by Caroline Lee
Draven tilted his head back to watch her, wondering if there was anything he could say to make him look less like an ass.
Probably not. He was an ass.
“Pearl, I—”
She cut him off, still not meeting his eye. “Merry Christmas, Sheriff.”
And just like that, she was gone, scurrying out of the room as if he’d frightened her.
But she’d never looked at him like he was frightening. She was the one who met his eye, who smiled sweetly at him, who took him in her arms and made him feel like a whole man again.
And now, somehow, he’d screwed that up. Draven stood slowly, cursing his luck.
Oh well. Madame was going to kick me out anyhow.
Maybe it was for the best.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
Chapter 2
The first day of Christmas
December 25th, 1876
Pearl Shelby smiled slightly as she filled in the shadow of the mountains with her pencil. It was a simplistic sketch, one without much detail, but she thought she’d done a good job capturing the feel of the city buried in snow. She was working off memory, but she’d spent enough of her days walking around Noelle and the surrounding mountains to know what the area looked like in winter.
There.
She added a final touch to the imaginary garland over Cobb’s Penn, and sat back with a satisfied sigh. Maybe she’d embellished a little, adding in Christmas decorations where there were none in the harsh little mining town, but she thought she could be forgiven. It was Christmas morning, after all.
And it wasn’t like anyone would ever see this sketch.
Last night, after she’d helped get all the brides settled and as happy as a bunch of exhausted, worried, and irritated woman could be, she’d met a nice woman named Birdie. She’d been sketching, and when Pearl realized Birdie was doing it to calm her nerves, Pearl knew she’d found a kindred spirit. After all, wasn’t that why Pearl herself so enjoyed her long walks in the surrounding mountains, and the sketches she did afterwards?
Maybe that was why she’d suddenly become so brave, so willing to share her talent. No one else in town knew she enjoyed capturing God’s beauty on her precious paper…but she’d picked up the pencil and helped Birdie with a few details.
They’d quickly bonded, and Pearl had gone to bed feeling…well, not exactly lighter, because their little town had just had a heap of trouble piled on top, but more peaceful than usual, anyhow.
Which is why she’d woken early on this lovely Christmas morning, inspired to capture some of that peace on paper. One glance out the window she now shared with two brides showed her a landscape covered in serenity and grandeur; one she felt she’d captured adequately.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t spend the day lounging in here sketching, like she sometimes managed to do when Madame wasn’t nagging them. Pearls’ mornings were her own, true, but Madame often managed to find work for them to do in the hours before La Maison opened up.
And most of the time it was easier to just give in and do the work, rather than risk confrontation with the middle-aged harpy.
Today though, Madame wasn’t here. She and the other girls had moved into Noelle’s abandoned saloon, but Pearl hadn’t. She’d wanted to stay and help the brides get settled and calm them down a bit, the poor things. It had seemed like an impossible task, to convince the livid Madame Bonheur to let her out of work for an evening—even if it was Christmas Eve!—but help had come from an unexpected source.
Doctor Deane was about as handsome as a man could get, something that all the girls at La Maison liked to twitter over whenever he did their scheduled medical examinations. His faint Irish accent only added to the appeal of those kind eyes and gentle voice.
But last night, he’d been anything but calm; he’d grabbed Pearl’s arm and demanded she stay with the brides.
“Keep an eye on Cara,” he’d hissed under his breath. “Don’t let her say anything about me to the others! I’ll make an excuse for you to Madame.”
Cara Donnelly was the pretty little Irish girl—younger than the others, but she looked nice. Pearl didn’t know why the Doctor was so scared of his mail-order bride talking about him, but she was grateful for an excuse not to move with Madame.
So Pearl had put Cara and Fina—the Mexican lady with the pretty dark eyes—in her own room. She’d noticed Cara slept fitfully—probably because it was the first time she’d slept in a whore’s bed—but that was only because Pearl herself was awake to notice such things.
This morning, she’d slipped out of the room before either awoke, to try to calm her anxiousness with a bit of sketching after a brief detour downstairs.
And it had worked. She put down her pencil and carefully lifted the simple drawing of Noelle. It might not be the prettiest little town in all of creation, but Pearl had always loved the way it looked in the snow. Peaceful. Pristine. Hopeful. Everything it wasn’t during the rest of the year—especially when all the traffic turned the main street to slush. The snow somehow managed to camouflage the town’s horrible little secrets.
Like the intense jealousy that had hit her as soon as those women had shuffled—cold and hungry and scared—through the doors to her home. Not that she minded sharing with them, no. She was jealous of their purpose here.
No, girl. She forced her fingers to unclench around the edges of the paper, not wanting to ruin the calming sketch. You gave that dream up long ago. Forget it.
Pearl Shelby wasn’t going to be marrying anyone. She wasn’t going to ever be a bride—mail-order or otherwise—and wasn’t ever going to work as some man’s partner to make a life together. She wasn’t going to ever see her children play with carefree abandon, or hold her husband’s hand as they watched their grandchildren smile.
No, Pearl Shelby would be lucky to live past thirty. Surely the clap or some man’s fist would end it all for her.
And she would miss out on all life could’ve offered. She might’ve been a bride, had Mrs. Genevieve Walters’ Lost Lambs Society been around when Pearl needed help. She might’ve come to Noelle as a bride, rather than a whore. She might’ve married a good, upstanding, handsome man who needed to convince the railroad he was willing to put down roots. She might’ve helped build his home.
But while she was dreaming, she might as well admit the truth. The man she daydreamed about wasn’t upstanding or handsome, and didn’t care about putting down roots. The man she wanted wasn’t the marrying type.
And that was alright, because neither was she. Not anymore.
The murmur of voices from her room dragged her out of her sad thoughts. The brides must be awake—so much earlier than the whores were, since they didn’t have to work all night—and ready to face their new lives. Pearl had promised Doctor Deane she’d look after Cara for a day at least, and besides…she wasn’t so heartless she’d let those poor women flounder. They needed someone who knew the town and knew the house to help guide them.
Pearl sighed again, though in resignation this time, as she carefully shuffled her latest drawing into a folder on the table in the small sitting room. She’d hide it with the rest of her sketches, then would go offer the women some help.
After speaking with Cara, she made her way downstairs. On the steps, she paused, seeing a couple at the front door. It was that pretty little Chinese girl, with Woody Burnside and those three chickens that always followed him around. Woody was a good man—sweet, if a little smelly—and Pearl smiled faintly at the thought of him married and settled down. She knew Madame was expecting these marriages to result in more business for La Maison, but Pearl hoped the men chosen as grooms would be happy in their marriages.
As she could never be.
Swallowing down her maudlin thoughts, she slipped into one of the parlors and was halfway to the window—someone had twitched the curtains out of place, and she intended to straighten them—when a voice barked at her, “You may pour me another cup.”
Pearl whirled. There wa
s a woman sitting in one of the corner chairs; a pretty brunette with a haughty tilt to her chin. She was holding out a teacup in one hand, while she cradled the saucer in her other, as if expecting someone to jump right over and refill her beverage.
Pearl’s eyes flicked to the elegant chestnut table beside the woman’s chair. Madame’s tea service was there, a faint whisper of steam rising from the tea pot. It was literally within arm’s reach of the demanding woman.
But Pearl stifled her sigh and changed directions, heading for the tea set. She reminded herself that this woman had come through a terrible storm last night, and who knows what before then. From the way the brides had gossiped the previous evening, Pearl knew none of them had expected the town to look the way it did.
It seemed their good Reverend Hammond had fibbed a little, which is why the brides were staying at La Maison, the nicest building in town. And if they’d come from Denver, then they must’ve been shocked to realize a whorehouse was the best accommodations.
“What’s your name?” she asked kindly as she poured the woman more tea, resisting the urge to point out how easy it would’ve been for her to do it herself.
The woman managed to sniff haughtily and took a sip of her tea. It must not’ve passed muster, because she straightened her spine, lifted her nose, and pinned Pearl with a glare. “Maybelle Anderson, of the Denver Andersons, and your tea is cold.”
Glancing once more at the faint whiff of steam, Pearl tamped down the urge to roll her eyes.
She’s probably scared and nervous about meeting her groom. Be kind.
So she just smiled. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“As if I would ever converse openly with a whore?”
Before the sting of those words had sunk in, Maybelle did exactly that. Well, Pearl reflected after the first minute and a half of hearing how wonderful Maybelle’s daddy was, the woman wasn’t exactly conversing. She was expounding. Extemporizing. Blathering.
Pearl kept her smile fixed as she sat down on one of the nearby chairs and poured herself some tea, nodding at what seemed like appropriate times. Maybelle finished talking about her father—he was some sort of businessman, and very wealthy—and started in on her home. Apparently La Maison didn’t hold a candle to her family home’s gilt wallpaper, hand-carved banisters, expensive furnishings…
Pearl used the time to think about the sketch she’d done upstairs, and what she would draw next. Maybe the view from the window in this parlor; the main street was being cleared, but the snow still clung—picturesque—to the roofs and perched on the signs.
In fact, it was so pleasant just sitting here, sipping perfectly warm tea and thinking about the snow outside, that when Maybelle ran out of things to complain about La Maison, Pearl prompted her to continue. “If Denver was so wonderful, why did you leave?”
Something close to doubt flickered across Maybelle’s face for a moment. But she brushed it off with what was obviously a forced laugh. “Because I wanted to get married! Not because I was being forced to or anything like that!”
“Why would you be forced to leave Denver?”
“I said I wasn’t, you ninny.” Maybelle’s expression had hardened. “It wasn’t like I was being pressured into marrying someone Daddy didn’t approve of, just so that someone could get his hands on my inheritance or anything.”
“Pressured?” How could a man force a woman to marry him if her father didn’t approve? Pearl’s mind jumped to all sorts of horrible conclusions.
Maybelle’s laugh was manic, her eyes wide and panicky. “I said I wasn’t being pressured. Try not to be so idiotic if you’re going to listen to my story!”
It was obvious the woman didn’t want to talk about her reasons for leaving Denver, so Pearl shrugged and settled back with her tea. It had always been in her nature to set other women at ease, even when they were rude enough to call her names in their distress.
“Very well.” She smiled softly. “What about your groom here in Noelle?”
After the fraught exchange a moment ago, she hadn’t expected Maybelle’s pleased smile, or the way her already-too-pretty face lit up.
“Horatio P. Smythe,” Maybelle breathed in a sort of reverent awe. “The most handsome man in this town. The richest too! And the only one worthy of a debutante like me.”
Pearl’s stomach clenched the way it did when anyone said that man’s name. The smarmy newspaperman was the reason she was so close to being booted out of La Maison, and he kept coming ‘round, making life even more difficult.
Maybelle, however, blathered on unaware of Pearl’s discomfort. “When our eyes met last night, I just knew. I knew he was the one for me— I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
I didn’t. You didn’t seem to care. “Pearl Shelby,” Pearl answered dully.
“Pearl!” Maybelle’s tickling laugh was as annoying as the rest of her. “What a clever name! Like you’re a hidden gem or something! What’s your real name?” She waved her teacup dismissively. “Never mind, I don’t care. Anyhow, as I was saying, I looked right into my Horatio’s eyes, and I knew he was the man for me. He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”
Pearl was still blinking over the casual insult and wondering why it was hard to believe “Pearl” was her real name. Does she expect me to agree with her? It was impossible, since she didn’t find Horatio handsome at all. His perfect smile and fancy suit hid a cruel heart.
Luckily, Maybelle wasn’t interested in anyone else’s opinion, not when her opinion was so fascinating. She was still going on about Horatio.
“…and his father is even wealthier than mine, if you can believe it! He’s in San Francisco, a newspaperman himself. Well, he was, until he started making so much money. Now he just owns newspapers, which is ever so much more profitable. My Horatio decided to travel the world, you know. I think he got into a bit of trouble back home, which is why he’s here in this godforsaken little town. Can you imagine actually choosing to live here?” She scoffed. “Only someone completely ignorant would think that living here was preferable to one of the cities we could be living in!”
Pearl shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She loved the little town of Noelle, for all of its bad memories. She loved the mountains and the river and the clear air and the friends she’d made among the ladies at La Maison. Even if her job hadn’t forced her to remain here, she might’ve chosen this location to make a home.
Maybelle obviously didn’t realize how rude her comments were, and Pearl decided to forgive her. The Denver socialite would be married to Horatio Smythe soon, and hopefully, Pearl would never have to interact with her again. She seemed the sort to stick her nose high in the air when confronted with a whore, even if that whore had given her comfort and friendship when she’d needed it.
“In fact,” Maybelle continued, “I doubt very much we shall be staying here long. My Horatio will be coming to escort me on a walk—away from this garish house!—later today, and we shall discuss our living arrangements. He’s already hinted that he wants to return to California, and I don’t blame him. I shall do everything in my power to convince him we need to move back, as soon as possible.”
Pearl smiled politely, secretly pleased the pair of them—they seemed well-matched!—were thinking about leaving town. She wondered if part of Maybelle’s intense desire to leave had anything to do with the man who’d wanted to marry her for her inheritance. Maybe going to California would be wise, since it was so much further from Denver than Noelle was.
As long as Maybelle and Horatio stayed ‘til January sixth to meet the town’s deadline, Pearl would gladly help them pack their belongings, just to see the last of them. From what she’d heard, Reverend Hammond and Mr. Penworthy at the land office had made a deal with the railroad: if a dozen new couples were in town on January sixth when the inspector came to town, the proposed railroad spur into town would be built after all. When they’d realized the gold was petering out, the railroad had canceled plans for the s
pur, claiming the town was dying. But new families—represented by all these brides Reverend Hammond brought in—would mean the town wasn’t dying after all.
And Pearl didn’t want Noelle to die. If it did, Madame would pack all of her girls up, willing or no, and drag them to another town, and Pearl would never again see the sunrise on these mountains, and never again walk through the valley of wildflowers she loved so much. She’d never again see the man she lo—
No.
No, she couldn’t think of him like that. He was just a customer, and she was just a whore.
Realizing the other woman was still talking, Pearl was surprised to hear Maybelle going on about what her life would be like in San Francisco, if she could convince Horatio to move there. “I’ll be able to wear the latest fashions again without having to wait! And there will be parties and operas even grander than eastern cities!” She sighed happily, finishing her tea. “And Horatio will take over his father’s business, assuming his older brother isn’t in charge already, and he’ll teach our sons how to manage it too!”
The brunette’s cheeks pinked prettily, and Pearl tried not to have uncharitable thoughts about how someone could manage to be so pretty and so very rude all at once.
“Actually…” Maybelle cleared her throat and sat forward slightly, placing the teacup back on the saucer on the table at her side. She stared down at her hands, which were clasped—prettily of course—in her lap. “That’s one part of this whole marriage I’m not sure about.”
“You don’t want to have children?” Pearl asked, surprised. She would love to have children, but refused to bring any into the world she occupied. In fact, she took great pains to make sure she never had to make that choice. Children were meant to have loving, stable homes…not traveling from whorehouse to whorehouse, doing odd jobs until they were old enough to make their own way. She tamped down on the shudder that thought caused. No, this was her life now, and she wouldn’t be having children.