Eternal Deception

by Jane Steen

  “Oh no, Dr. Adema’s as straight as an arrow. But he’s more concerned with the spiritual welfare of the students than anything else. The Calderwoods handle the money side of things—it's the Lion's job in name, but he’s ruled by his Mouse. Haven’t you noticed?” Mr. Lehmann opened his eyes wide and stared at me, his expression mischievous. “When the Mouse squeaks, the Lion obeys. That’s why I, and a few other select students, have such pleasant sets of rooms on the first floor. The ostensible reason is seniority, but we all know we’re the sons of the seminary’s most faithful supporters.”

  “Hmph,” I said. It was disappointing to think of the Calderwoods' greed undermining Dr. Adema's lofty ideals behind his back.

  The sound of the bell housed inside the seminary’s crowning turret brought us all to our feet, Tess and I brushing stray bits of grass from our skirts. It was supper-time at last. Small groups of soberly clad young men solidified into larger black masses as they headed for the building’s imposing entrance.

  “Welcome to the frontier, Mrs. Lillington, where there may be a sight more land and fewer rules about how to dress and drink your coffee, but money still counts.” Mr. Lehmann rolled up the rug and tucked it under his arm, crooking his other elbow in my direction. “So may I take you in to dinner?” He grinned at Tess. “I’d offer my other arm to your charming companion if I didn’t have this rug to carry.”

  Tess giggled and put both hands over her mouth. “I don’t mind. I’ll hold Nell’s other arm.”

  I placed a hand lightly on Mr. Lehmann’s free arm, feeling the strong muscle under the fine black wool of his sack coat. Tess grabbed my other arm, and we proceeded thus into the seminary, stopping to stow the rug and my drawing materials in the cloakroom for collection later.

  By the time Mr. Lehmann handed us to our seats—we sat at the back of the large refectory, away from the students and at the same table as Mrs. Drummond—we were all laughing. I sobered when I saw Mrs. Drummond’s gaze fix on me, cool and evaluating, with more than a hint of disapproval. I saw her glance toward Mrs. Calderwood, who sat with her husband, Dr. Adema, and several of the teachers on a raised dais below the windows.

  I slipped into my seat with a warning glance at Tess and bowed my head demurely for the prayers—but not before I realized that Mr. Poulton, seated at the head table, was also looking in our direction.

  4

  Old friends

  April 26, 1872

  Dear Martin,

  I have some news to tell you at last—in a small way, you understand. Nothing as grand as your tales of building and stocking your store. Tess says your stories are as good as a novel, but I think they’re much better. You know I have no love for fiction.

  My news is that the Lombardis have come to the seminary for a visit. Mr. and Mrs. Lombardi, Teddy, and Thea are well—Teddy is almost as tall as his mother now. Lucy is thin and pale and has a cough, which is worrying.

  As for your news, are you sure it was wise to lure one of the best people away from another store to be your general manager? This Mr. Salazar sounds ideal, but I’m sure the owners of Gambarelli’s will bear a grudge against you for stealing away such a talented employee.

  Oh, here I am trying to tell you how to run your business when I’m a mere seamstress. You’ll laugh at me, I’m sure. I suppose I’m envious—I would give much to have a small business of my own. But what chance do I have of that out here on the plains?

  And talking of the plains, here is Mrs. Lombardi come to walk with me to Springwood. I wish you could see that funny little place—I expect Victory looked just like it thirty or forty years ago. I will end this letter now and hope I can post it in Springwood so I don’t have to endure Mrs. Drummond’s looks when I place it on the table in the seminary’s hallway. It has been raining, and I have no doubt that the track leading to Springwood will be muddy—but we have stout boots, and I need to get away from this place.

  I send you much affection, as always, and a hug from Tess. Sarah sends you some babbles that sound more like words every day.

  Nell

  “I can’t imagine what it must be like inside those soddies.” I lowered my voice as we neared the outskirts of the town of Springwood.

  Calling it a town was a feat of the imagination—especially at this end of it. The dwellings by the creek seemed nothing more than stacked heaps of muddy grass, limp yellow stalks dripping rainwater that formed channels as it sought its way downward. An astonishing variety of ramshackle pieces of tin or wood overlaid parts of the walls and roofs. Here and there, a larger piece formed a lean-to that sheltered a few logs or implements.

  “They’re better than you’d think inside.” Catherine Lombardi was as neat and elegant as she’d been at the Poor Farm, but her dress was beginning to look a little dated and faded, as if she couldn’t afford to renew or replace it. Her life as a missionary’s wife had its hardships if the new lines in her face were any indication, and I had felt calluses on her hands when she grasped mine in greeting.

  “You’ve been inside them?” I hitched my skirts a little higher as we came to a low part of the track where the puddles were worse than usual. “I suppose you would—you try to visit all the women for miles around, wasn’t that what you said? Do you know these?” I nodded toward two women who were garrulously involved in washing something in a large wooden barrel. One of them drew water from a huge kettle hung over a smoking fire.

  “I do.”

  “They’re wearing bloomers,” I breathed in her ear. “I’ve never seen such a thing in my life, although Mama said some women tried wearing them before the war.”

  I tried hard not to stare, but you could see their legs, just as if they were men or children. One of the women wore wooden pattens to keep her feet out of the sea of mud that surrounded them. The other wore a man’s thick, ungainly boots and a cowman’s hat.

  “You’d soon grow impatient with skirts if you did the work they did,” Mrs. Lombardi said under her breath and then raised her voice. “It’s Mrs. Gordey, isn’t it? And Sukey? Do you remember me?”

  I hung back a little as Mrs. Lombardi spoke to the two women. The ever-present wind rustled the broken branches and greening twigs of a straggling line of cottonwoods that grew along the creek. I had imagined somehow that Kansas would be dry, but I was wrong. In this spring season, the muddy, rushing water in the channel came almost up to the rough wooden bridge that led to the main part of Springwood.

  “She lost three children to the ague,” Mrs. Lombardi informed me as we continued on our way. “This is a hard country, Nell, especially for the poorer settlers. Those soddies are all they can manage until they can scrape together enough to build a proper house. Don’t forget how scarce lumber is out here, and building in stone takes time and expertise.”

  And yet the seminary building wouldn’t be out of place in a city, I mused. And some citizens of Springwood could afford to build well. Beyond the creek were piles of lumber and stone and markers designating plots of land. Knots of roughly dressed men congregated around half-built houses.

  Another ten minutes’ walk brought us to the completed part of the little community. There were perhaps fifteen houses of respectable appearance, with a small church taking pride of place in an attractive spot framed by hickories and oaks. Two short rows of commercial buildings suggested the beginning of what might one day be a thriving town.

  “My word,” I said.

  It wasn’t the houses that had caught my eye, nor the gracious attentions of several well-dressed women of matronly aspect who nodded at us as we approached. Before the largest commercial building, Hayward’s Mercantile, strutted a horse. Even to my untrained eye, it looked to be a fine, high-spirited animal of the sort favored by wealthy young gentlemen. Its gleaming coat and great height set it apart from the sturdy, mud-splashed workhorses tied to hitching posts along the street, like a prince among paupers.

  Atop this magnificent beast sat a man incongruously dressed in a neat black suit and soft felt hat
, putting the animal through its paces with the cool confidence of someone who dealt with expensive horseflesh every day.

  “That’s Mr. Poulton, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Lombardi, her eyebrows raised. “Doesn’t he ride well?”

  “He seems to do everything well,” I replied. For it was indeed the seminary’s Old Testament teacher. His lithe figure showed to advantage as he guided the horse through a complex series of movements seemingly designed to test every aspect of its gait. As he made the last turn, Mr. Poulton saw us and turned his mount in our direction, bringing it to a stop with the lightest touch on the reins and dismounting gracefully. He doffed his hat, smiling at us while the wind ruffled his black curls and a gleam of sunlight made them shine like ebony. It was hard not to smile back.

  “Are you thinking of buying this horse, Mr. Poulton?” Mrs. Lombardi—or Catherine, as she was insisting I call her now—spoke cordially. “He’s much too fine for the plains, to my way of thinking.”

  “His price is quite out of my reach, I’m afraid,” was the answer, with another smile that brought a sparkle to his violet-blue eyes. I gave my hat a surreptitious tug, hoping he wouldn’t notice the state of my boots and skirt.

  “Fairland had him brought from Kentucky for his son.” Mr. Poulton indicated a portly man with expansive whiskers and a red-veined nose.

  “Give some tone to the place,” proclaimed Mr. Fairland, tipping his hat in our direction. “He looks mighty fine next to your nags, don’t he?” he called over his shoulder to the other men standing nearby. I knew from the signs on one of the commercial buildings that Mr. Fairland was, among other things, a Wells Fargo agent. From the look of the horse, business was booming.

  “He’ll look the same as the others when he’s covered in mud,” called one of the watching men, who spat a brown stream of tobacco juice into a puddle.

  During this exchange, the matronly ladies made a beeline toward our group, keeping a careful distance from the horse. They greeted Catherine, whom they seemed to know, bestowed fond smiles on Mr. Poulton, and nodded politely at me.

  “Ladies,” said Catherine, “this is Mrs. Eleanor Lillington of Illinois. From near Chicago. She’s taken up the post of seamstress at the seminary—and she’s a special friend of mine.”

  Puzzlement flitted across the ladies’ faces as they wrestled with how to treat me. As seamstress at the seminary, I was little better than a servant—but as Catherine Lombardi’s friend, I deserved more consideration.

  Mr. Poulton settled the matter by offering me his arm and bestowing a dazzling smile on me. The matrons seemed as one to decide I was an object of interest and charm. They made welcoming noises and remarks about how good it would be to have a new lady in their circle of acquaintance.

  “Do you ride, Mrs. Lillington?” Mr. Poulton removed his hat to mop his brow.

  “Unfortunately not.” At that moment, I was exceedingly sorry I couldn’t produce any evidence of knowledge about horses. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the ladies, a fiercely corseted matriarch with an interesting, mobile face, sidle over to the man who’d spat tobacco juice. She gave him a look that made him instantly hook the wad of tobacco out of his mouth and wrap it in his handkerchief—from which I deduced they were married.

  “Mrs. Lillington should learn to ride, shouldn’t she?” Catherine had a mischievous gleam in her eye. “This country is most propitious for making horsewomen of us.”

  Amid the chorus of hilarity that followed, Mr. Poulton moved back to the horse and gave it a clap on the neck, whereupon it turned its huge head to bite his arm. Blue eyes fierce, he pushed its muzzle away with a barked shout of command and grasped the bridle again, pulling the bit back so that it made contact with the corners of the animal’s mouth. The horse immediately quieted down, but not before I’d seen Mr. Poulton’s arm tense as if he’d like to mete out further punishment. A faint flush appeared on his high cheekbones, but then he made a conscious effort to relax, and with a laugh, led the horse over to its owner.

  “You’ve made a good purchase, Fairland.” He handed the horse over to a shabbily dressed man standing a few paces behind the Wells Fargo agent. “You’ll have to be firm with this one though. Don’t let him think for a moment he’s in charge of anything.”

  Mr. Poulton turned back to me, peeling off the sturdy leather gloves he had been wearing and brushing a few horsehairs off his black suit.

  “The day’s warming up,” he remarked. “May I buy you ladies a glass of sassafras beer?”

  I hesitated, mainly because the amused expression on Mrs. Lombardi’s face told me she believed the invitation to be for my benefit. From the sly glances passing between the older ladies, they thought so too.

  “The mercantile is quite respectable,” Mr. Poulton said, misinterpreting my reluctance. “There’s no whiskey barrel.”

  “And Mrs. Hayward washes the glasses after every customer,” said the clever-looking matron, prompting laughter from her companions.

  I gave in, of course. I’d been inside the mercantile before—it was, in point of fact, the only store worth visiting in the town.

  An assortment of odors greeted us: the strong-smelling kerosene lamp that lit the crowded interior, coffee from the grinder that stood on the counter, molasses, leather, the spice of tobacco from the cigar boxes high on the shelves, the astringent smells of soap and patent medicines. One corner of the store overflowed with bolts of cloth, rough clothing of the sort the workingmen of the plains wore, ribbons, ladies’ undergarments discreetly screened by a piece of linen, suspenders, hats, and a few pairs of shoes. Rifles, pistols, lamps, lanterns, cooking pots, and utensils hung from all available points, with boxes of ammunition stacked next to a tower of large round cheeses. A well-polished pine coffin stood in another corner with a sign announcing that other sizes and finishes were available—just ask.

  The sassafras beer was cool, strongly flavored, and not too sweet, and I began to enjoy myself. I was back in the world I understood. Our polite conversation didn’t go any deeper than remarks on the fierceness of the prairie wind, the types of horse best suited to the terrain, the selection of goods in the store, and the relative sophistication of Wichita.

  “But the seminary,” I said after a few minutes. “It never fails to astonish me, especially when I see how raw and new Springwood is. How on earth could anyone think of raising such a grand building in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Dr. Adema is a visionary,” Catherine said. “He looks forward to a time when—who knows?—Springwood may be as large as Chicago. Don’t forget that great city was just a collection of wood huts only forty years ago.”

  “Professor Adema is a dreamer.” Mr. Poulton’s tone was light, but his musical voice had an edge to it. “An impractical man, at bottom. He imagines the brotherhood of all men and the expansion of knowledge to every African, Indian, and poor son of the prairie. He’s fortunate he was able to rely on the generosity of the Calderwoods, who have steadier heads and a more realistic outlook on life.”

  I opened my mouth to protest that I preferred Dr. Adema’s generous openheartedness to the Calderwoods’ narrow conventionality, but then I shut it again. I was in no position to bite the hand that fed me, Sarah, and Tess—and I was sure Mr. Poulton was in the Calderwoods’ complete confidence. And besides, Mr. Poulton was most decorative to look at, and I was in no mood to introduce a sour note into the pleasant hour.

  “How is it you ride so well, Mr. Poulton?” Catherine asked. “Not that I have any reason to think a man shouldn’t ride, but you seem—“

  “More of a scholar?” Mr. Poulton’s eyes slanted upward when he was amused, and I found myself waiting for those moments. “When I was a lad in Baltimore, I had plenty of opportunities to ride. When I was in England, I rode to hounds—fox-hunting, you know—and hunted pheasant and partridge. I had a generous patron when I was at Cambridge.”

  His smile turned a little wistful. “Alas, to be a poor teacher, Mrs. Lillington. I can’t enjoy such
luxuries now.”

  “I can enjoy them even less,” I laughed. “I’m a poor seamstress.”

  “And I’m an even poorer missionary’s wife,” said Catherine, and we all laughed uproariously at our poverty.

  “But you’ve seen England.” I sighed when the laughter ended. “I’ve always wanted to go there. My grandmother was English. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the money.”

  “Nonsense.” Catherine’s tone was brisk and cheerful. “Both of you have the blessings of good looks, cultivation, and youth. Rejoice in those assets, which may take you far.”

  “I will,” said Mr. Poulton, holding out his hand to me. “Mrs. Lillington, let us shake hands as allies in the search for better prospects. Who knows? We may each of us find a wealthy spouse.”

  5

  Tragedy

  May 20, 1872

  Dear Martin,

  I put pen to paper with a heavy heart. This time I have real news, and it’s terrible.

  Dr. Adema, the president of this seminary, has died in a fall. He was a poor sleeper, in the way of the elderly, I suppose, and was in the habit of walking around the place late at night. A servant found him at the foot of the grand staircase. His neck had broken—he must have slipped on the stairs and tumbled down them. They think he died before he reached the bottom—I hope so.

  The memorial service will take place tomorrow, and I find myself in awfully low spirits. All the more so because the rumor is Dr. Calderwood will now be president, which means Mrs. Calderwood will rule the roost more than ever. And you know how she disapproves of me.

  Dr. Adema was my ally, and I felt that in time, he would become my friend. I know I should be mourning him and not thinking of myself, but the future looks bleak to me.

  Yours in sadness,

  Nell

  “Is somebody there?”