by Gina Welborn
“What are you going to do today?” he asked before shoveling in a mouthful of potatoes.
“First, I need to open a bank account. Zen I would like to visit Jakob at Ze Import Company before Miss Palmer and Miss Pope take me shopping.” She paused to remember what she needed to buy. “I must purchase a bottle of wine for Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe. Zey invited Jakob and me to join zem for supper tomorrow night.”
“There’s a bank a block south from here.”
“Zat would be convenient.” And far away from Isaak Gunderson, whom she was going to avoid for as long as possible. No more thinking about him, either. “What was ze name of ze bank?”
Nico cut the sausage with the side of his fork. “I don’t remember, but there’s brass everywhere and crystal chandeliers, so I bet it’s a good one.”
Unable to watch him eat the unpalatable food, she glanced around the wood-paneled dining room. Of the two cloth-covered rectangular tables, she and Nico sat at the one closest to the warm hearth. Three genteel-looking men sat at the table nearest the door, which led to the parlor and front foyer, because Mr. Deal had encouraged them to sit there instead of at Zoe’s table. They had looked her way before returning to their breakfast and newspapers.
Yesterday, after lunch, while Jakob had taken her on a tour of Helena, she had noticed the number of boardinghouses in town. None had a wraparound porch or a wraparound second-floor balcony like the Deals’ lovely, white-painted home. What a blessing Jakob had given her by choosing this boardinghouse over all others. The balcony rocking chair near the railing that separated the men’s balcony from the women’s was the perfect place to watch the sun ascend in its golden glory, as she had both mornings since her arrival in Helena.
She also appreciated Mr. and Mrs. Deal’s upmost propriety in providing separate entrances for male and female boarders to ascend to their rented rooms. Nothing about this boardinghouse was pretentious. No, it was more like a hearty bowl of chicken soup. Comfortable, warm, and stable.
Except for the food.
Which was as unpalatable as what Isaak Gunderson had cooked.
Zoe groaned inwardly.
No more wasting thoughts on him. No more! She looked around for something—anything—to distract her. The glassware looked similar to the crystal goblets Mrs. Pawlikowski owned. In fact, Mrs. Deal’s porcelain china, glassware, and white tablecloths were as fine as the ones in the Grand Hotel.
“Look what I found!”
Zoe turned to Nico, who was holding a hair between his fingers. She held back a gag. “Was zat in your food?”
He nodded, then flicked it to the floor. “Not the worst I’ve ever found in something I was eating. Once there was—”
“You will speak—and eat—no more.”
The corner of his mouth indented. “Are you sure? It—”
“Hush.”
He laughed. “You should have seen the look on your face. I didn’t think a person could turn green, but you did. Green skin next to a purple dress . . . not a good look, even on you, although I’m impressed with your show of emotion. Disgust you do well. Anger, I’m still not convinced.”
Zoe grumbled, “You would feel ze same if you met him.”
“Your new beau?”
“No! Jakob is wonderful. His brother—” Zoe gritted her teeth. “I wish to not speak of him.”
Nico’s face scrunched on the left side as he studied her. He then tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’m full anyway. I’m sure tomorrow’s breakfast will be better. Come on. I’ll walk you to the bank before I start my deliveries.”
Zoe hesitated. A trip to the bakery around the corner would provide a little sustenance, but she needed more than bread to maintain good health. Tomorrow morning’s breakfast plagued her.
“Gee, Zoe, you want to say something about the food, don’t you?”
Zoe found herself nodding. Mortified at what she had unwittingly admitted, she stopped nodding and looked at Nico. “It is none of my business,” she said firmly.
“My employer says that sometimes the kindest thing we can do for someone is to be honest.”
This was true. But the embarrassment from meal criticism would crush the kindhearted Mrs. Deal.
“We will leave now for ze bank.”
“Of course,” was what he said. What he did was stack their used dishes one on top of the other and stroll toward the entrance to the kitchen. “Hello,” he called out. “Anyone in here?”
Zoe dashed after him. “Nico!” She entered the impeccably clean kitchen in time to see Mrs. Deal and her niece, Janet, exit the larder.
“Can I help you?” Mrs. Deal asked.
“Hi, I’m Zoe’s brother, Nico. Yesterday in church, the preacher said that sometimes the kindest thing we can do for someone is to be honest with him.” He gave the dirty dishes to Janet. “We found a hair in the food and wanted you to know.”
Janet’s mouth gaped.
Mrs. Deal’s face whitened. “I . . . I . . .” Tears pooled in her eyes and she broke into sobs.
Zoe gave Nico a look warning him to stay silent. Then she wrapped her arm around Mrs. Deal’s shaking shoulders. “Madame, I must apologize for”—the words my brother refused to pass her lips—“for Nico. He wished no ill will about ze hair. Zis happens to even ze best cooks.”
Mrs. Deal looked up. “How do you know?”
“I have been cooking with my papa since I could walk.” Zoe paused, searching for the right and gentle and truthful words. “When I was young, he loved me enough to point out my error and to chastise me until I remembered to cover my hair. Papa taught all his chefs zat attention to neatness was essential in all cookery.”
“You’re a chef?” Janet asked before exchanging glances with her aunt.
“I am a household cook,” Zoe corrected. “Or I was, before I moved to ze territory.”
The moment Nico straightened his shoulders, Zoe realized how much he had grown from the scrawny ten-year-old boy she had met four years ago on a street corner across from Central Park. “My sister doesn’t like to brag,” he said proudly, “but she’s one of the best chefs in the country. Trained in Paris. Worked for the European aristocracy before coming to America. She’s cooked for Queen Victoria, the American ambassador to France, and, most recently, Misters Vanderbilt and Astor, and the mayor of New York City.”
Zoe nipped at her bottom lip to keep from chastising Nico in front of Mrs. Deal and her niece. Why had he lied? There was no reason! Never had she cooked for Queen Victoria or the ambassador to France, although the rest had at least attended one of Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s dinner parties when Papa was alive, as had the American vice president.
Nico’s grin grew as Mrs. Deal and Janet exchanged glances. “My sister can make anything taste like manna from heaven. If people in this town knew how good a chef she is, they’d be throwing money at her feet. Once Zoe cooks for you, you’ll see she’s a gold mine waiting to be tapped.”
Mrs. Deal and her niece exchanged looks again. Mrs. Deal’s brows rose in a silent question Janet must have understood because she nodded.
Mrs. Deal turned to Zoe, all tears gone. “Would you give us lessons?”
“Of course she will,” Nico answered. “She can start immediately.”
Zoe swallowed to ease the sudden dryness in her throat. She had other plans today. She needed to go to the bank, then she wanted to see Jakob before she went shopping with Misses Palmer and Pope. Nico knew this. She thought he was more considerate.
He and Mr. Isaak Gunderson would get along mightily.
Mrs. Deal squeezed Zoe’s hand. “I can’t believe you cooked for Queen Victoria.” The hopefulness in her tone rivaled that in her eyes. “Please say you’ll help us. Please. I’m at my wit’s end at how to make this boardinghouse profitable.”
“We both are,” Janet put in.
Zoe gave a half-hearted nod. “I can go to ze bank tomorrow,” she said weakly. “I can also wait until zis afternoon to see Jakob.”
Jan
et’s sigh was utterly melodic. “What I’d give to marry him.”
Zoe ignored Nico’s curled lip and Janet’s sudden dreaminess. “I am to meet Misses Palmer and Pope at ten-thirty. Zis is not negotiable.”
Mrs. Deal looked to the wall clock. “That gives us an hour and fifteen minutes. Is there anything we should do to prepare?”
Zoe eyed the chestnut braid hanging down Janet’s back. “To begin with, hair should be neatly combed, bound, and covered. Arms, hands, and fingernails, before beginning any meal preparation, must be scrupulously washed with lye soap.” She noted the heavily soiled aprons over their work dresses. “Kitchen aprons should be used in ze kitchen only, daily, and—”
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Deal said with a smile. “Would you hold that thought while I go find a journal?”
As Mrs. Deal left the kitchen, Janet headed over to the sink. “I’ll wash these dishes real quick and then find us some clean aprons.”
Nico nudged Zoe’s arm “Hey, um . . . Zoe, thanks for the breakfast,” he said, walking backward to the kitchen door. “I’d like to stay, but I need to get on to work. See ya tomorrow.”
“Wait!” She dashed to the door, grabbed his arm, and lowered her voice to keep Janet from hearing. “You must stop with ze lies.”
“No more, I promise.”
She released his arm. “Go to Ze Import Company after work. I wish to introduce you to Jakob.”
“I can’t wait.” He gave her a cheeky grin and then disappeared into the dining room.
“You and your brother act nothing alike,” Janet said from where she stood at the sink.
Zoe nodded politely.
It was the nicest response she could give at the moment.
Tuesday, March 20
De Fleur-Gunderson Courtship Contract, Day 11
“I am most displeased.”
Isaak didn’t have to finish rounding the corner a few blocks from Gibbon’s Steak House to know who was speaking. The French accent told him. Besides enjoying a productive campaign discussion over lunch with Hale, Isaak had the good fortune to be in the right spot at the right time to catch her in her lies. He edged closer, using the brick wall of the floral shop to shield himself from Miss de Fleur’s view.
“. . . meet Jakob zis morning, and I expect you to arrive zis time. I will have lunch for us.”
“Sorry, Sis. Got work to do.”
Sis? As in sister? Isaak’s chest tightened with satisfaction. He’d known the woman was keeping some poor relation hidden away, and here was proof.
“. . . don’t want to meet him.” Based on the tenorlike pitch to the voice, Miss de Fleur’s brother was a youth. “And you don’t want me to meet him either.”
“Nico!”
At the sound of footsteps coming closer, Isaak flattened himself against the wall—a ridiculous waste of effort for a man of his size but instinctual. A flash of brown clothing whizzed past. The boy—Nico—ran straight across the intersection. Isaak waited for the sound of footsteps to fade before peeking around the edge of the brick wall to see if Miss de Fleur was still there. A blue ruffle disappearing onto Eighth Street was his only view of her.
He waited for a moment before stepping out of the alley onto the sidewalk and walking to the intersection of Eighth and Warren Street. He turned his head left and right. Which one should he follow?
Going after Miss de Fleur accomplished nothing. She’d already proven herself a worthy adversary by turning Jakob into a complete dunderhead within a few days. Nico, on the other hand . . .
Now that was a possibility. Younger and sporting something of a chip on his shoulder, according to the belligerent tone in his voice, the boy might be enticed into spilling the sordid plot to entrap a rich husband.
Isaak rubbed his jaw. His other option, according to Yancey, was to turn around and forget all about it.
He turned left, lengthening his stride as he headed south along Warren Street until he spied the same brown fabric he’d seen flash by the alleyway opening on a dark-haired youth who, with an almost imperceptible swipe of his right hand, stole a fresh roll from the bread basket outside of O’Callahan’s Bakery.
Quite the brother Miss de Fleur had.
Isaak continued to follow the boy down Warren Street for ten minutes and into the red-light district. Nico walked straight into Madame Lestraude’s Maison de Joie, a pseudo-hotel whose only residents were young women with names like . . .
Isaak’s breath caught.
Everything in Madame Lestraude’s business wore a fake French name: her hotel, her brothel girls, even her own pseudonym. And now she’d branched out into supplying fake French brides with names like Zoe de Fleur.
In the two years since laws were enacted to make prostitution illegal, brothel owners had begun diversifying their business practices to keep the money flowing. If he were a betting man, he’d lay odds Madame Lestraude and that matchmaker in Denver were in cahoots.
His blood heated. Who else had the madam and matchmaker targeted in Helena?
Whoever else they’d gotten their claws into, he’d figure out later and—when he was mayor—he’d shut Lestraude down so fast, she wouldn’t know what hit her. Right now, he had a brother to convince, a business to run, a mayoral race to kick off, and a new storefront to make sure opened by May 4. Jakob said his mail-order contract allotted him sixty days to evaluate whether he and Miss de Fleur were a good match. She’d been in Helena for eleven days. That left forty-nine on the contract—days Isaak would use to unmask her as a fraudulent schemer.
The brothel door opened.
Nico darted down the steps and was on the last one when Madame Lestraude appeared in the doorway and yelled his name in a tone Isaak recognized: maternal vexation. She pointed at the door. Nico’s shoulders slumped and he stomped back up the steps, closed the door, and gave what Isaak presumed was an apology for leaving the door open.
Lestraude straightened the youth’s hat. As she spoke to him, she slid a letter from the sleeve of her brown and burgundy dress.
Nico nodded, took the letter, then raced off in the direction of Main Street.
The madam watched him run away, a matronly smile on her face. She looked across the street in Isaak’s direction. Her smile turned cynical when she locked gazes with him. I knew your soul wasn’t as lily-white as you pretend it to be, she seemed to say, as though his presence in the red-light district meant he frequented its services.
Isaak glared back.
A flicker of unease crossed her painted features before she turned on her heel and reentered her den of wickedness.
Isaak spun around and headed north, back toward The Import Co. No wonder the Denver matchmaker could call Zoe de Fleur eminently suitable. No wonder Jakob, like other intelligent men who’d been taken in, fell for the woman. With Lestraude feeding the matchmaker information about Jakob, all Zoe de Fleur needed to do was play the role of the perfect bride for him.
Targeting Jakob was the only part of the plot Isaak couldn’t figure out. True, he and Jakob were well-off, but they were by no means the wealthiest bachelors in Helena. It made more sense to target a Fisk boy, but—for whatever reason—Jakob was the women’s chosen victim. Isaak was sure of it.
Now, he needed to convince his brother. Easier said than done.
As he neared The Import Co., raised masculine voices and the lack of pounding tested his resolve to stay out of Jakob’s way. After Yancey’s warning, Isaak had decided it was more important to let Jakob fail at opening the store than in marrying a fraud, although Isaak wasn’t above making deliveries that took him close to The Import Co. to keep abreast of the progress.
He was ambling past, intent on glancing through the recently installed windows, when he heard Jakob shout, “They aren’t straight!” followed a moment later by, “I don’t care a fig about my brother or his precious schedule.”
Isaak detoured to the open front door. Tin fleur-de-lis tiles littered the floor. Isaak stared at the mess, his blood heating and his determina
tion to leave Jakob to his own devises crumbling like the plaster scraped from the ceiling along with the tiles. “What’s going on here?” he asked, and every eye in the shop turned to him. “I thought these tiles were installed last week.”
A few nods, a “Yes, sir,” and several gazes dropping to the floor were all overshadowed by Jakob’s, “They were crooked, so I tore them down this morning.”
Isaak eyed the scattered tin, then his brother. “I hadn’t noticed.” He swung his gaze to the work-crew foreman. “O’Leary, how far will this set back the schedule?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jakob answered. “It has to be done right.”
“How far?” Isaak demanded, his focus never leaving the foreman.
Jakob stepped between Isaak and O’Leary, cutting off their line of sight. “Don’t answer him. This is my crew and my job.”
“Which you clearly aren’t handling well.”
Jakob’s face suffused with red. He jabbed his index finger toward the open door. “Get out.”
“No. Someone has to make sure this store opens on time.”
“Pa trusted me to open it, not you. Me!”
“Not enough!”
Jakob’s cheeks filled with blotchy pink. “What did Pa say?”
“It doesn’t matte—”
“What did he say?” Each word was clipped and emphasized.
Isaak wasn’t about to speak in front of the crew. “I’m sure you men have something you can do on one of the upper floors.”
Never had Isaak seen those five men move so fast. They scampered up the stairs like mice chasing after moving cheese.
When he and Jakob were alone, Isaak took a deep breath, then answered. “I overheard him tell Ma he was worried you might lose focus.” It was a private conversation, something Isaak shouldn’t have heard and certainly shouldn’t have repeated.
Jakob swallowed, his neck tendons visible above his shirt collar. “Is that why you’re here instead of doing your own work?”
Now was not the time to mention that Miss de Fleur had a wayward brother, although it was tempting, given how Jakob’s question was a thinly veiled accusation that Isaak was neglecting The Resale Co. “I had different business that brought me your way. I was intending to pass by, but then I heard . . .”