A View Most Glorious

by Regina Scott

  “Then take a packhorse,” her mother said. “Or better yet, a wagon.”

  “I doubt either could make the ascent to the summit, dearest,” Winston said with his usual gentle smile. “Now, let us talk no more of matters that distress you and enjoy this marvelous repast with which we have been blessed.”

  Her mother returned his smile then, but she was less forgiving when Hardee arrived at ten the next morning at the same time as Miss Fuller, who, like Cora, was a member of the Tacoma Women’s Suffrage Association. Darcy came to fetch Cora when her mother refused to see them.

  “They can both be obliged to wait,” her mother said when Cora went to appeal the decision. “Mr. Hardee’s assumption that this is in any way a suitable time to call might be expected given his sojourn in the wilderness, but Miss Fuller is supposed to be a lady.”

  “Perhaps I’ll just speak to them until you’re ready,” she said. She left her mother in Lily’s capable hands and hurried for the parlor.

  At least Darcy had had the foresight to allow them into the house. Cora would have been mortified to keep the first woman to have climbed Mount Rainier standing on the stoop.

  Her muscles protested as she descended the stairs. Well, they would become accustomed to her new activities. She was always a little sore for a few days when lawn tennis commenced again each spring. Surely this was no different.

  Darcy had placed the visitors in the formal parlor on the opposite side of the house. This room was stiffer, more ornate. Its intent was to impress, not to encourage lingering. Accordingly, most of the furnishings were of hardwood, polished to a high gloss. They teetered on the thick Persian carpet, its crimson and sapphire coloring matching the stripes on the heavy satin drapes over the window.

  Mr. Hardee, still in the same outfit, stood near the carved wood hearth, his wavy hair visible in the gilt-edged mirror above. He dwarfed the dark-haired lady seated on the chair beside him. Fay Fuller had been a legend among the ladies of Tacoma since her historic climb three years ago. Her light brown curled bangs stuck out from under her flat-topped hat as if ready to explore the world. Her figure in the blue striped bodice and skirts was sturdy, as if she brooked no nonsense. Her dark eyes held an assessing gleam as she smiled up at Cora.

  “Miss Fuller,” she said, holding out her hand. “How nice of you to call.”

  The newspaper columnist shook her hand with a firm grip. “I just returned from the World’s Fair to find Mimi’s note waiting. I understand they’ve convinced you to climb the mountain.”

  “They did,” Cora admitted, taking the chair closest to the lady. “Mr. Hardee has agreed to guide me and my stepfather.”

  Miss Fuller turned her smile up at him, and it seemed to warm. “You couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Now, why did she have a sudden urge to tug the lady’s hat down over her eyes?

  “You’re too kind,” he said, inclining his head in Miss Fuller’s direction. “I know you’ve recounted your climb in the newspapers and at speaking engagements around the area, but would you mind explaining the circumstances to Miss Baxter, so she understands what to expect?”

  Miss Fuller nodded, gaze returning to Cora. “That’s why I’m here. I must admit to some surprise, however, that you are so eager to climb, Miss Baxter. You are not, to my knowledge, a member of the Tacoma Alpine Club.”

  Cora must have looked confused, for he stepped closer to her as if in support. “Miss Fuller was one of the founding members of the club for climbing enthusiasts.”

  “Generally one climbs a few smaller peaks before attempting Tacoma,” Miss Fuller added.

  “So, you are of the camp that believes the mountain should be named after the city,” Cora said.

  “It is the native name for the mountain,” she corrected her.

  “Depends on which native you ask,” Hardee put in with a smile.

  This time Miss Fuller’s look to him was more challenging. “Professor Plummer has the enthusiastic support of more than fifty prominent tribal members.”

  His smile broadened. “And I could give you fifty just as prominent members who claim otherwise.”

  Cora watched them, fascinated. How easily they argued on a controversial subject that had divided more than one household in the area. This sort of equality was the very reason she and Mimi were advocating for the vote.

  “Be that as it may, sir,” Miss Fuller said, chin coming up, “you cannot deny that reaching the summit is a challenge for even an experienced climber.”

  “It is a challenge,” he acknowledged. “But more difficult for a woman, I think.”

  Cora stiffened. So did Miss Fuller.

  “It is a matter of fitness and determination,” she insisted. “The same rugged conditions—extreme temperatures, cutting wind—affect both male and female. The same unforgiving terrain must be crossed.”

  “The only difference, it seems,” Cora said, “is that I must conquer it in skirts.”

  Miss Fuller positively glowered at Hardee. “What nonsense have you been telling her?” Before he could answer, she turned to Cora. “Not skirts, Miss Baxter. I advise bloomers.”

  Cora stared at her. “Bloomers! I was certain the photograph I saw in the newspapers after your climb showed you in skirts.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The photographer was very careful to give that appearance. To assuage the sensibilities of the public, he said. But if you look closely, you’ll see bloomers at the bottom. Flannel, to be exact, with flannel combinations underneath. Anything less simply isn’t safe for the maneuvering required.”

  “Having second thoughts, Miss Baxter?” Hardee asked.

  Why was he intent on scaring her off? Didn’t he want payment for his services? And oh, her mother! She’d have apoplexy at the idea of Cora wearing bloomers in public. Well, sacrifices must be made if they were to secure the vote. And she wasn’t about to admit defeat and find herself engaged to the likes of Cash Kincaid.

  “No, Mr. Hardee,” she said. “Merely wondering where I might procure flannel bloomers in time to make the climb as we planned. What do you suggest, Miss Fuller?”

  Many women would have balked at Miss Fuller’s description of the daunting circumstances, let alone the need to dress in something still considered scandalous. Miss Baxter had claimed she had determination. Nathan could not doubt she had it in abundance.

  She questioned Miss Fuller further—about her route, advice on what to carry, and the time it had taken to make the ascent.

  “Nearly twelve hours?” She shivered. “Then you must have spent the night.”

  “In an ice cave made by steam vents,” she said. “Cooking on one side, freezing on the other. I cannot recommend it. I know others have managed to reach the top and back to one of the camps within a day. I will pray you have the same fortune.”

  “You have been so kind to allow me to quiz you like this,” Miss Baxter said with a smile. “I wonder whether I might impose a moment longer.”

  Miss Fuller nodded. “I must meet my father for lunch, but I believe I can spend a little more time.”

  “Excellent,” Miss Baxter said, rising. “I cannot be certain I can have bloomers sewn in time. Mr. Hardee said he would advise me on which dresses might suit, but I would greatly appreciate your thoughts on the matter, Miss Fuller. Would you be willing to assess my wardrobe?”

  Miss Fuller stood. “Of course. Lead the way.”

  He wasn’t sure he was invited, but he followed them from the room anyway.

  The second story of the Winston mansion was as impressive as the first. Warm wood paneled the walls from the floor to about waist height, with wallpaper showing fanciful blue swirls on cream above. Here and there, oil paintings hung from rails along the ceiling. Brass sconces gleamed with electric lights.

  Miss Baxter’s room was at the front northwest corner. He couldn’t seem to make himself step over the threshold. Everything was lacy and frilly and entirely feminine. Was it the deep pink of the coverings on the poster bed, or di
d he truly smell roses?

  Miss Baxter went to the carved walnut wardrobe on the far wall and began to pull out things for Miss Fuller to inspect. He fought for breath. Had he ever been in a lady’s bedchamber except his mother’s? Certainly Annabelle had never allowed him past the first floor in all the times he’d called on her and her family. She’d been a stickler for propriety, his Annabelle.

  His Annabelle. He snorted and quickly covered it with a cough. He’d been so impressed with the way she carried herself, the way she talked and laughed. But what he’d taken as perfection had been a slavish absorption with society’s dictates. He would never forget the resigned look on her face when she’d handed him back his betrothal ring.

  “You must see it is impossible, Mr. Hardee,” she’d said, delicate chin quivering. “I cannot align myself where there are no expectations of a future.” She’d dropped her dulcet voice as if even saying the next words would cause her to suffer. “To marry into a family with a suicide.” She’d shuddered.

  All he’d been able to see at the time was what he had lost—his father, his standing, his profession, his home, and the woman he’d thought to marry. Better to leave it all behind, go somewhere he might find peace.

  “Coraline?”

  He brought himself back to the moment to find Mrs. Winston beside him, eyes darting from him to Miss Fuller and back.

  “I’m certain we have sufficient seating downstairs that you do not need to entertain in your bedchamber,” she told her daughter.

  Miss Baxter’s smile was as polished as Annabelle’s had ever been. “Mother, allow me to introduce Miss Fuller, the famed climber. And of course you remember Mr. Hardee. They were advising me on suitable clothing for our adventure.”

  “How very considerate,” her mother said. “But you should not repay such generosity by making Miss Fuller take the place of your maid.”

  Once more, Miss Baxter’s lovely face was reddening. Miss Fuller moved toward the door. “We are finished in any event. Miss Baxter, I hope I have been some use to you.”

  “Tremendously so,” Miss Baxter assured her. “Allow me to walk you out. That way, I can play maid to you.”

  She sailed past her mother. With a quick smile, Miss Fuller followed.

  Nathan inclined his head as he turned to do likewise. “Mrs. Winston.”

  Her gaze speared him in place. “I do not wish to find you on the chamber story again, Mr. Hardee. I hope I have made myself clear.”

  He topped her by a good foot, outweighed her in muscle, but he edged around her, feeling as trapped as if he’d stumbled upon a rattlesnake that had crossed the Cascades. “Ma’am.”

  He took the stairs down entirely too fast. Miss Baxter and Miss Fuller had just reached the front door.

  “Miss Baxter, I wish you all the best,” the reporter was saying. “I’ll plan on interviewing you when you return triumphant.”

  “I’d like that,” she assured the lady before opening the door for her. “The more publicity, the better.”

  As soon as Miss Fuller was down the steps, Miss Baxter turned to him. “Give me a few moments to make a list, and we can go shopping. I know just what I must put in this pack I’ll be carrying.”

  6

  Her mother balked at allowing Cora to use the carriage, until Cora reminded her that Winston would be participating in this shopping expedition. As it was, her mother still sent Lily with Cora again. The maid squeezed herself into a corner of the coach beside Cora and gazed at Hardee across from them as the carriage set off for the bank to retrieve Winston.

  “I’ve never shopped at Dickson Brothers,” Cora admitted as they left the grand houses on C Street and turned down the packed dirt road toward the business district on Pacific. “It seemed a gentleman’s bastion.”

  “I suppose it is.” Though the day was sunny, the shadowy interior darkened his face until it appeared carved from mahogany. “Though not from any animosity toward the ladies. Make no mistake, Miss Baxter. You are one of a rare few willing to make this journey.”

  “That will change in the coming years,” Cora predicted, settling her striped skirts around her. “There is nothing a lady cannot do if she sets her mind to it. Or her legs. Suffrage is just the beginning.”

  He smiled, but it faded as he glanced out the window.

  Cora peered out as well. They had been coming past the tall steeple of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church and heading toward the grand stone façade of the Methodist church on the corner. A crowd had gathered near the steps and spilled out onto Pacific, men in rough coats like his. They seemed to be shoving each other, and their voices rose like the blast of a steam engine.

  He rapped on the roof and called up to their coachman. “Turn down Seventh.”

  Either Oscar didn’t hear him over the shouts of the crowd, or he waited for Cora’s confirmation, because he kept driving. Now the voices turned sharp, hard, like hail pummeling the coach. Faces scowled in at her, red and puckered. Fists shook in warning.

  Smack! The coach rocked with the impact.

  Cora stiffened. “One of them threw a rock at us!”

  Lily tugged her away from the window. “Don’t show yourself, miss. You’ll only make them madder.”

  Then they were past. The normal noises of the city returned: the rattle of wagons and vans, the mournful wail of a locomotive on the docks. She could almost believe the altercation was only her imagination.

  Almost.

  “Why would they protest against a church?” she asked, removing her arm from Lily’s grip.

  He squinted back the way they had come. “Too many have lost their jobs, and the charities run by the churches can’t make up the difference. Those men had nowhere else to turn.”

  “I can understand that,” Cora said as Lily shuddered beside her. “But they have no call to resort to violence.”

  “And you have horses, a carriage, and a coachman,” he countered. “Seeing all that can’t be easy when you have no hope of a roof over your head or food in your belly tonight.”

  “It’s a small step from here to there for some,” Lily murmured, hugging herself.

  The memories swarmed her, like rats chittering over a choice piece of refuse. She and her mother had come so close to penury, yet always her mother had found a man to support them. Was it so wrong to want to support herself?

  Coming up on their left, the sight of the white stone prow of the Puget Sound Bank of Commerce fueled her resolve. Two stories tall with arched windows and gilt lettering on the black sign above, the bank looked as solid as the mountain itself. Patrons moved in and out through the brass-fronted doors on the corner with the usual decorum. As the carriage rolled to a stop, Hardee jumped down to help her alight. His hand swallowed hers to hold it cupped in strength.

  She would not dwell on that.

  She offered him a smile in thanks and went to collect Winston.

  Just stepping into the carpeted lobby made breath easier. Something about a bank inspired confidence and optimism. People spoke in hushed voices, as if something important was about to happen. Cashiers in tall, gilded cages went about their duties with dignity and purpose. One of them, a Mr. Johnson, hurried around the end of the row to meet her.

  “Miss Baxter, I’m so glad to see you,” he said, completely ignoring Hardee at her side. “Mr. Busey asked about his proposal, and I didn’t know what to tell him.”

  “If he asks again before I return,” Cora answered, “assure him I intend to recommend it to the directors, but they may be more inclined to view it favorably if he offers collateral. He recently built a fine house above the First Ward. That might do.”

  “Yes, Miss Baxter,” he said. “Shall I fetch Mr. Winston for you?”

  “Please.”

  He hurried off.

  “Seems to be asking a lot to suggest a man risk his own home,” Hardee rumbled beside her.

  “It’s a lot to expect a bank to risk its holdings on a new venture too,” she countered. “We are not heartless, sir
. Merely prudent.”

  “Could be one and the same.”

  Cora decided not to comment. She’d heard enough complaints from businessmen whose proposals she’d refused that a woman with a head for business must not have a heart for kindness. Rubbish.

  Before the Panic, with Tacoma ever-growing, she’d had at least three investment proposals a day to review and determine whether to recommend to Winston and his board of directors for funding. She had had a hand in building the new hospital near Wright Park, the bridge to the tide flats, and three department stores.

  Her stepfather came out of his office near hers just then, top hat on his head. Nodding to depositors, he set off toward her, walking stick swinging.

  “Ready to purchase what we need for this trip?” she asked as he joined her.

  Winston’s smile remained, though his focus hopped about the bank lobby faster than a rabbit. “No trip. No, no. I won’t be going anywhere except to escort my favorite daughter to view the mountain.” He took Cora by the arm and led her out the door, steps faster than they’d been moments before. Hardee followed.

  Cora eyed her stepfather as he handed her up into the coach. “Why so cautious?”

  “Merely attempting to keep rumors of our solvency from circulating,” he replied with a nod to their coachman before following her. Seeing Lily, he seated himself next to their guide. Between the two of them, they managed to make the bench seat look entirely too crowded.

  “Mr. Hardee,” Winston greeted him.

  He inclined his head. “Mr. Winston. Thank you for joining us.”

  “I’m certain it will be worth my time,” he assured him.

  It was certainly worth her time, and not just because they were equipping themselves for the climb. She was itching to see how gentlemen shopped. Like many of the stores she favored, Dickson Brothers was housed in a redbrick building three stories tall. But it had jaunty flags flying from every corner and bunting draping the wide front windows, which displayed white-fronted gentlemen’s shirts, shiny black shoes, and a considerable variety of hats.