The Gamble (I)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  But none of it would happen. She was thirty-five already; her child-bearing years were nearly gone. And she worked at a business whose customers were only women.

  Tick. Tock.

  Foolishness, Agatha. Nothing but an old maid’s muse. Even if by some miracle you met a man, a widower, perhaps, who needed someone to look after his children, he’d take one look at you and realize you wouldn’t last long kneeling in gardens, or standing at washboards, or chasing nimble-footed children. And, besides, men don’t want women who have to pad their bodies to be symmetrical. They want the uncrooked ones.

  Tick. Tock.

  She thought of all the thousands of women who had men such as she imagined, yet complained about having to weed the garden, toil over a hot stove, scrub socks, and listen to children quarrel. They didn’t appreciate what they had.

  I would be such a good mother, she thought. It was a conviction she’d had for as long as she could remember. If her legs were strong enough to birth a baby, the rest would be easy. And I’d be a good wife, too. For if I were ever blessed with the opportunity, I would never take it for granted. I would protect what I had by giving my best.

  From below came the tinkle of the piano, and instead of a man’s steady breathing at her side, the last thing she heard was a gambler shouting, “Keno!”

  When Violet Parsons came in for work at eleven the next morning, she burst into the workroom babbling.

  “Is it true? Did Mr. Gandy really take you out for supper last night?”

  Agatha sat at the worktable near the window, stitching a raspberry-silk lining into a Dolly Varden hat. Her needle kept moving, but she glanced up irritatedly.

  “Who told you that?” Violet lived in Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse with six other old ladies. They carried news faster than Western Union, though it was a mystery how.

  “Did he?” Violet’s eyes grew as bright as periwinkles.

  Agatha felt her neck grow warm. “When you left here yesterday, you went straight to Mrs. Gill’s for supper. This morning you walked a mere four blocks to get here. How in heaven’s name could you have heard such a thing so fast?”

  “He did! I can tell he did!” Violet covered her lips. “Tt-tt. I’d give my mother’s pearl brooch if a man like that would take me out to supper. Tt-tt.”

  “Violet, shame on you!” Agatha formed a knot, snipped a thread, and began to rethread the needle. “Your mother would be horrified if she could hear you say such a thing, may she rest in peace.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. My mother liked handsome men. Did I ever show you the daguerreotype of my father? Come to think of it, Mr. Gandy looks rather like Papa, but Mr. Gandy is even handsomer. His hair is darker and his eyes are...”

  “Violet, I’ve heard quite enough! I swear people will begin to snicker if you don’t stop rhapsodizing over that man.”

  “They say he bought you a roast-chicken dinner last night at Cyrus and Emma’s.”

  “Well, they’re wrong. After what he did to me yesterday morning, do you think I’d accept dinner from him? Why, the food would stick in my throat.”

  “Then, what did happen?”

  Agatha sighed and gave up. If she didn’t answer, she’d get no work out of Violet all day. “He offered to pay for my meal, but I told him in no uncertain terms I’d starve first. I paid for my own.”

  “He offered...” Violet’s eyes glittered like sapphires. “Oh, wait till I tell the girls.” She pressed a hand to her heart and closed her wrinkled eyelids. They twitched while she sighed.

  Senile, thought Agatha. I love you dearly, Violet, but you’re going senile living with all those old women. Not one of “the girls” would ever see sixty again.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be getting spoony over a forty-year-old man?”

  “He’s not forty. He’s only thirty-eight.”

  Agatha was abashed that Violet knew, precisely. “And you’re sixty-three.”

  “Not yet I’m not.”

  “Well, you will be next month.”

  Violet ignored the fact. “Five different times I’ve passed him on the boardwalk, and every time he’s smiled and doffed his hat and called me ma’am.”

  “Then gone down the street and hired one of the soiled doves, no doubt.”

  “Well, at least he doesn’t have any of them working in his place—you have to say that for him.”

  “Not yet he hasn’t. But the punchers haven’t arrived yet either.”

  Violet’s eyes grew troubled. “Oh, Agatha, do you think he will?”

  Agatha lifted one eyebrow. Her needle poised eloquently. “After what he carried in there yesterday, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “The girls said Mr. Gandy was a...” Violet’s words halted as the shop door opened in the front room. “Just a minute. I’ll see who it is.”

  Agatha continued stitching. Violet parted the lavender curtains and stepped through. “Oh!” Agatha heard. Breathless and girlish.

  “Mornin’, Miz Parsons. Fine mornin’, isn’t it?” drawled a deep baritone voice.

  Agatha’s spine stiffened. She gaped at the swaying curtains.

  “Why, Mr. Gandy, what a surprise.” Violet sounded as if she’d just run full tilt against a fence post and knocked herself stupid.

  Scott Gandy doffed his hat and bestowed his most charming smile. “I dare say it is. I reckon y’all don’t get a lot o’ gentlemen customers comin’ round.”

  “None at all.”

  “And I suspect I’m not any too welcome after what happened out front yesterday mornin’.”

  Loving Savior, he has dimples! thought Violet. And he’s carrying Agatha’s dress! The gray frock and a white petticoat were folded neatly over his arm. It reminded Violet that she must not excuse his rudeness too readily. She bent closer and whispered, “Agatha was very upset, I’ll grant you that.”

  He bent, too, and whispered back, “I’m sure she was.”

  “She still is.”

  “It was a most ungentlemanly thing for me to do. Most ungentlemanly.” Their noses were so close Violet could see herself reflected in his black irises. She caught a whiff of fine tobacco and bay rum, scents she rarely smelled working in a millinery shop and living with the girls. Still, she couldn’t let the scoundrel get off without a scolding.

  “See to it that it doesn’t happen again, Mr. Gandy,” she chided, still in an undertone.

  “It’s a promise.” He looked properly contrite, the smile gone, the dimples erased. Violet’s heart melted. Suddenly, she realized they were still nose to nose, and she straightened with a snap, blushing.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Gandy?” she inquired in a normal tone of voice.

  “I was hopin’ Miz Downin’ would be in. Is she here, Miz Parsons?”

  In the back room Agatha clasped the edge of the work-table, wishing she were nimble enough to leap to her feet and streak out the back door.

  “She’s in the back. Just follow me.”

  Don’t you dare, Violet! thought Agatha. But it was too late. The curtains parted and Violet led the way into the workroom, followed by their landlord.

  “Mr. Gandy is here to see you, Agatha.” Violet stood aside and let Gandy pass into the room. He moved with the unhurried pace of those accustomed to surviving in the humidity and heat of the Deep South, crossing slowly to the woman at the worktable beside the west windows. She sat stiff-backed, tight-mouthed, pouring her attention solely on the stitches she was furiously applying to the lining of a felt hat. Her face was as bright as the silk on which she sewed.

  Gandy stopped beside her chair and removed his hat.

  “Mornin’, Miz Downin’,” he said quietly.

  She refused to answer or look up.

  “Can’t say I blame you for not wantin’ t’ talk t’ me.”

  “If there’s something you need from the shop, Miss Parsons can help you.”

  “I’ve come t’ see you, not Miz Parsons.”

  “I’ve already had my breakfast. And paid
for it myself.” She jabbed the needle through the felt as if it were his hide.

  “Yes, ma’am. I saw you goin’ down t’ Paulie’s this mornin’.” Her head snapped up and their gazes collided. For the first time she saw that he held her gray dress and white petticoat over one arm. Her face turned a shade brighter. “Thought about tryin’ t’ talk t’ you there, but decided it’d be best t’ do so in private.”

  The needle seemed to grow slick in her fingers. What possible reason could he have for observing her comings and goings?

  “Last night at Paulie’s, I wanted t’ say that—” He cleared his throat nervously.

  She gave up all pretense of sewing and glared up at him. “Last night at Paulie’s you should have had the good grace to leave when you saw I was there. Was it amusing, Mr. Gandy? Did you enjoy humiliating me in front of people I know? Did your...” She paused disdainfully. “Did your friends in the saloon get a good laugh when you told them how you offered to buy supper for that old-maid milliner with the game leg?” She threw down her work. “And what, pray tell, are you doing with my personal belongings?”

  Scott Gandy had the grace to blush effusively.

  “Is that what you all think? That I offered t’ buy your supper to make fun of you?” His black eyebrows curled. A wedge of creases appeared between them.

  She picked up the hat and stabbed it again, too upset to meet his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

  “Not at all, ma’am, I assure you. I’m from Miz’sippi, Miz Downin’. My mama taught me early t’ respect womenfolk. Whatever it might look like, I had no intention of setting you in the mud yesterday or of embarrassing you last night in the eatin’ saloon. I wanted to pay for your supper by way of apology, that’s all.”

  Agatha didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She was making hash of her stitches, but she kept pushing the needle because she didn’t know what else to do, and she was too embarrassed to look up at him.

  “I truly am sorry, Miz Downin’.”

  His voice sounded contrite. She looked up to see if his eyes were the same. They were; and his mouth was somber. Rarely in her life had she seen a face more handsome. It was easy to see why featherheads like Violet became unhinged over him. But she was not Violet, nor was she a featherhead.

  “You think a mere apology excuses such gross behavior?”

  “Not at all. It was inexcusable. However, I didn’t know at the time you had difficulty walking. Later I saw you goin’ on down to the Finn’s with your dirty clothes and I thought I’d injured you when I knocked you down. Dan Loretto set me straight. However, when he did, I felt even worse.”

  Agatha dropped her chin, squirming under his direct gaze.

  “I know I can’t do anythin’ about the embarrassment I caused, but I figured the least I could do was take care o’ the laundry bill.” He laid her dress and petticoat carefully across the worktable. “So, here. All clean and paid for. If anythin’s damaged beyond repair, ya’ll be sure t’ let me know and I’ll make it right.”

  No man had ever touched Agatha’s petticoats. To have a man like him do so was rattling. His hands were very dark against the white cotton. She glanced aside, distraught. Her eyes fell on the hand that held his black hat against his thigh. On his little finger glittered a pea-sized diamond ring set in gold. The hat was a good one—if there was one thing she knew, it was hats. This one was a Stetson, by the look of it, a “wide-awake” beaver felt with low crown and wide brim, the newest profile for men. He had money enough for diamonds and new Stetsons and sheet-sized oil paintings—let him pay her laundry bill. She deserved it.

  She braved meeting his eyes directly, her own cold and accusing. “I suspect, Mr. Gandy, that you’ve gotten wind of the battle about to be waged in this town over the sale of spirits, and you’re here seeking to protect your interests by placating me with a few hollow apologies. Some women...”—it was all Agatha could do to keep from glaring at Violet—“... might have their heads turned by your smooth talk. I, however, know when I’m being hogwashed by a stream of self-interested ooze. And if you think I’ll back down on the issue of the lewd painting, you’re mistaken. Violet is afraid you’ll evict us if I cross you; however, I’m not.”

  In her zealousness, Agatha did something she rarely did before strangers—she got to her feet. Though Gandy still topped her by a good ten inches, she felt seven feet tall. “I intend not only to cross you, but to find others who’ll do the same.”

  Near the curtain Violet was waving like a windmill in a gale, trying to shut her up. Agatha went on, all the more aroused. “I may as well tell you—you’ll find out soon if you haven’t already—I’ve given approval for Proffitt’s first temperance meeting to be held here in my millinery shop this Sunday evening.” She paused, folded her hands over her stomach, and retreated with one dragging step. “Now, if you feel within your rights to evict us, go ahead. Right is right and wrong is wrong, and selling spirits is wrong, Mr. Gandy; so is hanging filth like that on a public wall.”

  “I have no intention of evicting you, Miz Downin’, and bringin’ every temperance worker and that newspaper o’ yours down on my head. Neither do I intend t’ quit sellin’ liquor. Furthermore, the picture is hung, and that’s where it’ll stay.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Gandy paused, thought, and then his face took on the expression of a poacher watching a doe approach a snare. He absently reached into his vest pocket for a cigar.

  “Oh, you will?”

  The cigar had scarcely touched his lips before she exploded. “Put that thing away! You may smoke your devil’s weed in your own filthy brothel, but not in my millinery shop!”

  As if suddenly realizing what he held, he looked down and stuck it back in his pocket. But he did so grinning, dimpling only one cheek.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. He glanced over his shoulder, turned slowly, and confronted Violet. “And what are your views on all this, Miz Parsons?”

  Violet acted like a perfect ninny, touching her lips and blushing like a scalded pig. Disgusted, Agatha watched Gandy work his wiles on her. “Men’ve been drinkin’ and gamblin’ and likin’ their ladies for as long as this country’s been here. Let the men have a little fun, we thought. No harm in that now, is there?”

  Violet answered, “Tt-tt.”

  “It’s indecent!” Agatha reproved, incensed.

  Gandy turned back to her. “It’s free enterprise. I try to make an honest livin’, ma’am, and to do that I have to keep one step ahead o’ those other enterprisin’ chaps along the street.”

  “Honest? You call it honest, taking men’s hard-earned money at gambling tables and a brass rail?”

  “I don’t force ‘em to come to the Gilded Cage, Miz Downin’. They come o’ their own free will.”

  “But it’s ruining my business, Mr. Gandy. All that drinking and revelry—the ladies don’t want to come anywhere near the place.”

  “I’m sorry about that, truly I am, but that’s free enterprise, too.”

  Agatha became outraged at his blithe claim of irresponsibility. Her voice grew sharper. “I’ll say it once more. Evict us if you will, but I intend to do everything in my power to shut you down.”

  To her utter consternation, he grinned. Matched dimples appeared this time in his swarthy cheeks and a twinkle came into his onyx eyes.

  “Is that a challenge, Miz Downin’?”

  “It’s a fact!” she spat. Agatha found she detested his Southern drawl. She detested even more the cocky way he settled the Stetson on his head and fixed his lazy grinning eyes on her, taking his sweet time about leaving.

  Gandy had come into the shop contrite. He was now amused. He studied the bridling female in the subdued blue dress with its high, tight collar and its stern, tied-back skirts. He’d taken her for an old woman when he’d first seen her. Upon closer scrutiny, he discovered she wasn’t really old at all. Younger than himself, probably. Slim, well shaped, and with a spark of conviction he grudgingly admired.
Her hair held a surprising glint of red, with the window light behind it. She had a magnificent jawline. Clear, clear skin. Unyielding green eyes as pale as sea spray. A damned pretty set of lips. And a lot of old-lady ways.

  But she certainly wasn’t old. Put a feather in her hair, paint a little crimson on those lips, loosen up a few springy ringlets in that hair, teach her to sing a bawdy drinking song, and she’d look as good in the saloon as Jube or Pearl or Ruby. He withheld a silent chuckle, imagining how aghast she’d be if she knew how he was picturing her.

  “I’ll take it as a challenge. Y’all do everythin’ in your power t’ shut me down. March, make banners, sing—whatever it is you temperance workers take it into your heads t’ do. And I’ll do whatever is necessary to attract customers to the Gilded Cage.”

  “You think it’s a game, don’t you? Well, it’s not. Miss Wilson doesn’t play games, She’s here on a mission.”

  “I know, I know.” He held up both palms and acknowledged blithely, “She’s aimin’ t’ clean me out, too.”

  “She most certainly is.”

  “Well, then, I’d best get back to work and prepare for the war, hadn’t I, ladies?” He touched the brim of his hat and bowed. “G’day, Miz Downin’.” He turned and approached Violet, who’d remained by the curtained doorway, looking as if he’d just complimented her on her underwear. “Miz Parsons,” he said softly, taking one of her blue-veined hands and raising it slowly to his lips. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Violet’s eyeballs threatened to roll in their sockets. Looking on, Agatha’s did.

  “Violet, see the landlord out, will you!” she snapped. “Then leave the front door propped open. The place suddenly reeks of stale cigar smoke.”

  Gandy turned, grinned, nodded, and left.

  When Violet reappeared, she flopped into her work chair, fanning her face with a handkerchief. “Did you see that, Agatha? He kissed my hand!”

  “Perhaps you’d best check it for twin punctures.”

  Violet’s euphoria would not be dampened. “He actually kissed my hand!” she repeated breathily.

  “Oh, Violet, will you act your age!”