A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  “I’m going to send you up to see a very demanding guest,” Miss Quigley said, sighing. “Miss Charlotte Rutherford. Spoiled beyond belief, this one.”

  Miss Quigley looked up to see the shocked look on Birdie’s face.

  “Just because we work for a living doesn’t mean we’re blind to the faults of our guests,” Miss Quigley said. “You need to have a good head on your shoulders and see people for who they are, or else you’re going to get in trouble.”

  Birdie knew exactly what she was talking about, and nodded her head.

  “Charlotte is the daughter of a retired judge from Cincinnati. He’s looking for investments in Dallas and the whole town is courting him. He’s a lovely man, but he lets that girl get away with everything. You’ll have your hands full.”

  “Should I get my sewing kit?” Birdie asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Miss Quigley said. “We have everything you’ll need.”

  “What will I need?” Birdie asked, eager to hear what Miss Charlotte would be requiring.

  “Do you see those two dresses hanging by your room?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Birdie tried not to smile at the thought of her own room. She needed to keep her mind on the task at hand. “I noticed them when I first walked in yesterday. They’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I made the green one and your . . . predecessor, Miss Paterson, made the yellow one with the jeweled décolleté,” she said. “With my contributions, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Miss Rutherford hated them both. Pitched an almighty fit. She knew better than to confront me directly, but she called poor Miss Paterson every name in the book.”

  Birdie could feel herself starting to panic. Did this woman get her predecessor fired?

  “Miss Paterson, a very talented seamstress, quit!”

  “Oh! She quit!” Birdie tried not to sound pleased.

  No matter how exhausting Miss Charlotte Rutherford turned out to be, she could never hold a candle to the last few months of Birdie’s life. She would never quit. She took a quick glance at the dresses.

  “I can’t imagine owning either one of those dresses,” she said, almost to herself.

  “These girls are different,” Miss Quigley said. “They’re used to having everything. By the end of the ball, we’ll have twenty or thirty discarded dresses—these girls will change their minds on what they’re wearing until the last minute.”

  Birdie was surprised Miss Quigley had even heard her, let alone answered her.

  She watched as Miss Quigley took the key from around her neck and opened a large wooden box near the fireplace. From Birdie’s vantage point, she could not see inside, but Miss Quigley casually set a delicate pistol on the table as she continued rummaging in the box. Birdie stared at the weapon. Miss Quigley did not look like a woman who would own a gun. But this was the Wild West, where perhaps every woman had a pistol.

  “Here it is,” Miss Quigley said, holding up a pen much like the one Mrs. Cockrell had used the day before.

  “How does that work?” Birdie asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “It’s a new idea,” Miss Quigley said. “One of our guests, a Mr. Lyman, was working on a patent for something he was going to call a fountain pen. When he left the hotel, he made a gift of his prototypes for Mrs. Cockrell and me. He still has some work to do. The idea is to supply ink to the pen from a reservoir in the handle, instead of dipping the tip in ink every few words. I came into Mr. Lyman’s good graces because I was forever getting spilled ink out of his shirts.”

  While Miss Quigley informed Birdie of the inner workings of the fountain pen, she returned the pistol to the wooden box and locked it. Miss Quigley took a sheet of the hotel’s stationery and scratched a few words on it.

  “Take this,” Miss Quigley said, handing the note to Birdie. “It will introduce you to the Rutherfords. The judge is in room 207 and Miss Charlotte is in 208. Her father has a soldier, or a sheriff or some such man, stationed outside her door for protection, but this letter should get you in.”

  “What should I say to her?”

  “You probably won’t have to say anything. She’s quite the talker, that one. I’m sure Miss Rutherford has another grand idea for a ball gown.”

  Birdie glanced at the finery behind her. She couldn’t imagine rejecting either one of them. They were perfect.

  “As tactfully as you can, please inform the little princess that we have other clients who also need dresses for the ball,” Miss Quigley continued.

  “I’ll do my best,” Birdie said, biting her lip. “Should I offer her some guidance or just listen to her ideas?”

  “As my sainted mother used to say, never give cherries to a pig or advice to a fool. Just do what you can and we’ll see if we make her happy this time.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “God help you, child.”

  Birdie took the note and headed to the second floor. In the lobby, work for the ball continued. As rough as Dallas appeared beyond the doors of the hotel, once inside, the glamour of the St. Nicholas could rival that of any big city. But the glitter of the decorations only made Birdie wish for home. The holly and ivy, so lavishly festooned on tables and banisters, made her think of her family’s own modest preparations. Her mother would hang a few berries tied with ribbon in the window. It was believed the berries on the holly would mean better luck in the new year—and her family could always use better luck. Everyone in the village also placed a large candle in the front window to symbolize guidance for Joseph and Mary on their journey.

  Birdie found herself standing in front of room 208 and shook off her homesickness. The sentry, who was sitting on a stool, stood as Birdie approached. Without saying a word, he put out his hand and she placed the note in it. The man glanced at it, then nodded. Birdie knocked.

  “Come in,” a woman commanded.

  Birdie looked at the sentry, who rolled his eyes.

  “Good luck,” he said under his breath.

  Birdie took a deep breath, turned the knob, and headed into the room.

  A woman was standing at the lace curtain, her back to Birdie. The light coming through the window cast the woman in silhouette. Birdie could only make out her general shape, which struck her as having much the same slim build as Birdie herself.

  “Miss Rutherford?” Birdie asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said, not turning around.

  “My name is Birdie Flanagan, Miss Rutherford,” Birdie said. “I’m here to . . .”

  Birdie glanced at the chifforobe, its dark mahogany doors ajar as dresses fought to escape the crush within. How could this woman possibly need another gown?

  “I’m here to . . .” Birdie started again. “I understand you’d like a new gown for the ball?”

  She did not answer Birdie’s question. “Come over here,” the woman said instead, still not turning around.

  Birdie approached the window. She could now make out the delicate features of Miss Charlotte Rutherford. She had shiny, raven-black hair swept up in a chignon and flashing eyes, which were almost as dark. She pointed into the street.

  “See that man down there?” Charlotte asked.

  Birdie took a step toward the window, but Charlotte pulled her back.

  “Don’t let him see you!” Charlotte commanded.

  Birdie looked from behind the curtain. The man Charlotte was pointing to was Captain Newcastle.

  “Do you see him?” Charlotte asked breathlessly.

  “I do,” Birdie replied. She felt her heart beat a little faster. “It’s Captain Newcastle, I think.”

  “How did you know that?” Charlotte asked. “Oh. Never mind, every girl in Dallas knows him, I suppose.”

  “Do they?” Birdie asked, trying not to sound alarmed.

  He was talking to a group of fellow soldiers, but clearly was the center of attention. A woman who walked by the group pretended not to notice him, but once she’d passed by, she promenaded rig
ht back the way she came, hoping to catch his eye. Clearly, this man had his pick of any unmarried woman in Texas.

  “They seem to. Anyway, I have to look perfect at the ball,” Charlotte said, pointing to the man in uniform. “Captain Newcastle will be there, and my father is bound and determined that I make an impression. Father wants me to marry the captain, and Father does not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  Birdie tried to hide her surprise—and disappointment. She tried to shake some sense into her own head. What did it matter if Charlotte had her sights set on Captain Newcastle? She took another look out the window. These women seemed shameless, although their tactics seemed to work. The soldiers had dispersed and the captain was now surrounded by hoop skirts and lace.

  “I have an idea for a new dress,” Charlotte said, pulling up a chair to a small table littered with papers. She motioned for Birdie to take a seat as well. Birdie was hesitant. Should she really sit down? Charlotte motioned impatiently again to the chair and Birdie sat.

  Charlotte started digging through the papers, which were all sketches of ball gowns. Birdie took a quick glance again at the chifforobe. There were at least a half dozen gowns in there—not to mention the two works of art down in the sewing room!

  “Here it is!” Charlotte said triumphantly, pulling a sheet of paper and waving it in the air. “I want you to make this!”

  The dress, well executed on paper, was stunning and complex. It had a tiered full skirt in two fabrics, one a crisp underskirt and one a frothy transparent fabric overlaid onto it. The skirt cascaded from a tight, low-cut bodice. The gown featured off-the-shoulder sleeves, which were little more than tiny rows of embellishments made from crystals. There were more strands of crystal embellishments sewn in a V-shape under the bust, mirrored by the long, pointed waist.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked, the first note of doubt creeping into her voice. “Don’t you like it?”

  “I do like it,” Birdie said. “I like it very much.”

  “But . . .”

  “But I can’t imagine we could possibly get the gown ready in time for the ball,” Birdie said. “I’m not even sure there is enough organza and silk in Dallas in the first place.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Charlotte said. “Let’s go see.”

  “Let’s go see what?” Birdie asked as Charlotte pulled a heavy wool shawl and hat out of the chifforobe.

  “Let’s go see what fabrics they have,” Charlotte said. She glanced out the window. “Captain Newcastle is still outside. We can say hello. That will make Father so happy.”

  “I’ll have to get permission to—”

  “No, you don’t. Your mistress is used to me. She knows you’ll be busy all day.”

  “I have to get my shawl . . .”

  “Here, take this,” Charlotte said, pulling another beautiful shawl from the chifforobe. Was there no end to this woman’s wardrobe? “We have no time to lose.”

  “That’s very true,” Birdie said, wondering how she would ever create the ball gown in less than two weeks, even if they could find the fabrics and embellishments.

  Chapter 4

  Detective Hilbrand considered tendering his resignation. Acting on the lead from the dockworker in New Orleans, the detective now found himself on a rickety steamship headed to Galveston. The dockworker was certain he’d seen the girl book the same passage, although he couldn’t have been certain when. Maybe a week ago? Maybe a month? Even a few more dollars didn’t help restore the man’s memory. Now, as the detective gulped in the salt air, trying to ward off a roiling stomach as the ship surged through rough water, he wondered if the dockworker just wanted to get rid of him. He focused on the sight of Galveston as the town came into view. He might or might not be one step closer to finding Brigid Flanagan, but at least he’d be back on dry land.

  * * *

  “Ladies,” Captain Newcastle said, tipping his kepi hat to Charlotte and Birdie as he looked over the tops of the bonnets milling around him.

  “Pretend you’re ignoring him,” Charlotte whispered to Birdie as they marched toward Captain Newcastle.

  “I am ignoring him,” Birdie whispered back.

  But Charlotte was right—Birdie was just pretending. The man was impossible to ignore.

  “There are two general stores we can check for fabric,” Charlotte said.

  Birdie just nodded. She couldn’t imagine any city outside of Paris or New York having fabric to meet Charlotte’s standards.

  A little bell over the front door announced Charlotte’s and Birdie’s arrival at the first general store. Birdie noticed the bolts of fabric lining a shelf behind a glass case full of sewing supplies. Birdie loved seeing the new scissors, some utilitarian and some with mother-of-pearl handles, needles in varying sizes, and several embroidery hoops. Birdie had gotten used to general stores as she traveled across the country. This store was modest compared to others she’d seen, but it was well stocked for a town without a railroad stop. There were foodstuffs: sacks of coffee beans and dried beans, jars of spices, baking powder, oatmeal, flour, sugar, honey, and molasses. There were also local items like eggs and cheese for sale.

  Birdie spotted a corner of the store decorated for Christmas. A small evergreen, perched in a tin basin, and adorned with ribbons, reminded her of the “tree in a tub” her mother decorated every year in Bunratty. She expected to feel a pinch of homesickness, but instead, she felt closer to home than she had in years.

  Birdie noticed the proprietress busy herself as she saw who was walking in. Birdie suspected Charlotte had already perused every fabric the store had to offer and found it wanting.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Snow,” Charlotte said to the proprietress. “I’ve brought my new seamstress and we’d like to see any new fabrics you might have gotten in . . .”

  “Since you were here last week?” Mrs. Snow asked, turning around.

  “I thought perhaps you might have anticipated some need, since every woman in town will be going to the ball.”

  “Not every woman.” Mrs. Snow sniffed. “Those of us who didn’t receive the satin-bound invitation to the Grand Ball will be attending a dance on the other side of town.”

  Birdie’s interest was piqued. She hadn’t been to a dance since leaving Ireland. Could she possibly take a chance and go to it? Surely she wouldn’t see anyone who knew her. She felt as if she’d run to the ends of the earth here in Dallas.

  “It’s called the Jingle Bobs and Belles Ball,” Mrs. Snow said, sensing Birdie’s curiosity. “You should come.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not sure,” Birdie hedged. “I’m a newcomer and I wouldn’t know anyone.”

  “You’ll know lots of people!” Mrs. Snow said, smiling. “I’ll be there. Have you met Cook? She’ll be there.”

  “What about Miss Quigley?” Birdie asked.

  “Not likely.” Mrs. Snow snorted. “Miss Quigley doesn’t approve of too much socializing.”

  “What about the stagecoach coming in from Jefferson?” Charlotte asked, turning the conversation back to her quest. “I’ve heard a rumor that there is a supply of dresses coming in.”

  “All of those dresses are spoken for,” Mrs. Snow said. “Besides, I’m sure they would never meet with your exacting standards.”

  “That’s probably true,” Charlotte said.

  “Our fabrics are good enough for some people,” Mrs. Snow said pointedly to Birdie.

  Birdie felt her cheeks redden. She was hoping Charlotte wouldn’t pick up on the obvious slight. But Charlotte was eyeing the shelf of fabric intently.

  “Is this your entire stock?” Charlotte asked. “I’ve already seen these.”

  “And if you come back tomorrow, you’ll see them again.”

  Birdie turned her attention to a beautiful pair of scissors in the glass case holding the sewing supplies, leaving Charlotte and Mrs. Snow to their sparring. Her back was turned toward the front door and she didn’t notice the tall, thin man enter the store. He wore
a dusty brown wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead. He strode over to the corner of the building used as the United States Post Office, soundlessly pulled down a WANTED poster for “Dangerous Jack Simon,” and walked out again, quiet as a whisper.

  “I guess we’ll just have to go see what Mrs. Peak has on her shelves,” Charlotte said.

  “Please do,” Mrs. Snow said. “Please do!”

  Charlotte took Birdie’s arm and they left the store.

  “We might as well go back to the hotel,” Charlotte said, straightening her hat.

  “I thought you said we were headed to the other general store.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Peak’s selection is even worse! I just said that to get Mrs. Snow’s goat.”

  Birdie nodded, fairly certain Mrs. Snow remained unscathed.

  Dallas was a hive of activity. Men in uniform or work clothes went about their business while the women who weren’t busy in the shops tried to get their attention. It wasn’t hard to tell which ladies were looking for love and which were looking for profit.

  “Now, there’s a handsome fellow,” Charlotte said, indicating a lanky man wearing a vest and a battered badge who was helping a farmer unload a wagon of winter vegetables in front of Mrs. Snow’s store.

  “He must be the sheriff,” Birdie said.

  “Brave as well as handsome.” Charlotte winked.

  The two women watched as the sheriff tipped his hat to the farmer. Charlotte suddenly stepped into the street. A horse-drawn carriage was inches from her. Birdie couldn’t find her own voice to shout a warning, but reached out. She was almost knocked over by the sheriff, who swooped Charlotte off her feet and carried her back to the safety of the boardwalk.

  “Miss Charlotte,” Birdie gasped, as the driver of the horse-drawn carriage swore and continued on his way. “Are you all right?”

  Charlotte was not listening to Birdie. She was staring into the eyes of the man who had saved her—and who had not, as yet, put her down.

  “You need to be more careful, ma’am,” the sheriff said, putting her on the ground.