“Why was Mrs. Baggot angry with you?”
“Did I say she was angry?”
“You implied as much. Did it have anything to do with Tara?”
“Not a bit of it. I made her promise before we ever set foot over the threshold that there’d be no swaying, no seeing, no dire predictions.”
“Swaying, seeing, and . . . dire predictions?”
“Tara, not Mrs. Baggot. And they’re not always dire,” Katy admitted. “It was the gold and the green tablecloths that brought us here, after all. It might have been misleading, but to be sure, there was nothing dire about it.”
“The gold and green what?” In the middle of Matthews Street, he stepped in front of her. It was either halt or plow into him. Katy halted. A motor car chugged past on the left, another ice wagon on the right. Caught up momentarily in the spell of blue eyes and bay rum and a mouth that was ever so slightly tilted to the left, she hardly even noticed the traffic.
“Green and gold—?” she repeated dazedly. “Oh. You mean the tablecloths. Well, there’s your green—your gambling tables. As for the gold, I suppose it’s the money that changes hands, though it’s more silver and paper than gold, which is still better than copper.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “Katy, Katy. I’m beginning to wonder which one of us is halfway round the bend.”
Katy didn’t know which bend he was talking about, but she did know she was late and getting later by the moment. “There, now, you’ve done your duty, you can go back now.”
Duty was the last thing on Galen’s mind. With all he had to do today, he had no time to waste playing games, but she was irresistible, damned if she wasn’t. He’d always liked puzzles. Crossword. Jigsaw. Chinese.
Katy was a puzzle, all right. All pluck and backbone, dressed like a refugee from the missionary barrel, thinking she was going to set herself up in the fashion business.
She just might do it, too. Might surprise them all. He was coming to believe there was more to Miss Katy O’Sullivan than met the eye, and what met the eye was impressive enough.
“Go back, Galen. Truly, I appreciate what you’re doing, trying to make me feel safe and all, but I don’t need you.”
Safety hadn’t even entered his mind. This was downtown Elizabeth City on a weekday morning, not Saturday night on the waterfront with its sundry assortment of drunks, thieves, and gamblers. “Are you sure?”
He wanted her to need him. Which meant he’d lost his wits. Brain fever. It had to be that, there was no other explanation. “As it happens, I’m going this way.”
It was no lie. He’d been on his way to a breakfast meeting with a couple of businessmen, but then he’d seen Katy barreling up the stairs as if her skirttail were on fire, and the meeting had gone clean out of his mind.
“You are? Well, that’s just lovely, then.” She tucked her hand inside his arm and they set out again, with her purse swatting him in the thigh with every step, the scent of bacon wafting up from the bundle in her other hand.
And then the courthouse clock struck the half hour, and she gasped. “Oh, saints preserve us, I’m late!” Before he could stop her, she grabbed her hat and was off and running down the street.
Galen stared after her, slowly shaking his head. What a mess she was. Of all the women in the world, why did it have to to be this one? Why, he mused, watching her flying down the sidewalk in her shabby dress and Ermaline’s too-big shoes, did he find everything about her so completely fascinating?
*
Before letting herself out the back door that evening—the staff was not allowed to use the front door—Katy sought out Mrs. Baggot to be sure there was nothing more that needed doing before she left.
“Come in half an hour early tomorrow to make up for today. I’ll not dock your pay this time, but see that it doesn’t happen again.”
Thus the day ended as it had begun when she’d walked in thirty-two minutes late that morning. Mrs. Baggot, arms crossed over her black silk bosom, had looked her over from head to foot, making her miserably conscious of every single flaw in her appearance, right down to the patches on her stockings.
“Where’s the girl? I don’t tolerate tardiness.”
“Tara? As you’re not paying her, I thought you’d be pleased not to have her underfoot.”
“I said I wouldn’t pay her in coin, but out of the kindness of my heart, I’d allow her to stay, seeing as you’re both new to town and you’ve nowhere else to leave her. No law says she can’t make herself useful, is there? And don’t think I didn’t see that skirt she ruined yesterday, either, missy. I go through every speck of trash before it’s carted off to be sure nothing gets thrown out that shouldn’t be thrown out. You’d be surprised what some folks will try to sneak past me.”
Katy fought her temper to a standstill, something she’d been forced to do all her life. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry about that. Tara’s never used an electric iron before.”
After that, it had been one small thing after another. Most of it she’d been able to ignore. Despite the fact that there was little traffic, as most of her best customers were still at the seashore, Mrs. Baggot found more than enough to keep her entire workforce busy all day. The seamstresses stitched “ready-mades,” their gleaming black machines clattering noisily, but not noisily enough to drown out the clatter of their tongues.
Katy had been forced to listen to speculations as to who she was, where she’d come from, what she had to do with Captain McKnight, and whether the little girl she’d brought with her yesterday was actually her sister, as she’d claimed, or her illegitimate daughter, in which case, who could the father be?
Has to be that gambling cap’n off ’n the boat. Show me a man who wears high-heeled boots and a rosebud in his lapel who ain’t a devil with women.
A man who wears only boots and a rosebud? Saints preserve us.
Lips pinched from a lifetime of holding pins and dipping snuff, the speaker cast a glance at Katy to be sure she’d overheard. She’d heard, all right, just as she was meant to hear. Not that she understood half of what she heard, but only a fool could fail to recognize the malice behind the words.
What had she ever done to these women to make them want to hurt her feelings?
Off and on throughout the day, as she basted seams and pinned and pressed hems, Katy allowed her imagination full play. For years that imagination was all that had kept her from losing heart. Cutting turf for peat, sorting fish, her hands chapped and raw from stickers, she would go off somewhere in her mind, and there they’d all be, strolling the streets of some fine city, window shopping, stopping for tea, going to concerts all dressed up in fine clothes, with everyone wondering who the handsome couple with the two lovely daughters might be.
Over the years that image had slowly faded. Now, in its place, came the image of a Galen McKnight dressed only in boots and a rosebud. It was wicked of her, she knew, but then, where was the harm?
And imagining Galen in the altogether was a temptation she didn’t even try to resist. Parts of his body were a bit unclear, for her imagination would stretch only so far. Even so, it was enough to bring a flush to her cheeks, which she tried to pretend was due to the heat of the iron she was using.
Across the room, one of the machines grew still as a bobbin was changed. “Skinny as a rail,” Katy heard one of the woman mutter. “And them clothes of hers, did you ever see the like? Wouldn’t think a man’d like to bed a bundle o’ bones.”
“Them glasses don’t help none, either. Reckon she wears ‘em to bed?”
“Law, don’t reck’n she’d need to, not if she’s sleepin’ with that gambling man. He’ll show her where everything’s at and where to put it, if I know men.”
“How many men’ve you ever known, Sudie Ann?” All three women cackled.
“More’n you have,” the one called Sudie Ann said over the sound of treadles picking up speed.
“But not as many as she has, from the looks of her.”
From the i
roning board on the other side of the workroom, Katy heard every word, as she was plainly intended to do. In spite of telling herself she didn’t care, that these women meant nothing to her, it hurt.
She told herself they were only jealous, but didn’t believe it. What reason would anyone have to be jealous of her? She was practically penniless, over her head in debt, with a child depending on her, her only security what she could earn with her own two hands.
Closing the back door behind her that evening, Katy made a silent vow. She would do what she was told, hold her tongue, collect her pay and work harder than ever. To fix her dream more firmly in her mind, because there were times when it was in danger of slipping away, she walked around to the front and stared at the display in Mrs. Baggot’s show window.
Navy blue. She would do her first window in navy blue, with white gloves and a tiny chip straw in matching blue. Quiet good taste, that would be her hallmark. The wrong Mr. McKnight’s wife had worn a navy silk gown. Even now, as tired and frightened and confused as she’d been at the time, Katy could remember every detail—the way the skirt had fit around the hips, then flared off behind into soft folds. The sleeves full at the shoulder, fitted on the arms, with covered buttons and . . .
“Katy? Are you ready to go home?”
Spinning around, she let out a yelp and clapped a hand to her bosom.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You never do, do you?”
“It’s hardly my fault you’re so spooky.”
“I’m not spooky, as you call it, what I am is . . .” She was going to say startled, but instead, her shoulders sagged. It was all she could do not to admit to being tired and discouraged and worried about the future.
“Come along, my dear, ride home with me.”
“Never say your meeting is just now finished.”
He never said, and so she let him lead her to the buggy he kept in a livery stable, let him help her up onto the high seat, all without speaking a word. He twitched the reins, and the neat little mare set off at a walk, her hooves punctuating the still evening air.
The remnants of a gold-and-purple sunset cast its splendor over the town, lending a momentary dignity to the drabbest warehouse. The plaintive wail of a locomotive broke the stillness. Already she was getting so used to the sound she hardly even heard it.
“Thank you,” she said belatedly.
“You’re welcome.”
Feeling his gaze, she tried to sit up straighter. She’d been given more to do today than yesterday, and yesterday had been bad enough. If tomorrow was worse, she might not be able to keep up.
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“Biscuits and bacon. Willy gave me a bundle this morning.”
Without another word he turned the buggy around and headed back toward Main Street. Katy wondered if he had suddenly remembered an errand. She did wish he hadn’t mentioned food. Now she was starved. All in the world she wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep for a solid week, but first she had to make sure Tara was all right, and then she had to eat, and then she really should see about finding another room. She hated staying where she wasn’t welcome.
A few minutes later Galen pulled up before an impressive brick building, tossed the reins to a curb boy, and handed her down to the sidewalk. “When’s the last time you enjoyed a thick steak?”
He waited expectantly. If all she’d had was a couple of biscuits, it was no wonder she was looking so limp. He had a feeling Inez Baggot milked every penny’s worth from her employees. Ila had worked for her briefly, before she’d left and gone to work for Aster.
“Katy? They serve the finest beef this side of Chicago here. I make it a habit to dine here at least once a week.”
His smile slowly faded. He’d expected a bit of gratitude, at the very least. Was that too much to ask? Simple gratitude? It wasn’t as if he had nothing better to do. Even before he’d left, the crowd promised to be a good one. There’d been trouble last night but no one had gotten hurt.
Dammit, he didn’t have time for this.
“Dinner, that’s all I’m suggesting, Katy. Nothing more than a steak and maybe a bit of dessert. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
It was a hotel, but it wasn’t that kind of a hotel. Surely she didn’t think—
He watched her square her shoulders, stiffen her back, and lift her chin. He was coming to recognize the signs. “You want me to hold your high horse while you climb aboard?”
He was reduced to sarcasm, a weapon he usually reserved for a more worthy opponent. “Katy, I’m sorry. You’re tired. I’ll take you home, all right?”
Katy could have whacked him. She could have wept if she’d had the strength, not that it would’ve done a speck of good. “It’s kind of you, to be sure, and you go right ahead and enjoy your bit of beefsteak. I can walk, I meant to all along.”
“That was before I drove you several blocks out of your way.”
Katy knew she should insist—it was never wise to depend on anyone else—but she was simply too tired. She let herself be helped back up onto the black leather seat, resisted the temptation to close her eyes, and wished everything weren’t so complicated. Back home in Skerrie Head, life was simple.
Galen reached over and covered her hands with one of his own. She wanted to turn her hand and curl her fingers with his, but she didn’t dare allow herself even that small comfort. Comfort was too beguiling. A body could come to depend on it all and then, when it was snatched away, what was left?
She had only herself to depend on. Da had said, depend on him, tomorrow’s catch would be better and then he’d repair the roof and buy her a new frock. Only it never was, and he never did, and then he’d died.
“Katy? Why so glum? If you don’t like your job, we’ll find you something else. No law says you have to work there if you’d rather do something else.”
“Don’t be too kind to me, Galen, for I’ve trouble enough sorting things out, as it is. It’s a different kind of work. It takes some getting used to, that’s all, but I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will, my dear.”
And don’t call me your dear, she wanted to say, but had better sense. Calling her that might mean that he cared for her, and she couldn’t allow herself to believe such a thing.
Because you want to believe it so very much.
“Katy, Katy, you’ll never guess what!” Tara came racing down the gangplank to meet her. “There was a fight, and a man got hurt really bad, but he wasn’t one of our friends, and—”
“I’d like a word with you, Miss O’Sullivan, if you please,” said Aster.
Katy watched the woman march down the gangplank, and her heart sank. “Of course. If it’s about our being here,” she said calmly, unconsciously mimicking the way her mother used to speak when she’d had about all a body could take, “then let me assure you that Tara and I won’t be burdening you with our company much longer.”
“Now, Katy,” began Galen.
Aster whirled on him, lips clamped together in a way that made her look years older. “You keep out of this! If it weren’t for you, none of it would have happened!” Turning back, she jabbed a finger toward Katy’s modest bosom. “I want the pair of you off my boat this minute!”
“That will be quite enough, Aster.” Galen didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He held out his arm. Katy placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, compelled by an authority she didn’t even try to understand.
Tara fell in behind them, leaving Aster standing at the foot of the gangplank, gaping like a stranded cod, much to the amusement of the ragtag collection of waterfront regulars.
A few hundred yards away, on the balcony of the Albemarle Belle, Jack Bellfort looked on with great interest.
Chapter Twelve
Katy didn’t want to hear about it. All she wanted to do was take Tara and walk away. And keep on walking until she found a place with no people and no squabbles and no one scolding her and telli
ng her things she didn’t want to hear.
Not surprisingly, she wasn’t about to get her wish. Aster was going on and on, Galen was over by the stairway talking in an undertone to Pierre, and Tara was hanging on to her arm, jabbering at her, her eyes round with excitement. “There was a policeman and he said a lot of bad things, and threatened to shut us down, and—”
“Shut who down?”
“Us. The Queen. He said we were a—Katy, what’s a nikkedy?”
“A . . . what?”
“He said we were a den of nikkedy, and if there was any more skulduggery, he was going to padlock the whole damned shooting match. I didn’t hear any shooting, but—”
“Would someone please get that child out of my sight?” Aster screeched. “She probably started the whole thing!”
“Katy, I didn’t.”
Katy saw her face turn red, her eyes grow damp, and her chin begin to wobble. She stepped between Tara and Aster, as if her presence alone could block out the hateful words.
“Never mind, love, things are different in America,” she said softly, wondering where she could go to get away before anything else happened.
“But, Katy, I didn’t do anything wrong,” Tara wailed. “Won’t you tell her that?”
“I know, I know, sweetheart, it’s all right.” What she knew was that Aster wouldn’t listen to her any more than she listened to anyone else. Except perhaps Galen. She was still railing, something about abusing her good nature and what she refused to put up with.
Galen took her arms and tried to steer her inside. “Lower your voice, Aster, you’ve an audience.”
“I don’t care if the whole damned town hears me, I want them off—my—property!”
“Whose property?”
“Don’t give me that forty-nine, fifty-one percent argument, I want them gone! There, is that plain enough for you?”
It was more than enough for Katy. She had no idea what had started the trouble, nor what had actually happened. She did know that with Tara involved, nothing was ever quite as simple as it appeared. With the best intentions in the world, the child attracted trouble, even back home where everyone knew her and made allowances.
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