbelief. She turned to the immobile Danny and made shooing motions. “Go! Go!”

  Danny lumbered out, Molly followed him. Zelda ran and grabbed Molly’s hand. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me here alone with her!”

  “F’ fuck’s sake, Zelda!” Molly spoke forcefully. “If she’s alive, well, she’s in a swoon or…I don’t know! We’re gonna get Doc here as fast as we can. Just…watch her! I’ve gotta get the johns outta here and make sure the girls stay in their rooms. I’ll be back.”

  The door slammed in Zelda’s face. She heard the key turn and the bolt scrape home.

  Shaking, Zelda cowered by the door a while, before finally plucking up her nerve and retreating back into the room. She gripped the chair and tentatively drew it up to the bed. It’s okay. She’s alive. I just gotta stay until Doc gets here. I’ll tell him, then I’ll skedaddle. Zelda gingerly picked up Lizzie’s hand, turned it over to bare the wrist. Zelda swore she could see a pulse beating slowly, under the cold, not-dead skin.

  The hand twisted and gripped hers tight.

  Zelda’s breath stopped.

  All seemed frozen, except for the thump of the hard-pressed bed above and other random creaks of floor planks and walls.

  Zelda wanted to scream, but no sound passed through her constricted throat, no air entered her fear-frozen lungs.

  S
he raised her eyes from the cold, steel-tight grip on her hand to meet Lizzie’s signature half-mad, half-looped gaze. Lizzie’s wide-open eyes bored into hers like a miner’s drill. The hardened, malice-filled glare wavered. Then, in a slurred, but definitely Lizzie-like way, she rasped, “What the fuck’re you doin’ here?”

  Before Zelda could respond, a blackness dropped over her head. A sudden crush banded her chest, slamming her back against the straight-backed chair.

  She wrenched away from Lizzie’s grasp, clawing at the band, the darkness at her face. The band holding her tight to the chair was an arm, clamped over her breasts, pinning her upper arms, unyielding. The darkness…a damp cloth pressed to her face with a gloved hand…blocked nose and mouth.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She tore at the gloved hand, her arms tangled in the shawl. Nothing moved that hand. It was as if a statue of stone held her in a timeless grip. She was vaguely aware of Lizzie—screaming? Laughing? The sound seemed far away and faint, far fainter than the heavy breathing of whoever held her to the chair, refusing to grant her the simple life-saving breath she fought for.

  The pressure over her face lifted slightly. Zelda took in air in a huge gasp, cloth clinging to nose and face.

  The air was sweet. Oh, so sweet. Fruity and sweet.

  She was flying. Like an angel.

  The creaking above her, the pressure across her chest, the rasping breathing of her assailant, Lizzie’s screams, the sweet smell, all, all retreating….

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The world returned with the suddenness of a snap, dark shades striped with palest gray.

  Zelda blinked, trying to figure out where she was, what had happened, until she realized that she viewed a small slice of the room, from floor level, through a tangle of hair smothering her face. The prickly rug pressed into her cheek.