But neither man moved. They stood silently, waiting, looking to Cal for direction.
“Boys, please give Miss Esther here an introductory lesson. I don’t want her face bruised, and I don’t want her confined to bed tomorrow. But make it a convincing lesson, will you?”
Esther stared at Cal, aghast. “You . . . I thought you loved me,” she stammered, even as Tom and Donovan grabbed her arms.
“But, I do, Esther, I truly do! You are wonderful in so many ways. But if you want to be my woman, you must know your place. I require obedience and loyalty. Tom and Donovan will help you to understand. They’ve been good employees of mine for quite some time.”
Cal tipped his hat to Esther. “Now boys, she’s already had one go ’round tonight, so don’t wear her out.”
The two guards pushed Esther down on the bed and, stifling her screams with a pillow, ripped away her peignoir.
—
Rose awoke in the dark, her heart racing. She told herself it was only a troubling dream. But she had heard a woman screaming and crying for help. More troubling than the woman’s shrieks of fear and pain was the undeniable sense that Rose knew her.
On her knees beside her bed, Rose sought guidance from the Holy Spirit in her praying. As she opened her mouth to pray, a name tumbled from her lips: “O Lord, I ask for your protection to surround Esther . . .”
Rose stopped, stunned. Esther! Yes . . .
Now more determined, Rose turned again to her prayers, convinced that the Lord had awakened her for a purpose.
~~**~~
Chapter 15
(Journal Entry, October 12, 1909)
Lord, I have shared my dream with Joy, Grant, Breona, Mei-Xing, Billy, and Marit. Since then we have been praying daily for Esther, Ava, Molly, and Jess, and we will continue until you bring an answer.
You know where they are, Lord. You have your eye on them, and you know the trouble they are in. Whatever evil is happening, we call on you, Lord, knowing that you hear us and will answer. We call on you to bring these women out of darkness and into your light. Set them free, Lord, we ask in Jesus’ Name.
—
Word was getting around, and Michaels’ Fine Household Furnishings was receiving more customers. After the shop had been open six weeks, sales reached an acceptable level and remained fairly constant. However, Joy wondered if another kind of word was getting around, too. More than once she had witnessed furtive whispers and covert glances directed toward Sarah or Corrine. A few days later her concerns were confirmed.
“I should like to be shown your selection of lace tablecloths,” the matronly woman stated loudly to no one in particular. She looked about the shop haughtily and waited for assistance to come to her. Her husband, an aging man with an air of bored compliance, lifted glasses to his eyes and studied a wall painting hanging near them.
Sarah stepped to the woman’s side. “Of course. Right this way, madam.” She smiled and gestured toward the rods hung with neatly folded table linens. At that moment the man turned toward her and Sarah gasped. She quickly turned away, her hand to her mouth to cover her shock.
It was too late. He had recognized her—and she him—although his response was different than hers. A slight, cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Standing behind his wife, the wink he threw Sarah went unseen by that woman.
Sarah composed herself and, ignoring the man, continued toward the table linens. As Sarah pointed out the various styles and sizes, the woman scrutinized her, and her mouth turned down in derision.
“Tell me, young lady. Are you one of those women come down from that little town up the mountain? One of those women living in Martha Palmer’s house?” The question was loud, clearly spoken for others than just Sarah to hear.
Sarah stood stock-still, unsure of how to answer. Corrine, who had been ringing up a purchase, froze. Joy, who had also overheard the question, tried to excuse herself from her present customer. She was surely not the only one in the shop to overhear the woman’s strident voice! Joy’s customer turned toward Sarah and the matron, her eyebrow raised.
Finally, Sarah squared her shoulders. “Yes, Mrs. Schumer, I am ‘one of those women.’ Now,” she turned stiffly toward the display of table cloths, “what size cloth would interest you today?”
Mrs. Schumer’s nose lifted slightly. “Well! I simply did not believe it when I heard it. Employing women of ill repute in what is advertised as a respectable establishment! I wish to see the owner immediately.”
Sarah set her lips together and Joy, as she hurried to her aid, could see the stain crawling across Sarah’s modest neckline even as white patches appeared on her high cheekbones. Joy composed herself as she reached the matron’s side.
“I am Joy Michaels, the owner of this establishment. May I be of assistance, Mrs.—?”
“Mrs. Schumer,” Sarah provided, her tone cold.
“Mrs. Schumer, is it? How may I help you today?”
The woman eyed Sarah warily. “I do not believe I introduced myself.” She frowned. “I know I did not introduce myself.” She turned to Joy. “How did this . . . this woman know my name?”
Joy was perplexed. “I, well, I’m sure I don’t—”
“I know your name, Mrs. Schumer,” Sarah replied, her face now entirely white with scarcely repressed rage, “because I know your husband, Mr. Schumer.”
“Well! I am sure you are mistaken,” Mrs. Schumer expostulated. “I know all of my husband’s acquaintances.” The matron raised her finger and wagged it at Sarah. “—and you may well claim to know him, but I am certain he does not know you!” She ended on a loud note of icy triumph.
Sarah was not cowed. Ignoring Joy’s gentle hand pressing on her arm, she retorted, “Oh, I do assure you, Mrs. Schumer, that I am well known by Mr. Schumer. Of course, I refer to the Biblical manner of knowing. After all, I am one of those women. Oh, yes. He “knows” me all right. Not that I ever had a choice in the matter!”
She shouted her last sentence. In the stunned silence that followed, Darryl Schumer bent a look of such loathing and rage on Sarah that Joy feared for the girl’s safety.
“Sarah!” Joy grasped Sarah’s arm firmly. “Sarah, you will excuse yourself. Now.”
Sarah stared back at the man with equal hatred, her breathing rapid, her chest heaving. Joy gripped Sarah’s arm until it hurt and the girl turned, dazed, toward her.
“Sarah. Go to the office. Immediately. Stay there,” Joy commanded.
Sarah whirled and stalked away, her face a mask of fury and humiliation. Joy looked about the store. The eyes of her staff and the customers throughout the store were wide and shocked.
Dear Lord, what do I do? Joy implored. All eyes but Grant’s were on her. His head was bowed, and Joy knew he was praying.
Joy gathered herself and, turning back to the Schumers, Joy found them staring at each other. Mrs. Schumer’s pudgy mouth was open, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
Mr. Schumer, the folds of his face set in icy lines, smiled sardonically at his wife. “You are such a fool, Beatrice, a self-righteous busybody and a fool. You always have been.” His cutting words were meant only for his wife, but Joy could not help but hear them also.
He bowed slightly to Joy and spoke graciously, a little louder for the audience of customers, “I apologize for this unseemly exhibition, Mrs. Michaels. We have caused you great discomfort today. I assure you it shall not happen again.” His eyes belied his words, however, for the look he sent Joy chilled her to the bones.
“Come, Beatrice.” Mr. Schumer did not take his wife’s arm but turned toward the door and, when he reached it, opened it for his wife.
Mrs. Schumer turned a devastated face to Joy, shame and pain competing for dominance. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. She looked away and tried to raise her head as she shuffled toward her husband.
He placed a hand on her elbow to usher her out, but she shuddered, shook it off, and stepped away from him. Outside the shop she straightened h
er spine, tipped her chin up, and started down the street. Alone.
Mr. Schumer, smiling at Joy again, placed his hat on his head and turned the opposite direction from his wife.
Joy scanned the store. Customers were beginning to whisper. Her staff waited, perhaps for some signal from Joy, she did not know. Suddenly she knew that if she did not address this head on, the store—and perhaps the futures of the women at Palmer House, were finished.
She cleared her throat and, in a clear, gentle tone, spoke. “I would like a word with you, our esteemed customers—a moment of your time, if you please. Would you kindly gather around?”
The staff held their breath. The customers looked at each other. Out of the corner of her eye, Joy saw Grant moving toward her. A few women, likely more curious than anything, followed slowly behind him. Soon most of the customers were clustered near Joy. One couple pretended to examine tea services while hovering within earshot.
“Thank you. First, I apologize for the scene you just witnessed. This is not conduct we espouse at Michaels’. And I wish to address, forthrightly, the accusations you heard.”
Curious eyes bade her to continue. “We have recently relocated from a small mountain community near Denver. During our stay there it came to our attention that young women were being held against their will and forced to live in a manner I will not speak of, but which caused them great distress and degradation.” Joy cleared her throat again, the words sticking there, but somehow coming out coherently.
“Those young women, set at liberty by the actions of U.S. marshals, are now attempting to right their lives and make themselves productive and useful in society. These ladies are gracious and genteel. More than that, they are forgiven by God and only wish to live as he would have them live. Yes, some of them are on our staff.”
One or two sets of eyes glanced around the store as if hoping to identify who else on the staff had been “one of those women.” Joy coughed softly and the eyes returned to her.
“I hope that in your Christian compassion you will applaud and encourage these young women as they attempt to live as God desires. I thank you for your patronage of Michaels’. The success of this business means honorable employment for these ladies.”
That was all Joy had—she was empty now—but it had been more than she’d realized was in her. She sighed in relief when Grant placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke.
“In appreciation for your gracious understanding and your patronage of Michaels’, we will, for the next hour only, offer all of you a ten percent discount on any purchase. Please feel free to make your selections now.”
With that he escorted Joy to their office. He looked back and saw the knot of customers rapidly disperse. Billy and Corrine, at Grant’s nod, scurried to assist.
Sarah was not in the office.
Joy sank into a chair and found she was trembling. “I cannot believe this has happened,” she whispered.
Grant shrugged. “Perhaps it was better to get things into the open, so to speak. If we are going to succeed as a business, we cannot hide that we are also employing girls from the mountain. If Denver’s Christian community does not rally to support us, we are finished anyway, no?”
He sat next to Joy. “I do not, however, for a moment, believe we are done before we begin. Rather, this story will be told and retold, passed from one set of lips to another and another. Yes, there will be those who will judge what they know nothing of, but perhaps Mrs. Schumer’s experience will caution them. After all . . .” He let his words trail off.
Joy chuckled ruefully. “You mean, after all, Mrs. Schumer never in her lifetime believed her husband unfaithful, let alone to frequent brothels?” She sighed. “She received such a shock . . . such a humiliation. I felt almost as badly for her as I did for Sarah.”
“She was judging Sarah and doing so without any of the facts.” Grant’s mouth was firmly set. “When we who call ourselves Christians do this, I believe God is honor-bound to set us in our place. Proverbs tells us pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”
He shook his head. “Was it pride on her part? I cannot be the judge of that. I only know that God will not allow those of us who name the name of Jesus to continue in sinful pride. He will correct us, publicly, if needed.”
“I’ve been wondering how you can remember Scripture when you have forgotten everything else,” Joy remarked, so grateful for her husband’s wisdom.
“It is a puzzle, I admit. I didn’t forget how to do things, or things I’ve read or learned. I only forgot my life and the people in my life—perhaps 10 or 15 years’ worth. I do have some vague recollections of my childhood and family, but no names.”
Joy was thoughtful. “You said something just now . . .” Her mind was back on Sarah and how their business might be affected by the public scene with the Schumers.
“Hm? What was that?”
“You called them girls from the mountain. I rather like that.”
“Certainly less degrading than ‘former prostitutes’.” Grant smiled his endearing half-smile.
“Perhaps that is how we should refer to them from now on. Of course, when the Lord gives us women from Denver, the phrase will no longer apply.”
“Denver is surrounded by mountains. I don’t see a problem with it. It could be our own little code for the young ladies of Palmer House.”
Joy nodded. “I like that. Speaking of the house, I am concerned about Sarah. I wonder if she went there or is walking about on her own. I know she was hurt and angered beyond measure.”
“Go. Go home and see if she is there,” Grant urged her. “I will close up when it is time.”
“Thank you, my love.” Joy dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
—
Bao Shin Xang bowed low before his uncle’s wife, Fang-Hua. The woman, usually as sharp as an adder’s tooth—and just as venomous—was visibly distracted. Her complexion was more sallow than usual, her expression . . . stunned.
“I have come, Auntie, as you requested,” Bao spoke quietly from his subservient position. He had received a scrawled missive, two words only, delivered by an agitated Chen household servant.
Come now, the unsealed message had read.
Fang-Hua did not immediately respond to Bao’s greeting. She continued to stare across the room, but at what, Bao could not perceive. As the silence drew on, he slowly unbent and assumed a deferential posture, his hands folded together in front of himself, chin tucked to his chest.
Bao kept his face impassive and smooth, devoid of emotion. He regretted with all his heart the devil’s bargain he had entered into with his aunt. If my bargain was with the Devil, he thought darkly, surely he is incarnate in this woman.
Fang-Hua’s gaze finally turned on him, although Bao did not believe she actually saw him. Her expression seemed vacant and her eyes roamed as if looking for something. Finally, she fixed on an opened letter lying on the priceless lacquered table near her chair.
My son in prison, in danger of death!
“You will go there for me,” she muttered. “You will be my eyes and ears. You will be my hands.”
Bao frowned but did not yet speak or move. What could she mean?
His aunt, not yet old but well into middle age, came to herself. She straightened in the chair, her thin body taut with self-imposed discipline, her eyes shuttered and cold. She lifted a manicured hand and beckoned him closer.
“You will leave tomorrow,” she whispered. Her hand drifted toward the letter and her eyes followed, again losing their focus. She picked up the letter and began to read it, momentarily forgetting Bao, who grew uncomfortable at his nearness to her.
He has seen the girl, Mei-Xing? He must not discover what I have done . . . but if he does?
No one touched Fang-Hua without her explicit permission. No one came close enough to touch her without an express purpose. No one stayed near her longer than that purpose demanded. Bao willed himself not to step back and willed himsel
f to remain still, but he began to perspire.
Fang-Hua finished with the letter and carefully placed it back on the table. She tapped it repeatedly with one glossy nail, lost in thought.
I must bring him back to me so I can explain! All I have done was for his good. For the good of the family. He will understand. He must understand.
She pulled herself from her thoughts and turned a fierce look on Bao. “You will leave tomorrow,” she reiterated. “I will write your instructions this evening and have them delivered to you. You will follow them to the letter. Do you understand?”
If Bao had not understood, he would never have admitted so, even under pain of death.
“Yes, Auntie. I will follow your instructions perfectly.” He watched her again fall into the deep reverie.
I must not fail. Su-Chong must return to me. He must be made to see reason, to remain with his family. My husband can never know . . .
She nodded and gestured for him to step back. “Do not fail me, Bao.”
Bao shivered and the unspoken threat instantly dried the sweat trickling down his back. “I will do all you require, Auntie,” he answered firmly. When she glanced again at the letter, Bao knew he was dismissed. He bowed low and began backing away.
Near the door, however, he stopped. He asked aloud the question he had been wondering for several minutes. “Where shall I be going, Auntie?” Immediately he cursed himself.
Fang-Hua slowly turned to him and she did not speak for a long moment. At last she answered. “You will go to the city called Denver. However, you will not speak of this. To anyone. Is that understood?”
“I am your servant, Auntie,” Bao replied, but his bowels clenched. He nodded and left the room, his body cold and his stomach knotted.
A memory of his young friend, Mei-Xing, floated before him. Tiny, gentle Mei-Xing, whose single error was to reject Fang-Hua’s only son. Mei-Xing was no more than a sweet, innocent kid when he, Bao, put her on a train in the night with a ticket to Denver. A ticket that would ensure her a life in hell.
He walked quickly away from the house, but Fang-Hua’s words ate at him, as did his own conscience. The Devil incarnate, he thought once more.
The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) Page 11