by Kit Morgan
Chase sighed wearily. “Daniel,” he repeated. “Nice name.” But of course, he had matched Miss Norris with Storm Thornton, he of the infamous roast Christmas goose last year. He resisted the urge to groan as thoughts of her groom wanting to stuff and cook poor Daniel for dinner ran rampant through his brain.
Chapter Seven
Felicity and most of the other brides were soon settled into the upstairs bedrooms of La Maison des Chats. Not all that settled, really – not after Birdie, a native French-speaker, had informed them exactly what La Maison des Chats meant. After all they’d been through already, now they were being housed in a brothel! The very idea! Birdie was also surprised the sign outside was even spelled right, considering what they’d seen so far of the town. But what was the difference? A brothel was a brothel.
She could hear raised voices downstairs – the Rev. Hammond, Mrs. Walters and one other, a woman. “That’s Madame Bonheur,” Pearl explained as she fluffed up a pillow and put it on a bed.
“Madame?” Felicity said. She sat on a bed and glanced around the pretty room. If they had to stay the night – and it was becoming quite obvious they did, they’d have to sleep two and three to a bed. At least they were beds, not the stiff, hard seats of the train. However, the location …
“You can’t possibly expect me to stoop to such … such … this!” one of the other brides griped, running a gloved hand over a knob of the brass bed she stood next to.
“This what?” Felicity snapped. Maybelle Anderson had done nothing but complain the entire journey – it was too hot in the train car, or it was too cold, or she didn’t want to sit next to “the Chinese” or “the Mexican” (she’d never bothered to learn Meizhen or Josefina’s names) or “that nasty bird” (the rest of the brides were quite fond of Molly’s Daniel). And she boasted about herself to anyone who would listen.
Maybelle had been familiar to her even before this – they’d both been part of Denver society. Felicity had no interest in Denver’s elite, not unless they were involved with the “cause,” which Maybelle wasn’t. But they’d crossed paths a few times – not few enough for Felicity’s tastes. What an obnoxious bore.
“I can’t wait until I marry,” Maybelle went on, shoving Pearl out of the way to sit on the bed. “He’ll make up for this horrible inconvenience, I’m sure.”
Pearl glared at Maybelle, opened her mouth to speak and …
“Rev. Hammond!” they heard Mrs. Walters shriek from below. “Don’t just stand there – do something!”
“My heavens,” Felicity exclaimed. “What’s going on down there?” And were some of the other brides paying witness to it? Had some of the grooms come by as well?
Pearl rushed to block the door. “You’d better let your Mrs. Walters handle this.”
Maybelle jumped to her feet, affronted. “This isn’t even a decent house of ill repute! Do you always let people quarrel in the front hall?”
Pearl looked like she wanted to throttle Maybelle the way Mayor Hardt had Rev. Hammond. But it was Agatha who spoke first. “Really, Miss Anderson? And how would you know what a ‘decent house of ill repute’ looked like? Personal experience?”
The other women’s laughter was cut off by another voice from downstairs, one with an odd accent. “This is an outrage! I’ll see you pay for this, preacher man!”
The women craned their necks toward the door to hear his reply. Instead there was another shriek – not Mrs. Walters, thankfully – followed by shattering glass. Felicity sprang from the bed. “Good Lord, it sounds as if they’re killing each other! Shouldn’t we do something?”
Pearl vigorously shook her head. “Not when Madame is in such a mood. It would not be wise.”
Felicity glanced at Kezia, Agatha and Birdie, who all looked as shocked as she felt. Then Birdie cocked her head to one side and listened. “Your Madame sounds like … like my cousins when they make fun of American accents.”
Pearl glanced over her shoulder and back, her cheeks flushed. “Madame has not been to France … exactly.” She stopped herself, as if it were a secret she shouldn’t have divulged. But the woman downstairs having it out with Mrs. Walters wouldn’t be the first to fake a French accent …
“Ladies, ladies,” Rev. Hammond shouted. “Can’t we discuss this like civilized OW!”
“Why, you …,” Mrs. Walters cried, followed by a thump and a thud.
Felicity’s hands flew to her mouth, and she shook her head in disbelief. “What kind of a town is this?”
Maybelle smirked. “What do you care? You’re about to become the wife of the mayor – if he’ll have you. Judging from earlier, he seems to have found you lacking.”
Felicity, having dealt with minor violence in her rallies, clenched her fist and was about to let Maybelle have it when Mrs. Walters appeared in the doorway. She brushed some loose locks of hair out of her face, patted what still remained piled on her head and took a deep breath. “Ladies, let us go downstairs and enjoy supper, shall we?” She looked at Pearl. “We thank you for your hospitality. I can’t tell you how much.”
Pearl nodded and glanced down the hall to the staircase beyond. “I think I know exactly how much.”
* * *
Chase entered the saloon in a daze, trudged up the stairs to his room and collapsed on the bed. “Five minutes,” he whispered. “Just five minutes of peace is all I ask.”
Someone knocked on the door.
He looked at the ceiling and yelled, “Five minutes!”
The door opened and Seamus poked his head inside. “Begging yer pardon, Reverend, but the, er, grooms are wishing to speak with ye.”
Chase raised his head to look at him. “Which ones?”
“Weel, almost all of them.”
Chase let his head drop back onto the pillow. “Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Right then, I’ll tell them. Oh, and Reverend?”
“What now, Seamus?” He threw his arm over his eyes.
“Shall I pass out some free drinks before ye speak with them?”
“Is it that bad?”
“Hmm, depends on how ye define ‘bad’.”
“Fine,” Chase groaned. “Do whatever you think is necessary.”
“Aye, I will.” Seamus disappeared, closing the door behind him.
How had things come to this? Chase thought to himself. All he’d wanted to do was save the town, bring a few brides in, marry off some men. They’d start families, the railroad would come to town, all would be well …
… no. He’d lied about the town, about the suitability of the grooms. He’d tried to put it all together himself, not spending one minute in prayer over it. His arrogance, his pride had created this mess – and “pride goeth before destruction,” as the Proverbs said. The Almighty had let him take the rope from His hands … and he’d pretty nearly hung himself with it.
With a heavy sigh Chase sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “This is my fault, no one else’s. Forgive me, Father, and help me to fix it.” He glanced around the room, scratched his head then glanced at the ceiling. “Father, what do I do?”
His mind suddenly lit with an idea, a wonderful idea. Was it the voice of God? He didn’t know, but it was as good a guess as any. “Felicity Partridge.” He snapped his fingers. “She can help me. She can keep track of things, placate Mrs. Walters when needed. I can get all the other couples married off. And it’ll keep her and me away from Charlie long enough for him to calm down.”
He paced the room as a smile grew on his face. Charlie would come around, he was sure. But in the meantime, he didn’t want him to badger Miss Partridge, say something stupid out of anger (a tendency of his) and hurt the girl’s feelings. Let Charlie’s anger be aimed at Chase alone – after all, he’d provoked it in the first place.
With renewed vigor and a slight limp (lesson learned: never argue with a madam carrying a thick walking stick), he left his room. Doubtless some of the men were wondering why they weren’t married yet, wh
ile others might be contemplating backing out. It was the latter he had to worry about most. Any men he couldn’t marry off tonight, he’d try for tomorrow.
Thank the Lord Percy hadn’t poked his nose into this afternoon’s affairs. But it was only a matter of time. What would the little rat do when he found out – write his uncle and tell him to call the whole thing off? Oh, never mind about Percy. Deal with the present crisis – twelve angry grooms, if his guess was right.
He gimped downstairs to the saloon, bracing himself for the disappointed faces of the men. But there were no men there, save Seamus. “What the …”
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” Seamus apologized. “But when the young lady came in, the men thought she should see ye first.”
Chase saw Felicity Partridge’s face and understood why the men left. After watching Mayor Hardt and himself come to blows, none would be eager to watch yet another altercation, especially not with Charlie’s future bride present. The poor thing had probably been fretting over Charlie’s rejection ever since – she looked to be near tears. “Miss Partridge … I’m surprised to see you here. You shouldn’t be out in the streets unescorted, certainly not in this weather – or in a saloon.”
She stood primly and studied him. “It was my understanding this was also a church.”
Chase glanced at Seamus, who shrugged. No help there. “Yes, that’s right – every Sunday. Um, this isn’t Sunday, but, ah, you’re still welcome, of course…” Good grief, was he stammering?
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Where is Mayor Hardt?”
Chase looked at her more closely. She was very pretty. Too bad Charlie hadn’t taken the time to notice – in his anger, his only thought was to get his hands around Chase’s neck and squeeze. But Chase also noticed the dark smudges beneath her blue eyes. The poor dear must be tuckered out. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked, then turned to Seamus.
Seamus nodded back. “I’ll just check the pot on the stove.” He tossed the dishrag he used to polish glasses over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.
Chase turned to Miss Partridge with a smile. “He keeps the coffee on for me and a few other men.”
“I see.” She studied their surroundings. “Tell me, when will Noelle have a real church?”
“When I get enough men to volunteer to help build it.” He slowly walked toward her. “But I can show you where it’ll be.”
“But you are building one?”
“Of course – what kind of a town do you think this is?” He stopped, realizing he shouldn’t have asked that.
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. None of us do at this point. I suppose I’ve come not only for myself but for the others as well. Mrs. Walters is beyond upset, as I’m sure you’re quite aware.”
He chuckled weakly. “Yes, she’s made me aware of that.” He motioned to the nearest table. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” She walked over to a chair and waited.
Chase suddenly realized she was waiting for him to pull it out. “I’m terribly sorry – here, let me get that.” Good grief, she had a point if he had to remember his own manners. Noelle was a rough town.
She sat just as primly as she’d been standing and stared at him. “Tell me, Rev. Hammond, what’s a man like you doing in a place like this?”
He gaped for a second, then quickly straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Could you not get appointed to a church in a … normal town?”
His eyes widened. “Miss Partridge, whatever put that idea in your head? And this is a normal town, I’ll have you know … or at least, it will be. One day.” He took a seat across the table from her.
She shrugged. “It’s just that you seem so much more civilized than the other men I’ve observed here …” Her jaw tightened and she looked away.
Chase tried not to grimace. Charlie. “Actually, you’ll find many of the men here are quite well-educated. Practically all of the grooms can read and write.”
She managed a weak smile. “Well, that’s something.”
“And of course the mayor and I are both educated men …”
“Tell me about him,” she said, suddenly more interested.
“Charlie? Let’s see … he and I first met five years ago.” He felt himself take on a far-off look. “Those were some days.”
“How so?” she asked, curious. “What was he doing before the two of you met?”
Chase froze. He didn’t want to say too much about Charlie’s past – that was his and his alone to tell. “Well, a couple of years before I met Charlie, he was helping run his family’s ranch, but decided to join the Colorado Gold Rush in ‘70. His family didn’t take the news too well.” There, he’d leave it at that.
“You said he was educated,” Miss Partridge said with an imploring look. “Where?”
Chase swallowed. “Er … I didn’t necessarily mean college.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Oh boy, he’d better fix that before she decided she didn’t want to marry Charlie at all. “Self-educated. You have to be to run a good-sized ranch – there’s books to be kept, inventories of animals and supplies to track, payroll of course. And it takes similar skills to run a mining operation, plus some chemistry and metallurgy …”
“So he’s smart,” she said in relief.
“Smart as they come,” he said with a casual wave of his hand, and smiled in relief.
She leaned toward him again. “What else can you tell me? What are his passions, his pursuits?”
“Pursuits?” Chase echoed. Gold – everyone in town knew that, but she might not be keen to learn how Charlie chased after it. His friend was pretty single-minded when it came to the shiny stuff. “He’s very much involved in business … and you could say he’s a philanthropist of sorts.”
“Philanthropist?” she said in delight. “Is he rich?”
“Ahhh, I wouldn’t call Charlie Hardt rich, per se …”
“Most philanthropists are,” she cut in. “At least the ones I’ve met.”
He studied her a moment. “You’ve met philanthropists?”
“Yes, I have, in Denver. My father is associated with several.”
Hmmm … he would have to make sure he presented Charlie in the best possible light. “Well, that’s the thing about philanthropy – folks look at it different ways.”
“How so?”
Seamus appeared, a tray in his hands, and set it on the table. “If ye want cream I’ll have to go back to fetch it.”
“Sugar is fine, thank you,” Miss Partridge said politely. She removed a cup from the tray along with a sugar bowl that had seen better days. It was chipped in several places with a hairline crack running up one side. She eyed it warily before reaching for a spoon.
Seamus nervously nodded then retreated behind the bar.
She spooned some sugar into her cup and gave it a stir. “You were saying, Rev. Hammond?”
Chase’s mouth went dry as he stared at the smooth creamy skin of her hands. “What?”
“Philanthropy,” she reminded him. “You were saying?”
Chapter Eight
“Well,” the preacher said, “a lot of folks confuse philanthropy with charity.”
Felicity studied him a moment. Rev. Hammond was a handsome man, his hair dark was thick with a slight wave to it, his eyes brown, gentle yet piercing. It was an odd combination that reminded her of a sermon she’d heard in church years ago. The preacher was speaking about the word “meek,” saying that the general meaning of the Hebrew word was barely contained power.
For all his clumsy peacemaking attempts since her arrival, no doubt Rev. Hammond had a harder side he kept hidden. He’d have to, pastoring in a town that (save for a few whores) was almost exclusively male. For a moment she began to wonder more about his background than her future husband’s.
“Miss Partridge?” he said, catching her attention.
“I’m terribly sorry.
I’m always woolgathering – the other brides complain about it. You were saying?”
He smiled. “I believe that charity is to give a hungry man something to eat. He has no food, you give him a fish.”
“Yes, of course. Then philanthropy is giving him a lot of fish?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. Philanthropy is when you teach the man how to fish. Then he can feed himself and isn’t dependent on others. You’re also putting him in a position to show charity to others, and hopefully teach them how to fish, and so on. That’s how Charlie prefers to work.”
“I think I understand.” She did, and had never thought of it that way. To her, philanthropy was just another word for charity, only on a larger scale. “Thank you for explaining it to me, Reverend.”
“You’re welcome.” He took a sip of coffee as he gazed at her.
She was a little surprised to find she was gazing back. In fact, she was outright staring. He had the nicest cheekbones … she blinked and fought to get herself back on track. “Mayor Hardt sounds like a man with high ideals.”
Rev. Hammond glanced quickly at the barkeep and back. What was that about? “That he is – some of the highest around.” Then he muttered, “About five hundred feet up the mountainside.”
One of her eyebrows slowly rose. “Excuse me?”
His own eyebrows shot up as his smile broadened. “Nothing – I’m a little tired. You’ll have to excuse me – it’s been a long day.”
“Yes, I’d say it’s about suppertime.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked, concerned.
“No, one of the whor … I mean, a nice woman at the place we’re staying made us all soup.”
“Pearl,” he said with a nod. “Thank Heaven for Pearl.”
“Yes, she’s a nice… woman.” Merciful heavens, she’d almost said “whore” twice! Granted, that’s what Pearl was, but she wasn’t about to say that word in front of a preacher. Time to change the subject. “You said you were educated. Where?”
