by DiAnn Mills
Rather than reassure her, his comments sent chills along her arms while she watched him hurry down the snow-covered walk. She hadn’t for a moment considered that danger! Could he be trusted? Or had she betrayed her father’s trust in her judgment?
She was still worrying about it when she slipped onto her chair in the dining room.
“You’ll have to eat quickly, Vernetta,” her mother said. “You won’t have much time to prepare for tonight’s party. Wait until Andrew sees you in your new green satin with the black velvet trim! He’ll likely propose to you on the spot.”
“Lena!” Father’s protest wasn’t loud or even very serious. Vernetta suspected he made it because Mother expected it of him.
Mother waved a hand at him in dismissal. “We all know Andrew is smitten with her. Manners may prohibit our discussing it with others, but why not mention the obvious within the family?” She picked up her crystal goblet. “When is Andrew stopping for you, Vernetta?”
Vernetta’s stomach clenched. She took a deep breath, trying to release the tightness. This was the moment she’d dreaded. Facing her mother with the news was almost harder than hearing it from Andrew.
She lifted her head, forced a smile, and looked into her mother’s expectant eyes. “Andrew isn’t coming, not tonight, not ever again.”
Chapter 2
Mother slowly set the crystal goblet back on the table. “What do you mean, not ever again?”
Vernetta’s hands clenched the linen napkin in her lap. The anger and apprehension in her mother’s eyes made her want to steal away and pretend everything was as usual between herself and Andrew, but that wouldn’t change the facts. Her smile trembled. She tried to keep her voice light. “Andrew has decided he doesn’t care to escort me any longer.”
“Nonsense! He dotes on you!” Mother snorted and shook her head. “I suppose you said something foolish and hurt his pride. You must be careful of men’s pride, you know. Men like to think they are strong, but their pride is their weak point. A wise woman is careful to build it up.”
Vernetta caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Mother certainly hadn’t been building up Father’s pride lately!
“What foolish thing did you do to raise Andrew’s ire?” Disgust dripped from her mother’s voice.
Anger heated Vernetta’s cheeks. “I did nothing foolish. He…” She caught back the revealing truth just in time. She glanced at her father’s puzzled expression. It would tear him apart if he knew Andrew was no longer seeing her because her father had lost his fortune. Father would be sure to think her broken heart was his fault. She swallowed hard. “Andrew simply discovered his feelings for me weren’t what he thought.”
“Nonsense! Of course they are the same.” Mother wagged a finger in Vernetta’s direction. “I want you to apologize to him at the first opportunity for whatever it is you have done.”
Vernetta drew an angry breath. “Mother! I—”
Father threw his napkin down beside his plate. “Lena, that’s enough of this. If Andrew has so little sense that he would walk away from our daughter, then he isn’t good enough for her.”
Tears heated Vernetta’s eyes at her father’s defense, his love warming her heart.
“We must think of our daughter’s future, Mr. Larson,” Mother reminded him indignantly. “Her social standing may be hurt irretrievably if she doesn’t apologize to Andrew.”
“No one worth their salt will think less of Vernetta because that young man is no longer escorting her.”
“But—”
Father cut off Mother’s comment with a sharp wave of his hand and a scowl. “I’m sure any number of respectable young men will gladly take Andrew’s place, if she’s willing to allow them to do so.”
“Mr. Larson—”
Angry lights darted in his eyes, but his voice didn’t raise a note. “The subject is closed. Let’s remember this is a Thanksgiving meal.”
Vernetta kept her gaze on her plate as she started eating. She was grateful for her father’s reprieve. But I’ve no doubt Mother will reopen the subject as soon as we’re alone. Her stomach tightened at the thought.
Two days later, Vernetta stood patiently in the mirrored fitting room of the most exclusive shop in a downtown emporium. The woman who was fitting her elegant party gown and the clerk who had waited on her were as familiar as old friends. She had purchased her tailor-made gowns here for years.
In the past, the visits had been times of anticipation. Now the reflection of herself in the satin and lace gown enveloped her in sadness. I feel like a thief, she thought, as though I’m stealing from Father, ordering gowns I know he can’t afford.
She’d argued with her mother over the dresses. “My gowns from last year will be adequate. Surely no one has bothered to remember what I wore last year.”
Mother’s eyes had flashed. “Do you want to advertise that your father is putting us into the poorhouse? No, your image must defy those awful newspaper tales. Besides, since you’ve chased away Mr. Reed, you must be especially careful of your appearance if we wish you to attract another worthy suitor.”
The look her mother flashed assured Vernetta that Mother believed “we” did indeed wish to attract another “worthy suitor.”
Thomas Michael McNally’s smiling face, entirely lacking Andrew’s pretentious facade, flashed in her mind. She saw her reflection smile in response to the cheerful Irish eyes that filled her imagination. The regret that flashed through her at the realization that such a man would never be considered a worthy suitor surprised her.
“I think we’re done for today, Miss Larson,” the clerk said from the floor, where she’d been seated while pinning a piece of the lace insert to the gown’s skirt. “What do you think of it?”
Vernetta’s gaze swept unenthusiastically over the gown’s reflection. “It’s lovely.”
With the clerk’s assistance, she removed the pinned garment and dressed in her simple but elegant gray cashmere suit, which was trimmed with black embroidery. As she entered the main shop, the head clerk hurried over, her face wreathed in smiles. Vernetta responded to the clerk’s thanks for her orders even as her mind was elsewhere.
The daring thought blazed through her mind, taking her breath. Maybe I could find a position here. A picture of her mother’s face, filled with horror at the idea of her daughter being a mere store clerk, came immediately to mind. Vernetta pushed it away. Mother’s fragile pride isn’t as important now as Father’s money problems.
“Mrs. Drew,” she interrupted the head clerk before she could lose her courage, “I would like to apply for a position here.”
Mrs. Drew’s straight brows met above her thin nose. Her eyes grew a bit glassy, but she didn’t lose her smile. “A position? What type of work are you seeking?”
Vernetta was glad for the years of social training that kept her voice low and pleasant, without a trace of the tremors she felt in her spirit. “Why, I don’t know exactly. A sales clerk, perhaps. I do know your line of clothing well after all the years I’ve purchased here.”
Mrs. Drew pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we’ve no positions available. The store’s owner is keeping on more employees than the work justifies already.” Pity filled her eyes. “It would have been delightful working with you, I’m certain.” She spread her hands slightly. “Perhaps when the current financial troubles have passed…”
“Of course. Thank you.” Vernetta tried to keep her chin up and her walk casually graceful as she left the room, but inside she felt like running out the door in tears, like a small girl.
She pushed through the emporium’s heavy front doors onto the sidewalk. Tall buildings on either side of the downtown street tunneled the December wind in shrieking gusts that whipped a pedestrian’s clothing. Vernetta’s warm, magenta muffler blew over the shoulders of her gray coat. She tucked her chin into the muffler’s soft folds.
The cold, stinging wind brought the tears to her eyes she had managed to repr
ess since the conversation with Mrs. Drew. The bustling Christmas shoppers filling the walk were blurred to her. The scent of roasted chestnuts from the nearby street vendor didn’t warm the air.
Her long, heavy wool skirt brushed against something. “Excuse me,” she murmured, barely glancing in the direction of the child her skirt had touched.
“Flowers, miss?”
“No, thank you, I—” She focused her gaze on the child. The sight stopped the words in her throat.
The girl hunkered inside a worn brown corduroy coat. It was woefully short. From beneath it stuck slender legs encased in once-white woolen stockings with holes in the knees. Attempts had been made to darn the holes, but even the darning was wearing through.
Isn’t her skirt even long enough to cover her knees? Vernetta wondered.
The girl held up a homemade satin flower, clutched in a glove as holey as her stockings. With the other hand, she brushed her hair from her face. Wind-whisked, golden-brown waves tangled about her red ears. Snowflakes hung like miniature stars on her lashes.
Vernetta’s heart crimped. The child must be freezing!
“Flowers, miss?” the girl repeated between chattering teeth.
“What a lovely idea!” Vernetta smiled at her, opening her purse. Her smile died. She had no money with her. She’d forgotten that she’d given her last coins to the maid for the marketing that morning. Her father’s financial worries had caused her many disappointments, but none so painful as this. To think she didn’t even have a few pennies for a purchase from a flower girl!
The wind tossed the end of her muffler into her face. She brushed it aside impatiently, then noticed the girl’s gaze resting on the muffler. Vernetta hesitated only a moment. She pulled the strings of her purse shut and smiled again. “I’m sorry. I haven’t any money with me today, but perhaps we can work out a trade.”
The girl’s brows met in a puzzled frown above huge gray eyes.
“I’d truly love some of your beautiful flowers. Would you accept my muffler in exchange? It’s new. This is the first time I’ve worn it.”
The girl stared at the muffler as if unable to believe such good fortune could be hers. “I…I don’t know.”
Clearly the child wasn’t accustomed to bartering. Was she afraid her parents wouldn’t want her to bring home a scarf instead of money? But it’s worth far more than the pennies her entire supply of flowers would bring, Vernetta assured herself.
Quickly, she removed it from her neck. Icy air struck her exposed throat. She winced at the sharp pain of it but didn’t change her mind. The girl had no hat or muffler. She must feel like an ice sculpture! Vernetta thought, holding out the muffler.
The girl reached her worn gloves to touch it. A soft gasp came from her chapped lips when her fingers closed around the luxurious thickness.
Vernetta knelt before her and wrapped the muffler over the girl’s head and ears, then around her neck. “How is that?”
“Oh! It’s wonderful!” The girl’s words were barely a whisper.
Vernetta beamed at her. “I’m glad you like it.”
“How many flowers do you want?” the girl asked cautiously.
Vernetta looked over the flowers in the oak basket. Her muffler was worth many more flowers than the basket held, but she couldn’t take all of the girl’s wares. Silk and satin flowers mixed with crepe paper roses. Surely the crepe paper were the least costly to make. The observation decided Vernetta immediately. But how many to request? To ask for too few would belittle the girl’s creations. “Let’s see, do you think a dozen paper roses would be a fair trade?”
The girl’s eyes sparkled. Her mouth spread in a grin above her pointed chin. “Oh, that would be a fine trade, miss.” She held out the basket. “Would you like to choose them?”
Vernetta chose a selection of pink, red, and white paper roses.
“You’d best let me wrap them in one of these old newspapers, miss, so’s the wind won’t wreck them.” The girl pulled a newspaper page from the bottom of the basket and deftly rolled the flowers in it. “Here you are, miss.”
“Thank you. I’m Miss Vernetta Larson. What is your name?”
The girl looked suddenly shy. Her winter-whisked cheeks couldn’t possibly grow redder, so they didn’t betray whether she blushed. Her voice was low, and Vernetta leaned forward to catch her words before the wind snatched them away. “Lily, miss. Lily Mills.”
“What a pretty name! How old are you, Lily?”
“Eight.”
Only eight years old and trying to make her living on a cold Minneapolis street! “I shall enjoy your flowers, Lily. I’ll think of you each time I look at them. They’ve brightened my day.”
Her own problems did seem lighter as she hurried down the street, the bundle of flowers held close against her coat. But, Lord, how can You allow poverty to put children into such a position? her heart cried.
Chapter 3
Vernetta’s troublesome thoughts about the flower girl evaporated when she walked through the walnut and etched glass door into her home. Round-topped trunks and worn valises, some of tapestry and some of leather, were piled about the large entrance hall. Two tall women with white-gray hair in large buns were giving contradictory directions at the same time to a smiling Thomas Michael McNally.
Vernetta recognized the women as Cora and Cornelia Wibbey, unmarried sisters in their sixties. They’d rented the bedroom at the front of the house, the one with large windows overlooking the front walk.
Mr. McNally’s gaze met Vernetta’s, and they shared an amused smile over the sisters’ vocal disagreement. The shared amusement sent happy warmth through Vernetta’s chest. I was right about him, she thought, setting her newspaper-wrapped bouquet on the marble-topped hall table. His cheerful spirit will be good for our home.
He tucked one valise under an arm, grabbed a valise handle in each hand, and started up the stairs. The sisters followed, holding their skirts out of their way, neither sister missing a syllable of instruction to Mr. McNally, urging him to handle the valises with care and telling him where each was to be placed, though he could not even see the door to their room as yet.
How kind of him to help them carry their things upstairs, she thought. Dora, as the only remaining servant, would be hard-pressed to provide all the service the guests needed. Father was at the bank, and Vernetta could not see her mother waiting on the boarders. She reached for one of the smaller valises, intent on helping.
“There you are!” Mother bustled toward her, the sound of her footsteps hidden in the thick oriental carpet. “I thought you’d never get back from the dressmaker’s.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Everything is wrong! All these extra people in the house are making me addlepated.”
More likely you are making them addlepated, Vernetta thought. She turned toward the hall closet, removing her coat and hiding her smile from her mother. “What have they done?”
Mother’s arm swept through the air, indicating the pile of luggage remaining in the entryway. “Look at all this…this…rubbish they are moving into our home! First that newspaperman arrived—”
“Mr. McNally?” Vernetta asked, keeping her tone innocent, trying to establish delicately the fact that “that newspaperman” had a name.
“I think that’s his name.” Mother made a small dismissing motion with her hand. “Anyway, he came with his paraphernalia right after you left. The women arrived right on his heels, and Captain Rogers arrived before the busman had carried in all the women’s luggage. Goodness! The busman was opening and closing the door, letting in the wind and cold, as though we’d nothing better to do than heat all of Minneapolis!”
Vernetta patted her mother’s shoulder. “It’s over now, dear. Surely all the boarders’ belongings have been delivered.”
“I should hope so! It took Dora and me all day yesterday to find places to store our personal belongings in order to make the rooms available for the boarders.”
; As Vernetta remembered it, Dora had been the one to pack the belongings and carry them to the attic. “I haven’t met Captain Rogers yet. Is he in his room?”
“Yes. He said he needed a nap.” She wiped the back of one hand across her forehead. “I’m the one who could use a nap! I do hope he won’t be sickly or expect us to nurse him.”
“I’m sure he’s only tired, Mother. He must be quite elderly. Wasn’t he a captain in the Civil War?”
“So he says.” She sighed deeply. “I’d best check to see that Dora has everything in hand for luncheon.” She swept down the hall in a rustle of skirts and with an air of important haste.
Vernetta reached for the paper roses, shaking her head. Her mother’s attitude would be amusing—if it weren’t so sad.
From the china closet that filled most of one dining room wall, Vernetta selected three porcelain vases. She filled them with the roses, then set the cheerful bouquets on a silver tray and carried them up the stairs. Maybe the flower girl’s roses would brighten the boarders’ rooms.
After dinner, Vernetta stopped in the kitchen. “Did you remember to serve coffee and dessert to the boarders in the living room, Dora?”
“I’m preparing it, miss, as you asked me to do.” Dora indicated the silver tray on the table. Delicate rose-sprinkled china cups and saucers sat beside a matching cream pitcher and sugar bowl. Scalloped sugar cookies rested daintily upon an etched crystal plate. Linen napkins with small pink roses embroidered in the corners lay to one side.
The silver coffee service was on another silver tray. Vernetta knew Dora would be using it to serve after-dinner coffee to her parents in the parlor, as usual. Her mother didn’t know Vernetta had instructed Dora to serve the boarders in the living room. She was sure her mother wouldn’t approve. “They are boarders, not guests,” she had repeatedly informed Vernetta throughout the day.
What did the flower girl have for dinner tonight? Vernetta wondered, gazing at the simple dessert trays. Did she have something warm and filling after the day spent in the cold Minneapolis wind and snow?