A Texas Kind of Christmas

by Jodi Thomas

  “If my father has decided the captain is the man for me,” Charlotte said with a shrug, “nobody is competition. Father can be very persuasive.”

  “Is it what you want?”

  “I don’t think that enters into it.”

  Birdie tried to be sympathetic. It wasn’t Charlotte’s fault her father had picked out a man for her to marry. Birdie herself had run from such an arrangement. But it was hard not to be the tiniest bit jealous that Charlotte was probably going to win over Captain Newcastle. Birdie couldn’t help but imagine herself at the ball, in a beautiful gown, dancing with the captain, his strong arms around her even when she wasn’t in a faint.

  But that was just a dream. There was a time when Birdie followed her dreams, but they had all ended in heartache and hardship. Now, as soon as a fantasy formed, Birdie shut it out. Charlotte moved over to the window and looked down. Her face lit up.

  “Oh! By the way, I’ve just confirmed he’s not married!” Charlotte announced breathlessly.

  “Captain Newcastle?” Birdie asked.

  “No!” Charlotte replied, summoning Birdie to the window and pointing into the street at a knot of men that included both the captain and the sheriff. “Sheriff Holden.”

  Birdie peered at the man with the star on his chest.

  “But what about Captain Newcastle?”

  “What about him?”

  “Didn’t you just tell me your father has decided you were going to marry him?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said. “And I know I’m going to have to dazzle him at the ball. That’s why I have to have the perfect dress. But until then, I can do what I like.”

  Charlotte had such a sheltered view of the world, Birdie thought. She stared down at the men and realized that Captain Newcastle was staring up at the window. Her heart raced as he gave a tiny salute. Birdie backed away from the window—but with regret.

  “We should start working on your dress,” Birdie said, all business. “We don’t have much time.”

  “All right,” Charlotte said, taking one last look at Sheriff Holden. “I have a dress that is horrible, but I like the color. Shall we start with that?”

  Charlotte moved to the chifforobe and pulled out a satin gown. The dress crackled as the folds of fabric were released from their bonds.

  “What is this color?” Birdie asked, touching the dark purple fabric lightly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s called mauve, I think,” Charlotte said. “It’s the latest in Paris, I’ve heard. I agree that it’s a beautiful color, but I hate the dress.”

  “The dress is amazing,” Birdie said. “Not just the color, which is exquisite—and no other lady will be wearing it, I can assure you—but the gown itself.”

  “It’s just so boring,” Charlotte said. “Look at this neckline. It’s something an old matron would wear. Not anything that would catch the eye of an officer. Since there doesn’t seem to be any decent fabric in this town, maybe we could . . . I don’t know . . . tear this dress apart and start over?”

  Birdie’s heart squeezed at the thought of dismantling such a lovely gown. “I don’t know . . .”

  Charlotte put the sketch of the dress she had in mind on the table next to Birdie and pointed to it.

  “You could do this, couldn’t you?” Charlotte asked. “For a friend?”

  Birdie was momentarily confused. She didn’t have any friends—especially not in Dallas. But then she realized Charlotte meant she was Birdie’s friend. The idea of having someone in her corner was certainly enticing. But she knew it would not be fair to anyone, let alone someone as sheltered as Charlotte, to start down a road of shared confidences. There was too much danger involved.

  But it was a lovely thought.

  Birdie knew she was capable of transforming the gown into exactly what Charlotte wanted. But she wondered what the judge would say to the daring décolleté in the sketch.

  “There is plenty of material in this gown to remake the bodice,” Birdie said, her professional pride winning her over. “But we might have to adjust your design.”

  Birdie ran her finger over Charlotte’s drawing.

  “We don’t have any glass beading for the bodice and sleeves,” Birdie said. “Even if we could find the materials, there isn’t enough time to create enough strands.”

  “But the beading is what makes the dress so elegant,” Charlotte said. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  Birdie sighed. She thought of the beautiful gowns Charlotte had rejected. She hated to disappoint her, but she really had no recourse but to try to find another idea that would appeal to her. A knock on the door startled her out of her meditation. Charlotte moved swiftly to the door and answered it as Birdie hung the dress back in the chifforobe. Birdie turned quickly when she heard Miss Quigley’s voice coming from the open doorway.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Rutherford.” Miss Quigley’s rich brogue floated through the room. “But I have an errand I must have Birdie run immediately. If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

  “Come in, Miss Quigley,” Charlotte said.

  “Birdie, I bought this trim for the lampshades and I’m afraid the color doesn’t work with the glass,” Miss Quigley said, holding a small parcel in her hands.

  Birdie reached out to take the package, but Miss Quigley lost her grip on it and the parcel dropped to the floor before Birdie could catch it. Birdie knelt to pick it up. The brown paper had torn and exposed the contents.

  Birdie looked up at Miss Quigley as she retrieved the strands of perfect beads from the floor. They were every shade of purple Birdie had ever seen—and until today, some she’d never seen. They would be perfect for the dress.

  “Such a waste.” Miss Quigley sighed. “But they are just so wrong for what I had in mind. If you can’t think of anything to do with these, could you take them over to Mrs. Snow and see if she could sell them? I hate for things to go to waste.”

  “They won’t go to waste, ma’am,” Birdie said, standing up and cradling the beading.

  Birdie was silent, but her mind was racing with questions as Miss Quigley swept from the room.

  Chapter 6

  Birdie balanced a tray full of dishes as she stood outside the kitchen door, grateful to see it was ajar. Balancing the tray took both hands. She heard Captain Newcastle’s voice booming from within. Peeking through the crack in the door, she could see Captain Newcastle sitting at the large center table. While she knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, her feet seemed frozen.

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Captain Newcastle protested. “What if war broke out? I’d have to waddle my way into battle. Not a pretty picture.”

  “There’ll be a war here at the hotel if I don’t get these recipes perfected,” Cook replied. “Let me know if there’s too much cinnamon.”

  “I can only tell you if I like it or not.”

  “That’s a start,” Cook said, crossing her arms over her ample apron.

  He took a bite.

  “I’m waiting,” Cook said.

  “I think I need some cider,” he said.

  “Why?” Cook asked, sounding worried as she poured some cider into a mug. “Is it too dry?”

  She held the cup of cider to her chest and stared at him with a worried expression.

  “If I have to say it’s too dry to get some cider, then yes, it’s too dry.”

  Cook handed him the cup. She batted his shoulder playfully as he downed the glass.

  “I’ll cut you a slice of the ‘wealthy cake,’ ” Cook said. “I need a man’s opinion.”

  “I can’t eat another bite,” he said, standing up and kissing the top of her head.

  “But I need to know if I’ve put in too much bourbon,” said Cook.

  “I think I can safely say—speaking for all men, or at least all the men I know—you can never put in too much bourbon.”

  “Go on, then,” Cook said, pointing at the door.

  “I’ll be back later a
nd maybe I could try a few more samples for you,” he said.

  Birdie realized she’d have to make a hasty retreat or go into the kitchen immediately if she didn’t want to run into the captain in the hallway. The tray she was carrying was getting heavier and heavier, so she opted for the kitchen. She pretended to be so focused on balancing the dishes that she didn’t notice the captain as she swung the door open with her foot.

  “Cook, Miss Charlotte asked me if—” Birdie started to speak, but was cut off.

  “That looks like a big load,” Captain Newcastle said as he grabbed for the tray. “Let me help you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Birdie said, keeping a grip on the tray.

  The last thing she wanted was a reputation that she couldn’t handle the chores assigned her—even if the tray was impossibly heavy.

  “I insist,” he said, pulling the tray toward himself.

  “I am perfectly capable of delivering this to Cook, thank you very much,” Birdie said, pulling the tray back.

  “Consider them delivered!” Cook said as she suddenly appeared between them, lifting the tray right out of both their hands.

  “Thank you,” Birdie said.

  She could feel her skin coloring from the neck of her dress all the way up to her cap.

  “Let me send some cake up to Miss Charlotte,” Cook said. “I know she loves a nice sweet in the afternoon.”

  “And it doesn’t hurt to keep Rutherford happy,” Captain Newcastle said, crossing his arms and leaning in the doorway. “It seems the whole town is doing what it can to butter him up.”

  “Don’t you have someplace to be?” Cook challenged.

  “My men can live without me for a few more minutes,” he replied.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Birdie asked Cook, pretending the captain wasn’t there.

  “No, dear,” Cook said. “You just have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.”

  Birdie sat. She took a handkerchief from her pocket. She pulled a needle from one corner and shook the linen square out. Whenever she had a moment, she worked on adding a row of vines around the edges for one of the hotel guests. She was grateful she’d remembered to bring it with her this morning. She wanted to at least look occupied as she waited for Cook to fill the tray.

  “Weren’t you leaving?” Cook asked Captain Newcastle.

  “Maybe I should try that wealthy cake after all,” the captain said, taking a seat. “I know how important this is to you.”

  “I thought you . . .” Cook started, but one look at the blushing Birdie and she stopped. She gave the captain a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll cut you a nice big piece, now that you’ve obviously had a moment to digest.”

  Birdie couldn’t help but steal glances at Captain Newcastle. Part of her wished he would just leave, but a larger part of her wanted him to stay right where he was.

  She knew all of Dallas was trying to impress Judge Rutherford. She could only surmise that he would bring a level of respectability to the town, especially if his daughter were to marry the captain. Birdie felt a twinge of regret. Somebody had to win the captain’s fancy, and since it could never be her, she might as well be rooting for her . . . friend? Even if it appeared her friend had very little interest in the captain.

  A man in uniform strode into the kitchen and saluted Captain Newcastle, who was busy chewing the bourbon-soaked fruitcake.

  “Sir,” the soldier said, “the sheriff has requested you come to the jail immediately.”

  “Problems?” the captain asked.

  Birdie noticed Captain Newcastle did not sound alarmed. Dallas was still a small town, so perhaps it was not yet a hotbed of crime. Birdie smiled to herself. She sounded so knowing. Not like the girl who had left Ireland two years ago. That girl was as naïve as Charlotte.

  “No, sir,” the soldier replied. “Sheriff Holden wants to co-ordinate security details for the dances.”

  “The dances?” Cook asked the soldier, putting a full tray in front of Birdie.

  The soldier looked to the captain for permission to answer. The captain lazily waved his fork. Permission granted.

  “The Grand Ball and the Jingle Bobs and Belles Ball, ma’am,” the soldier said.

  “Oh, so we’ll have some soldiers at the Jingle Bobs and Belles, then?” Cook asked.

  “Will you be there?” Birdie asked Cook.

  “Oh, no,” Cook said, shaking her head. “I have to be here, making sure everything goes as planned. But I’d be happy to know there were some upstanding soldiers going. The local boys can get a bit rowdy.”

  Birdie caught Captain Newcastle’s eye. Clearly, Cook had a romanticized idea of soldiers. Birdie was sure they could give the locals a run for their money when not on duty. The soldier saluted the captain, turned smartly on his heels, and left.

  “I’ll make sure my men are on their best behavior,” the captain said as he stood up. He bowed to Cook and Birdie. “Ladies . . .”

  Birdie watched him leave. The kitchen seemed immediately less interesting.

  The newly overloaded tray shook in Birdie’s hands as she maneuvered herself upstairs to Charlotte’s room. Cook had outdone herself, loading the tray with three different cakes, several sandwiches, and a large pot of tea. Birdie was wondering how she was going to knock on the door with her hands so full. Kicking at the door seemed positively rude. Perhaps she’d meet another hotel worker in the hallway who could knock for her.

  Birdie could see the back of a black dress. Even from the distance of the entire hallway, Birdie knew it was the uniform of a St. Nicholas employee.

  “Excuse me,” Birdie called as softly as she could. “Could you knock on Miss Rutherford’s door for me, please?”

  She didn’t have to mention the room number. Everyone knew which rooms the Rutherfords occupied.

  The employee turned around. It was Mrs. Firestone. Birdie tried to smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Firestone,” Birdie said. “Could you knock on Miss Rutherford’s door for me, please?”

  “I could,” Mrs. Firestone said. “But I’ve heard such amazing things about you. I’m surprised you need help with anything.”

  Mrs. Firestone stood in front of the door. Birdie’s arms were shaking from the weight of the tray.

  “I’d so appreciate it,” Birdie said through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sure you would,” Mrs. Firestone said. “I see Cook has sent the hotel’s best china. It would be a shame if that tray should slip.”

  Mrs. Firestone suddenly put her hand on one end of the tray, tilting it precariously. Birdie let out a gasp. What if she lost her grip?

  The door to Charlotte’s room sprang open. Mrs. Firestone’s hand flew to her side.

  “Miss Charlotte!” Mrs. Firestone said breathlessly. “I was just giving your servant girl a hand with her tray. Cook appears to have outdone herself.”

  “Did you carry that all the way from the kitchen? It looks awfully heavy,” Charlotte said, taking the tray from Birdie. “Thank you, Mrs. Firestone. My servant girl and I can take care of ourselves from here.”

  Mrs. Firestone gave a little bow as Charlotte closed the door.

  “What a ghastly woman,” Charlotte said, putting the tray on the table. “Referring to you as a servant.”

  “I am a servant,” Birdie said, rubbing her upper arms.

  “No, you are not,” Charlotte replied. “You are a talented and skilled professional and don’t you forget it, Birdie Flanagan.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Birdie smiled.

  “This food looks delicious, but I think it will have to wait,” Charlotte said. “I’ve been looking out the window and I think Mrs. Snow just got a few new dresses in.”

  “I thought the stagecoach wasn’t supposed to come through for another few days,” Birdie said. “And I thought all the dresses were spoken for.”

  “Not the stagecoach from Jefferson. This is the stagecoach from Galveston . . . it just came in. Isn’t that the one that brought you here?”


  Birdie nodded. Considering the horrid shape the Galveston stagecoach was in, she couldn’t imagine it might be carrying dresses that would meet Charlotte’s standards. Birdie shot a glance at the mauve dress, midway through its reformation.

  “We really should be working on your gown,” Birdie said.

  “Oh, come on,” Charlotte said. “It won’t hurt to just go take a look.”

  Charlotte tossed Birdie’s shawl to her. Charlotte seemed to find a reason to go out every day and Birdie decided to leave the shawl in Charlotte’s room so it was always at the ready. Charlotte took her own shawl from the chifforobe, put the room key in her purse, and guided Birdie out the door.

  * * *

  Detective Hilbrand watched the stagecoach driver unload the contents brought up from Galveston. He felt shaken to his very core. The stagecoach had seen better days—and at this point, so had Detective Hilbrand.

  He’d boarded the stagecoach on a whim. He’d gotten no leads in Galveston but a conversation with one of the working girls on the docks resonated with him.

  “You say this girl has a skill? She can sew?” the woman had asked.

  He knew she was trying to keep him talking, hoping her charms would suddenly become irresistible. He knew better than to let her know hell would have to freeze over before he took a chance on a sporting woman in a port town.

  They were both playing games, but she got him thinking.

  “She’s probably not in Galveston,” the woman said. “I know every seamstress in the city.”

  “Houston then?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “I know the girls up there too,” she said.

  “Where would she go then?”

  A stagecoach rumbled past. It appeared to be so old, the detective wondered how the wheels stayed on. The woman eyed it.

  “That coach goes all the way to Dallas,” the woman said.

  “Dallas?”

  “Yeah. It’s small, but there’s a fancy hotel. There’s going to be a big dance up there on Christmas Eve. If she was looking for work that might be a likely place.”

  It wasn’t much, but it seemed a likely path, so he took it.

  He looked around Dallas now, disheartened. The wind whipped through town, the makeshift buildings bending under its force. He noticed the large brick building across from the stagecoach stop. That must be the hotel the woman was talking about.