by Kit Morgan
She felt herself blush at the thought and hoped Felicity didn’t notice. The last thing she needed was for her friend to start asking questions. Felicity didn’t know Ophelia peeked into the hall sometimes to catch a glimpse of her neighbor. To dine with him was a stroke of luck, and at Chase and Felicity’s doing, no less. Maybe coming to Noelle wasn’t going to be as bad as she first thought.
Because when it came down to it, she was a flower being forced to survive in the midst of choking weeds and she knew it. She’d never been away from home before. Her heart was broken over how her father had treated her, and she missed her mother. How much longer could she put up a strong front? Yes, she believed wholly in the cause for women, wanted to further it, would fight for it. But she could only do such much thrown into a different – and, as Felicity put it, hostile – environment.
As much as Ophelia hated to admit it, Felicity was right. She needed a man here, or she might not survive.
Chapter Six
February 9th, 1877
It is with great regret that I make this entry. The mayor has gone mad, the town beyond hope. I’m surprised I’ve not found an opium den. As the dens are abolished in other parts of the country, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before one finds refuge here.
I therefore, based on my observations of the town and its residents, cannot in all good consciousness recommend Noelle, Colorado as a place of business for Wells Fargo & Co. If I stay any longer, I wager I’d pay witness to a shooting in the street, or a bank robbery.
CBJ
Clint sighed and rubbed his face. Regret … he’d felt it keenly as he wrote. Should he be so quick to pass judgment? Perhaps he should spend another day or two in town and speak with more residents.
He took a sip of coffee and scanned the interior of the saloon. The usual crowd of uncouth miners was laughing, drinking, and swearing up a storm. Once again, not a saloon girl in sight. Once again he reminded himself it was early in the day – of course there wouldn’t be any up and about.
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop a few times, thinking. He should leave town but couldn’t bring himself to, not yet. He couldn’t help feeling he’d overlooked something, that things weren’t adding up …
Then he got an idea – what about the sheriff? If anyone knew about the comings and goings of good and evil in a town, it was the local lawman. Maybe he should pay him a visit this morning. If he didn’t have much good to say about Noelle, Clint could still make it to the next town by sunset and catch the first train back to Denver. He’d send his report from there, wait a few days for another assignment, and if none were forthcoming, head to the San Francisco offices.
Clint flipped his notebook closed, stuck it in his jacket – and froze. Miss Rathbone stood like a statue on the staircase across the saloon, staring at him with those big violet eyes of hers, and, dare he say, looking … distraught? Before he could stop himself, he was on his feet heading in her direction. Bad idea, Jones, he thought. But his heart didn’t think so.
Several miners were leering at her. One even licked his lips before saying, “Now there’s a treasure you’ll not dig out of a mine.”
“Treasure?” another laughed. “Ned, you wouldn’t know treasure from junk. Besides, she’s too high and mighty for the likes of you.”
“Or you!” Ned said with a laugh. “Besides, she looks cold – not like our Felice at La Maison. We’re going tonight, right?”
Clint followed their conversation only long enough to make sure they posed no threat to Miss Rathbone, verbal or otherwise. He joined her at the stairs. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she said, blushing furiously. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” He forced his eyes to stay on her face. She was giving him one of her innocent looks again, as if she were lost in a foreign land. “Where’s your friend?”
“Oh, Felice?” she said with a smile that quickly faded. “I mean, Felicity. She doesn’t like it when I call her by her nickname.”
Clint felt a pang of disappointment. When was he going to get it through his thick skull that this was not the sort of woman for him? He glanced at the two miners who’d commented earlier, but they were now absorbed in the drinks the barkeep had brought to their table. The thought of them with Miss Rathbone’s friend didn’t sit well with him. They looked like the type to abuse a woman, especially a whore. He met Miss Rathbone’s eyes again. “Going out?” he asked, noticing she held a coat in her hands.
“Yes.” She held it up. “I purchased this the other day and it’s too big. I was going to take it to Mrs. Peregrine over at the post and freight – Felicity says she’s an expert seamstress and can take it in for me.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to buy a smaller size?”
“Yes, but they didn’t have any I liked.” She began to put the garment on.
“Allow me,” he said.
She smiled shyly and handed it to him.
He studied her. No woman could practice a blush like that. He held the coat up for her and glanced at the miners again as he helped her slip into it. She was so innocent, so pure. How could she possibly be … hmmm, there was one way to find out. “May I escort you to your destination?”
“What?” she said in surprise. “Oh, I, um …”
“Ophey, are you down there?” called a woman’s voice.
“Felice, I take it?” he said.
“Felicity. She doesn’t want anyone but the reverend calling her Felice.”
Clint’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed hard. “I see.” Innocent and pure, my eye, he thought. Maybe a woman could practice a blush.
“I’d best be going. Felicity and I are dropping off the coat, then meeting with the reverend.”
Clint nodded slowly as his heart sank to his toes. Why was he feeling so confused?
“Ophey, you’ll need your cloak,” said her friend as she appeared at the top of the stairs. “Oh, hello.”
“Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Well, I guess we’d better go,” Miss Rathbone said. “We have a lot of work to do before this evening.” She smiled adorably. Was that an invitation? Or a come-on? She blushed again as her friend shooed her down the stairs.
A few miners whistled or called out to them, but they were quickly quelled by Felice/Felicity. “Stop that, you, or I’ll tell the reverend!”
The men abruptly stopped and hung their heads. “Sorry,” one said.
She arched an eyebrow and continued toward the door.
Clint watched them leave, then saw the looks of the chastised miners. Great Scott, they looked scared! Maybe the reverend wasn’t a reverend at all! Maybe there was more going on in Noelle than he first thought. And there was no way to find out what if he left town. He had to stay, like it or not, in order to relay the truth of this town to his bosses.
He went to his room, grabbed his coat, and left the saloon. Best he take another look around.
* * *
“How could they do such a thing?” Ophelia asked.
Birdie Peregrine was a dark-haired, blue-eyed French Canadian even paler than Ophelia. The woman scrutinized the article in the newspaper she held. “Cowards. They used yours and Felicity’s names but not their own.”
Felicity sat on Birdie’s right and leaned over her shoulder. Ophelia did the same on Birdie’s left. “But why?” Felicity wondered.
“As I said,” Birdie went on. “They might talk big, but when it comes to real work, they toss the two of you to the dogs.”
Ophelia straightened. “Dogs?”
“In this case, the cats – the women at La Maison.” Felicity frowned at the headline: CRUSADING LADIES PETITION TO RID NOELLE OF VICE. “That’s not what we’re trying to do. Not the way this implies.”
“This is wrong,” Ophelia said. “It’s downright unscrupulous. You would think two women like Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles would know better.”
“Think again,” Felicity grumbled.
“What
do we do now?” Ophelia asked.
“I would speak with these ladies and tell them they had no right to print your names in conjunction with such a petition,” Birdie declared, followed by a couple of words in French that Ophelia assumed were curses.
“We did talk about a petition,” Felicity confessed. “But it was to help raise money for the new mission. We can’t expect Mayor Hardt to let us use his building for free. If we use it, Genevieve wants to be able to give him something for it, not to mention to cover refurbishing it.”
“This article makes us sound heartless,” Ophelia said.
Birdie glanced over her shoulder at her. “Many women are, in such cases. Have you not looked down on courtesans and other women of ill-repute?”
Ophelia stared at her. “Well, I… I …” She sighed. “… yes, I have.”
“But they are the very women you are trying to help. Living here will, if nothing else, make you more compassionate. It can be a rough life on the frontier, Mlle. Rathbone. This is not Denver.” She turned back to the paper. “Here one cannot hide from reality.”
Birdie’s words rang true, and Ophelia had the decency to flinch. She had looked down on such women. Being part of Denver’s high society had kept her protected against the shame and horrors women endured in brothels. She’d wanted to further the cause of women everywhere without actually going anywhere. Now she had no choice – there was nowhere else in Noelle to go, no other women to help.
“I think what Genevieve and the rest of you are trying to create will be a wonderful thing,” Birdie said. “You can count on me. What can I do?”
“Right now we’re trying to secure the abandoned saloon across from La Maison, with Genevieve’s approval, of course.” Felicity said. “Once we get the mission going, you could teach the women to sew. That would be a great help.”
“Yes, and I could teach them …” Ophelia stopped short. What could she teach them – to paint? Embroider? Play the piano? What good would those skills do? For Heaven’s sake, she couldn’t even cook! “… um, maybe proper decorum?”
“That would help some of them, I’m sure,” Felicity agreed.
Ophelia sighed in relief. At least she could do something. In Denver she was quite good at handing out leaflets, collecting clothing for the poor, and serving in halfway houses once or twice a month. But she’d never really gotten her hands dirty. This would be a first.
Unfortunately, the way Birdie and Felicity made it sound, the women that needed their help the most didn’t want it. But why wouldn’t they? Wasn’t prostitution just another form of abuse and slavery, a prison almost impossible to escape? And she wanted to do her part to help, really help, not just pass out suffragette pamphlets and call to passers-by in the street. Anyone could do those things.
For the first time in her life, Ophelia realized she was, in essence, a snob. She’d been working alongside Felicity and other suffragettes over the last few years to further the cause … so long as she didn’t have to dig in and do the real work.
She hung her head as she listened to Felicity and Birdie talk about Genevieve Kinnison and the work she’d done with the Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs in Denver. They made the woman sound like a saint, which maybe she was. The more they talked, the more inadequate she felt.
She supposed it was time to do something. “Should we go look at the building again?” she suggested. “We never went upstairs.”
“No, we didn’t,” Felicity agreed. “That’s a good idea.”
“I will have your coat taken in by tomorrow afternoon,” Birdie told her.
“Thank you,” Ophelia said. “I so appreciate it.”
Birdie smiled. “And I am sure Felicity, Penny and Genevieve appreciate you being here to help. The least I can do is make sure your coat fits.”
Felicity and Ophelia laughed, said their goodbyes and left for the abandoned building. “Do you still have the key Mayor Hardt gave you?” Ophelia asked.
“Yes,” Felicity said as they approached the door. She unlocked it and they went inside. Both stood still and listened before heading for the staircase. Felicity spied a broom at the top of the stairs and grabbed it.
“That’s an odd place for a broom,” Ophelia commented.
“The women from La Maison stayed here when the other mail-order brides and I first arrived. They probably left it behind. Good thing, in case we see a rat.”
Ophelia shuddered at the thought and then glanced around the landing at the top of the stairs. She was surprised the place wasn’t dustier – but then it had been occupied for a time, as Felicity said. “What’s through there?” she asked, pointing to the first door on their right.
“I don’t know, let’s find out,” Felicity opened it. “Oh my – look at this.”
They stepped into a parlor of some sort. Felicity went to one of the two windows and parted the faded red curtains, then did the same with the other. “There, that’s better. At least we can see.”
“This is a nice room,” Ophelia said. “It could be used for activities of some sort.”
“Or for a simple parlor,” Felicity added.
Ophelia wrung her hands. “What do you think the, um … women from across the street used it for?”
Felicity looked at her. “Ophelia, it doesn’t matter. What does is that we put it to good use now.”
Ophelia nodded and looked around at the sparse furnishings. There was an old red settee that matched the curtains, and a couple of faded cushioned chairs … had they been green? What did it matter? If they were able to raise enough money, they could get new ones.
“What’re you doing in here?!” barked a woman in the doorway.
Ophelia jumped with a yelp and spun to the door to find two women coming in. One was thin with a pinched expression, the other wide and breathing hard, probably from the exertion of coming up the stairs.
“We’re looking the building over, Mrs. Sharp,” Felicity said without batting an eye. “Just as we discussed a week ago.”
“Discussed?” Mrs. Sharp said in confusion, then quickly recovered. “Well, yes, of course.”
Felicity’s smile was tight. “I think it will do nicely for the mission.”
Mrs. Sharp didn’t answer, only eyed Ophelia as the other woman – Mrs. Stiles – fanned herself with a hand and plopped onto the settee. “And who is this?”
“Ophelia Rathbone, ma’am,” Ophelia said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Sharp put a pince-nez on her nose and squinted at her. “Have you been watching out that window?”
“What?” Ophelia and Felicity said at once.
“Well, you should be!” Mrs. Sharp snapped. She turned to her counterpart. “Gertie, don’t just sit there, keep watch!”
Gertie heaved her bulk off the settee and went to the window. “No sign of either one, Vinnie.”
“Who?” Felicity asked, suspicious.
“Our husbands, that’s who!” Mrs. Sharp said, eyes narrowed to slits. “They’ve been going into that … that place! I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“Your husbands’ reputations, too?” Ophelia asked.
“How dare you!” Mrs. Sharp snapped.
“Speaking of reputations,” Felicity said, “we don’t appreciate having our names used for something we had nothing to do with.”
“What are you talking about?” Gertie asked.
“Keep watch, Gertie!” Mrs. Sharp ordered.
Gertie’s head snapped back toward the window.
Felicity rolled her eyes. “Can we discuss this? You had Mr. Hurst down at the Gazette print our names in connection with a petition to rid the town of places like La Maison.”
“We did no such thing.” Mrs. Sharp sat on the settee like a telegraph pole being dropped into a posthole. “We might have mentioned you, but what that man printed was entirely his doing.”
Felicity sighed and glanced at the woman standing obediently at the window. “Mrs. Stiles, won’t you sit down?”
; Ophelia watched Gertie Stiles return to the settee. Both women were older than she and Felicity – in their mid-thirties, perhaps older. Both wore drab gray dresses. Mrs. Sharp seemed to live up to her name, but Mrs. Stiles had kind eyes. She reminded Ophelia of one of her father’s hunting dogs – more bark than bite and obedient to a fault. Unfortunately, she was obviously Vinnie Sharp’s bloodhound.
Felicity motioned Ophelia to sit in one of the chairs as she took the other. “Look, we’re all trying to help the women of this community. But Ophelia and I would appreciate it if before you print anything you …”
“What are you doing here?” a woman’s voice from the doorway interjected. “This is private property.”
Ophelia watched the other women. Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles both looked haughty, while Felicity sighed again and smiled at the newcomer a light. But the newcomer didn’t look happy at all. In fact, she looked rather hostile.
It was then she noticed the woman’s make-up, stylish but low-cut dress. Even the way she stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip screamed La Maison.
“Oh, dear,” Ophelia said to herself. Did she know Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles were spying on the building across the street?
Ophelia had a feeling she and the other ladies were about to find out, and then some. And boy, did they.
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure you’re all right, Ophey?” Felicity asked as she poured hot water into the teapot. They were back in Felicity’s room at the Golden Nugget. On the walk back, Ophelia had time to think about the woman that interrupted them. She was from La Maison, and made it perfectly clear she’d read the article about the petition in the Noelle Gazette, and was far from pleased with its tone.
Ophelia was far from pleased with its tone, too, and didn’t like the way Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles spoke to the woman either. But what could she do other than say her piece, however small it was? If Mrs. Stiles and Mrs. Sharp had their way, the poor whore would be out on the street yesterday.
