“What you suggest would not be good for me, not in the least. I will not open my door to you.”
“You’ll do it, my lovely.” He didn’t try to touch her again, for which she was grateful. She already felt as though slime covered her skin.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ll let me in . . . let me do whatever I want, or you’ll be on the sidewalk come Monday.”
Edith tried to keep her fear from showing in her face, but she knew she failed when she heard Maginn’s hateful chuckle. He threatened her with the one thing she feared above all else. To be on the street, destitute. She could imagine it so clearly.
He smiled like an inferior devil. “Now you know I wouldn’t want to evict you. See reason and I’ll let you stay. That’s fair, isn’t it? You scratch my back . . . who’s to say? If you’re nice to me, I might be tempted to make it legal. You and me ... I could see us living down here, all right and tight. A nice little wifie’s better than an idiot sister any day.”
Maginn didn’t try to stop her when she walked out. She returned to her room, her ankle bothering her less than her conscience. She argued that this was as dire a moment as she’d ever faced. Trapped between two downward paths, surely it would be all right to use the money. She took it out and tucked it away in her bag.
Much ashamed, Edith admitted that if she must prostitute herself, she would rather it be to the handsome Jefferson Dane than to the repulsive Maginn. If only she could be sure that Mr. Dane’s proposal was authentic, she would seize upon it in a moment. She thought of his warm brown eyes and almost believed. Shaking the thought away, she blessed the hundred-dollar bill.
Though her aunt had told her again and again never to use the money, Edith doubted such a situation had ever come up for her. A solid woman, a Christian woman, but not ever one to tempt the male sex, as she herself had admitted.
“You are a different story, Edith,” her aunt had often said. “The gentlemen admire the slender yet elegant figure. And you do have pretty hair. I tell you these things not that you should be vain of them, but so you will be wary. Do not talk to strange men in the street. Don’t tempt them with sly looks or a seductive walk. A lady keeps her eyes on the street and her feet on a narrow path. Men are such . . . susceptible creatures.”
Edith had followed all her aunt’s advice. Yet it seemed she had tempted Mr. Maginn. Though Edith felt sure he had not had very far to fall.
She wondered again about Mr. Dane. Did his pleasing exterior hide a heart of gold, or of clay? Did none of the three ladies of his choice tempt him to fall? What was the matter with them that they didn’t take advantage of the ease with which a man could be fascinated?
At the post office, her heart leapt high when she saw the sharp edge of an envelope through the small square of glass. In her eagerness, she misdialed twice before she got the right combination. Withdrawing the letter, heedless of decorum, she ripped open the letter. No money fell out. She shook the page vigorously, and then the envelope. Nothing.
While waiting in line to break her hundred-dollar bill, Edith read the letter. It came from a client, now happily married in Topeka. For once, the joyful contents had no power to raise Edith’s spirits.
The clerk at the counter was a different man, with scraggly side-whiskers and a frown. He barely glanced at the highly engraved piece of blue paper.
“No good,” he said. “Next!”
“What? No ... no good?”
“The Braxton Bank of Louisiana closed five years ago, lady. That’s nothing but waste paper now. Next!”
The woman behind Edith elbowed her way forward. “Two stamps, please.”
Edith couldn’t move. Her aunt must have known about the bank. How could she leave a worthless inheritance? Edith didn’t want to think all her legacies might be valueless.
The woman turned from the counter, nearly running over Edith. “Really! Eavesdropping on my business!”
The tone, rather than the words, reached Edith. Hardly knowing what she did, she stumbled away from the counter.
Walking home, her ankle aching bitterly inside her high-buttoned shoe, she felt raindrops fall out of a clear sky. One by one, they spotted the bosom of her dress. It was only when people turned to stare after her on the street that she realized she was weeping in public. She clawed down her veil.
Her head spinning from hunger, Edith climbed the worn steps to the peeling front door of the boardinghouse. A sour smell of burnt potatoes reached her and made her mouth water. Even something charred would be better than nothing.
She paused by the Maginns’ door, which was slightly ajar. As she raised her hand to knock, she thought, “I can’t do what he wants, but I could beg. . . . Evvie likes me; she’s talked to me once or twice. She told me about the boy who wanted to marry her. Maybe she’d give me something.”
On the other side of the door Mrs. Webb said loudly, “But you promised me!”
Mr. Maginn laughed coarsely and cruelly. “You didn’t think I meant it? I knew you were stupid but not that stupid.”
Edith shrank back, her fist pressed to her chest. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“It’s that girl in the room next to mine, isn’t it? Her and that miserable canary. I should have known. First you leave Carrie Nester for me and now me for . . . her.”
“Well, it’s not the canary. I can tell you that. Besides, what makes you think good old Carrie was the first? There’s lots of chances for a fella living in a place like this. Lonely women . . .” There was something so hatefully superior in his tone that Edith was not surprised to hear the sound of a slap.
The snarl that followed the impact sent a thrill of fear down Edith’s spine. In a voice scarcely human, she heard Maginn say, “Don’t you . . . don’t you . . .”
“Stop! You’re hurting me,” Mrs. Webb sobbed. Perhaps she stumbled, for she gave a half-scream suddenly cut off. Edith looked up and down the hall. Should she go for help? Should she break in and save Mrs. Webb?
There came some soft, confused sounds next. Edith couldn’t make out what was happening. Then she heard Mrs. Webb’s pouting voice again. “You almost broke my arm . . . brute.”
“Ah, but you’re a rare armful, m’lovely.”
“And you’re not interested in that stuck-up snip, are you?”
“Never mind about her.”
“But Ringo . . .”
“It won’t make no difference to you and me. So long as your husband is gone for good . . .”
“I can divorce him any time, and then we could make it legal.” She seemed to be offering some rare treat.
“Legal? I can’t marry any divorced woman. The Church . . .”
“Why do you care? It’s this you should be wanting.”
Ringo Maginn’s voice thickened. “I do. God, shut the door if you’re going to ... Oh, God.”
Edith fled.
It seemed only a few minutes later that she sat up in her bed, the clothing she’d never removed twisted about her body. She had no memory of lying down, only of dreaming she was on board a ship. The bed seemed to mimic the motion of a ship even now, heaving high and dipping low. She put her feet on the floor and groaned, her eyes burning.
Orpheus sang loudly, despite his covered cage. The frantic note in his song penetrated her exhausted sense. Coughing, Edith tried to stand. A haze lingered before her eyes. There had been cannons in her dream, white-hot mouths belching forth smoke and deadly iron. Was she still asleep? For she could still see the smoke.
As her little bird sang furiously, Edith realized that this choking smoke was no phantom following her from a nightmare but harsh reality. The boardinghouse was on fire.
Chapter 3
Jefferson Dane awoke to someone knocking at his hotel-room door. “What is it?”
‘‘Mr. Dane, sir? It’s Josh. The hall boy?”
Sighing, Jeff sat up, disoriented. He could distinguish the light curtains fluttering in the breeze from the opened window but that was all
. It was enough, though, to lead him to the door.
He jerked it open. “If this is the way your hotel treats its guests, I’ll be pulling out in the morning.”
Seeing the hall boy blinking at him in alarm, Jeff moderated his tone. “What’s up, Josh?”
“Please, Mr. Dane, sir, Mr. Dilworthy sent me up, sir. He’s in an awful stew, sir.”
“If he’s drunk it’s no reason to wake up half the hotel. Tell him to sleep it off. Or pour a gallon of coffee down his gullet. It’s nothing to do with me.”
The image of the austere desk clerk stewed to the gills brought an impudent smile to the hall boy’s round face, as Jeff had meant it to. “I wish he was tight—I shore do. But that’s not what’s the matter. It’s this crazy girl.”
“What girl?”
“She’s down at the desk. And, boy, she’s something. Looks like she was dragged around some, and her hat’s on backwards, smuts and soot all over her, and . . . oh, yeah . . . she’s got a canary in a cage. Keeps asking for you.”
“What time is it?” Jeff yawned, glancing over the boy’s head at the flickering gas jets that illuminated the hall.
“‘Bout half-past twelve. I was just about to get some shut-eye myself. So, you going to come on down, sir? Mr. Dilworthy says . . .”
“I can guess,” Jeff answered, having taken the desk clerk’s measure when he’d checked in. Officious, nosy, and suspicious, Dilworthy would be just the fellow to take care of a drunk or a lunatic. The hour was late, and he could feel sleep tugging at him like an impatient woman.
“Tell Dilworthy to slip the gal a couple of dollars. She’ll probably take it and go. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Josh said with a nod. “He was getting ready to call the police but he figured maybe you knew her.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.” The boy, absurd in his tight waistcoat and too-long pants, headed down the hall.
“Hey, Josh? Don’t wake me up again for anything less than a war or an election, okay?”
Closing the door, Jeff stretched for a moment before padding back to bed. The talk about the Texas cattle fever had gone on since lunch, his fellow Missouri cattlemen ranting and raving about the general cussedness of the Texan in general. He himself had always run a clean herd, mostly by keeping the Texans out of whatever means necessary, even with a gun on occasion. He thanked providence and his parents once again for putting his ranch halfway between Sedalia and St. Louis. It didn’t often pay the Texas men to come that far out of their route—not yet.
Jeff lay his long body down on the bed, his arms flung wide. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. He’d slept better in the woods, with the owls hooting and the nightjars rattling. There’d been that time he’d awakened in the peace of a perfect, dew-moist morning, only to have a rising crow shoot a stream of foul . . .
Turning onto his side, Jeff wondered why he couldn’t stop thinking about birds. Where had he heard a canary today? A canary in a cage. He couldn’t recall, but it probably wasn’t important anyhow. Not as important as sleep.
Five minutes later, fully dressed, Jeff stepped into the small lobby. “Where’s the girl?”
“Really, Mr. Dane, I must protest. We are a respectable hotel with a high-class clientele. Asking me to pay off a . . .”
His words were cut off by a brown fist suddenly tightening his skinny tie. “Where did she go?” Jeff asked, spacing each word out.
“Over there,” the man gasped, his hands flopping like dying fish.
Dropped none too gently, Mr. Dilworthy said, rubbing his throat, “Really, Mr. Dane! Roughhousing is not admired at this hotel. And as for your lady ‘friend,’ she really can’t stay in the lobby all night. You’ll have to ask her to go elsewhere.”
But Jeff was already looking down the lobby. Miss Parker had her back turned, but he recognized the covered birdcage. Something had driven her out of her boardinghouse and into the night to call on a man. Jeff knew it had to be something big.
“Miss Parker?” he asked, coming up behind her. “What’s the . . .”
He almost bit his tongue. When the girl turned, he beheld a wide pair of eyes the color of twilight in a spiritual face that could haunt a hardheaded man’s dreams. As for the rest, she was pale and thin in her gray dress with the ugly pattern, her dark auburn hair pulled ruthlessly into a low tight bun. A few strands of hair had escaped and trailed in her reddened eyes. One small hand held the birdcage by the ring in the top.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, backing up. “I thought . . .”
“Oh, Mr. Dane!” She flung out her hand as though in supplication, her voice rough. When she closed her eyes, Jeff could tell she was struggling to regain some composure.
“Here now,” he said, catching her hand and chafing it gently. “You come over here and sit down.”
She let him lead her to a plush sofa before she pulled her hand away. “I mustn’t. My dress . . .”
“What is all that?”
“Soot, I think.”
Jeff saw that what he’d thought was a pattern on the gray stuff of her dress was in fact a scattering of tiny holes burned into the fabric.
“Never mind the damn sofa,” he said. “What’s happened to you?”
As calmly as though she were discussing ancient history, she said, “My boardinghouse has burned down. Orpheus awakened me in time. I don’t really remember how I got . . . out.”
“My Lord,” he said, shocked, urging her once more to seat herself. “Hey, Dilworthy,” he called, turning his head to glare at the desk clerk. “Bring me a shot of something strong. Whiskey, brandy, whatever you’ve got. Hurry up.”
Mr. Dilworthy pursed his lips as though quelling thoughts he dared not utter. However, he brought out a bottle from beneath the counter and poured a liberal dose into a clean glass. “Not a saloon,” he muttered as he put the tray down on the table.
“Here, now, Miss Parker. Get that down.”
“Oh, no, sir. I promised my aunt I’d never touch spirits.”
“It’ll do you good.” He held the glass out.
Edith took a taste, then licked her lips like a cat. “It’s dreadful!” she said in surprise. “I always thought it must be marvelous, so many people indulge in it to excess.”
“It’s only nasty going down. On the inside, it’s fine.”
Screwing up her face, Edith tossed back the liquid in a single, burning gulp. She strangled, coughed, and wiped her burning eyes. After a moment, she became conscious of a glow like a hot coal in her interior.
“I do feel warmer. When the fire engines came, I got sprayed and I thought I’d taken a chill.”
“Tell me what happened. How did your home burn down?”
Edith felt oddly moved by his concern. She had not even dared to hope that Mr. Dane would receive her kindly. But there had been no other place to go. “Evvie—my landlord’s sister—said it was a grease fire in the kitchen. It started so quickly she didn’t have a chance to ring the alarm bell. The firemen think everyone escaped.”
“When was this?”
“About ten o’clock.”
“Wasn’t that kind of late to be cooking?”
“She said her brother liked to eat fried potatoes in bed.” Edith shuddered delicately.
Jeff saw her reaction and hid a grin. “But you’re not hurt. You must be born lucky, Miss Parker.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” she said, catching back a hiccup that was nearly a sob. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she looked at him in alarm. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.
“Never mind. I guess most of your stuff is ... gone?”
To her shame, tears came into her eyes. All the letters, everything she had of her aunt’s, even her attempts to write down her daydreams, all gone in the roaring inferno that carelessness had made of a decrepit building.
Edith thrust her chin out and said resolutely, “If your offer is still
open, Mr. Dane, I’d like to accept that job.”
“That’s very good of you. But we’ll talk it over in the morning.” He stood up. His legs seemed to go on forever, the tall boots he wore extending almost to his knees.
Edith didn’t move. After one quick glimpse up the length of his body, she looked down at her clasped hands. “I’d prefer to discuss our business now.”
“It’s late, and you’ve been through a year’s worth of trouble. I’ll get you a room and. . . .”
It would be so easy to let him be masterful, to give all her troubles over to him. But she couldn’t possibly allow him to take on her as a responsibility. She must stand for her own.
“I don’t wish to be stubborn, Mr. Dane. But I would prefer to discuss our business now.”
Jeff smiled, though she didn’t see. The little thing was as nervous as a bird at a convention of cats on reducing diets. She was pretty, far prettier and much younger than he’d guessed at their first meeting. Her thickly lashed eyes were slightly slanted, wider at the edge than near her nose, giving her a startled look.
He studied her. Surprising himself, he found a gradual anger washing over him, getting worse by the second. What had the girl been doing to herself?
She was not naturally this thin. Her skin was stretched too tightly over her cheekbones, and he’d seen wrist bones that stuck out like hers before. She couldn’t be more than twenty. The desiccation he’d assumed to be the natural look of a dried-up spinster was plain ordinary starvation. If Miss Parker had eaten a square meal within the last week, he would breakfast tomorrow on his plainsman’s hat, without gravy.
“All right,” he said gently. “You’re going to come to Richey with me. I reckon we’ll say you’re my distant cousin, come out to look after the girls.”
“I don’t care for subterfuge,” she began. When he started to explain it was to save her reputation, she said, “I appreciate that. In this instance, I will agree to mislead people.”
“Good. ‘Course, once I ask the girl to marry me, you can head on back here. I’ll pay your fare both ways, naturally.”
“That seems acceptable,” she said, surprising him by not arguing the point. Jeff saw her sway, worn to the bone no doubt. He wanted to pick her up—she plainly weighed less than an orphan calf—and carry her away to a place of safety and comfort. His hands fairly twitched with the yearning.
Summer Lightning Page 3