by Amanda Cabot
Slowly, she nodded.
His mother used to say that envy was a sin. Warren Duncan tugged off his boot, placing it carefully next to its mate. No matter how annoyed he might be—and he was mighty annoyed—there was no reason to damage good shoe leather by not caring for it properly. That would be foolish, and he was not a foolish man. Far from it. But he was an envious one.
Warren did not doubt that envy was a sin and that his mother would have been displeased if she’d lived long enough to know of it. He reached for the blacking and began to polish his boots. Ma would turn over in her grave if she knew that he’d been guilty of other, far more serious, sins. Those Ten Commandments she was so fond of spouting also said, “Thou shalt not steal” and “Thou shalt not kill.” But words, whether written on the pages of Ma’s Bible or carved on stone tablets, hadn’t stopped him from relieving more than one person of his valuables. They hadn’t stopped him from slitting his partner’s throat, and they most definitely were not doing anything to lessen his envy.
He wanted what Barrett Landry had: more money than any one man needed, a position within Cheyenne society, a future in the nation’s capital, and soon a wife. Barrett had it all. It seemed as if the man hardly lifted a finger and everything fell into place. That was what Warren envied most of all: the ease with which Barrett had transformed himself from a former shopkeeper into one of Wyoming’s leading cattle barons.
It hadn’t been that way for Warren. He’d had to struggle for everything after the doctor and the sheriff had shunted his ma off to the asylum. They’d claimed she was having delusions, just because she’d raced down Main Street in her nightgown, shouting that her husband had risen from his grave and was chasing her with a meat cleaver. It was that quack of a doctor who was crazy. Sure, Ma had spells. Everyone did, only some folks hid it better than others.
Warren frowned at the memory of the simpleton who called himself a doc saying Warren would grow up to be like his ma. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d proven him wrong. He’d managed to finish law school, albeit at the bottom of his class. The sheepskin they handed him was supposed to be his golden ticket. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned out that way. Oh, he’d found a position with a law firm, but the partners hadn’t seen his potential and had refused to promote him. Instead, he’d been stuck drafting memoranda for the senior members of the firm, never getting credit for his work. All that on a salary that barely put a roof over his head and food in his mouth. He deserved more, much more. That’s why he’d headed West.
Warren studied the first boot, ensuring that he had blackened each inch before beginning to buff it. Though he hadn’t been in the military, his boots outshone those of the officers who entrusted their legal affairs to him. That was one good thing about Cheyenne. There was no shortage of men who needed him. He had a good-sized clientele, and he no longer worried about paying rent. Perhaps he ought to be satisfied, but Warren had never been one to be easily satisfied. Ma had told him to dream big, and he had. The problem was, those dreams hadn’t come true . . . yet.
He was fifty-one years old, and he still didn’t have what he deserved. He lived in two rented rooms, not an opulent home on Ferguson Street; he had no wife; and the only time he entered the hallowed halls of the Cheyenne Club was as someone’s guest. His membership application had been rejected. The sour-faced man who’d delivered the verdict had told Warren he wasn’t the caliber of man to be admitted to the club. Absurd! He was as good as Barrett and the other members.
Warren laid his carefully polished boots on the floor and strode to the window, considering the excuses the membership committee might have invented to deny his application. Eddy Street wasn’t as prestigious as Ferguson, where Barrett had his mansion. It couldn’t compare to the blocks of 17th Street where F.E. Warren lived and where other cattle barons were planning to build their homes, but it wasn’t a seedy area either. Come spring, the lilacs that his neighbors had planted would be blooming. For a few weeks, they’d brighten the yards, and if he opened his windows, they would bring in a pleasing scent. It seemed that wasn’t enough. All right. He’d build himself a house. A big house that would impress the committee. But what if even that didn’t satisfy them? What else could he do?
He glanced down at the street, his eyes narrowing when he saw a young couple strolling along the opposite side. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe it wasn’t only Barrett who needed a wife. If a wife could convince voters to support Barrett, surely one could convince the old men on the membership committee that Warren should be admitted to the club.
Warren grinned, imagining the day when he would enter the hallowed building on 17th Street as a full-fledged member. A house and a wife. He could do that. He would do that. Come spring, Warren Duncan would have a new house and would take a wife, and directly on the heels of those accomplishments, he would be admitted to the Cheyenne Club.
All it required was money. Lots of money. Fortunately, it was there, waiting for him. The money Big Nose had hidden, the money Jeffrey Crowley had found, would be his. Soon.
3
Do you believe that sewing fancy gowns for wealthy women is making the world a better place?” It had been a week since Barrett Landry had spoken those words, and they still reverberated through Charlotte’s brain.
She frowned as her feet pumped the treadle while her hands guided the fabric under the presser foot. Elias Howe’s invention had dramatically reduced the time required to sew a gown, making short work of the seams and leaving Charlotte more time to add the fancy touches her customers craved, including the double box pleated hems that had become one of her trademarks. The sewing machine also gave her time to think. Some days that was good. Today it was not, for Mr. Landry’s words haunted her.
He was right. Charlotte had known that at the time. Ever since David’s birth, she had thought of little other than making a living for them and keeping him safe. That wasn’t enough. For much of her life, she’d been coddled, protected by well-meaning parents and even her younger sister Abigail because of the lingering effects of her childhood bout of pneumonia. Though Charlotte hadn’t told Jeffrey that the doctor had predicted her lungs would always be weak, he’d insisted on treating her like one of the fragile porcelain cups he’d given her. But Jeffrey and her parents were dead, and Abigail was more than a thousand miles away. For the past year, Charlotte had relied on herself, and in doing so, she’d discovered that she was stronger than she’d realized. Equally important, her lungs appeared to be fully healed, perhaps the result of Wyoming’s dry air. The fact that her lungs seemed to be improving was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to move back East after Jeffrey’s death. That and the fact that she had fallen in love with the territory’s rugged beauty.
She was a healthy, able-bodied woman, capable of doing more than dressing Cheyenne’s most fortunate women. It was time to help others. The question was, what could she do? While it was true that she had once been a teacher and that teachers could indeed make a positive difference in others’ lives, Charlotte knew she was not as gifted as Abigail. There had to be something else she could do.
She snipped the thread, then inspected the seam she had just sewn. Perfect. All that remained were the hem and the yards of lace that would turn a seemingly ordinary matinée, as the French were calling long fitted bodices this season, into one that would be the envy of Miriam’s friends.
Miriam would be pleased, and so would Charlotte, for at least two or three of Miriam’s acquaintances would ask Charlotte to sew similar garments for them. Those sales would help pay for groceries and Gwen’s salary.
The gowns Charlotte made pleased Cheyenne’s wealthy women. They enhanced their beauty and camouflaged less than perfect bodies, making each woman feel special. That was what Charlotte had intended when she’d called her shop Élan. She wanted her store to generate enthusiasm, and so she had chosen the French word for high spirits as its name.
She rose and hung the partially completed garment on a padded hanger. Gathering the remnant
s, Charlotte smiled when she realized there was enough left to make a dress for Rose. Gwen would be delighted, for she was determined that her daughter would never wear tattered clothing. Even though Gwen herself had been clothed in little more than rags, sporting a shabby, ill-fitting frock with patched elbows and a frayed hem the day Charlotte met her, Rose had worn a relatively new dress. Sensing that Gwen was not one to indulge herself, three days later Charlotte had presented her with a new dress. The change had been little less than a transformation. Clad in a garment that flattered her, Gwen had gained confidence, and her demeanor had altered. She stood a bit taller, and her smile, which had been tentative the day Charlotte had met her, was broader, more assured. She even laughed out loud, causing both Rose and David to chuckle.
Of course. That was the answer to Mr. Landry’s question. Charlotte didn’t have to confine herself to clothing Cheyenne’s wealthiest women. She could make dresses for the women who still lived in Mrs. Kendall’s boardinghouse. As happiness bubbled up inside her, Charlotte began to sing. Gwen had told her of the poverty that had driven her and a dozen other women to take refuge in the rickety building on 15th Street. “Everyone wants to escape,” Gwen had said, explaining that Mrs. Kendall’s kindness and her excellent cooking were often overshadowed by the fear that the men who frequented the brothel next door would accost them. “We all wanted to get away, but I’m the only one who has.”
Charlotte couldn’t hire them all. She couldn’t give them enough money to live in a safer area. But she could—and she would—provide them with respectable clothing. She’d have to order new fabric, for Élan was currently filled with silks, satins, and velvets in anticipation of holiday parties, and those were not suitable for Mrs. Kendall’s boarders—but within a few weeks, Charlotte would be able to begin.
She was still singing when she heard the front doorbell tinkle.
“Charlotte! Are you there?”
Surprised that Miriam had arrived a day early for her appointment, Charlotte hurried to the front of the store. “I don’t have your gown ready for a fitting, but . . .” Charlotte stopped abruptly, shocked by the sight of Miriam carrying four dresses. There was no doubt about it. They were the first four frocks Charlotte had made for her less than a year ago.
“Is something wrong?”
Miriam wrinkled her nose. “No. Yes.” She sighed as she laid the dresses on the counter. “Mama wanted to burn these. She insisted that I can’t wear them again because they’re last season’s style, and she won’t let me give them to the servants. It wouldn’t be seemly, she says.”
Charlotte could imagine Amelia Taggert pronouncing those very words. Miriam’s mother had spent a year in England and had come home convinced that if she followed every rule of etiquette, she would be regarded with the same esteem as the British aristocracy. Far less pretentious, Miriam chafed at her mother’s restrictions at the same time that she tried to be a loving and obedient daughter.
“I don’t want them destroyed.” Miriam fingered the brown calico that had been her favorite everyday dress. “Can you do something with them?”
Charlotte grinned. “Indeed, I can.” It would take only a few hours to convert Miriam’s elegant frocks into dresses better suited for the women at Mrs. Kendall’s boardinghouse. Even before the new shipment of fabric arrived, Charlotte could provide a few dresses. “Your timing is perfect.”
“This is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever had.” Gwen turned slowly in front of the long mirror, admiring her reflection. Though normally they would have dressed in their apartment, tonight Charlotte insisted that they use the shop’s dressing room, largely because she wanted Gwen to have the experience of being a customer of Élan. The woman who did so much for her had admitted that she’d never been able to afford fancy evening clothes. Tonight was different. Even if they weren’t seated in one of the elegant boxes, Gwen would be as well-dressed as any woman at the opera house.
Her blue eyes sparkling with pleasure and perhaps a bit of astonishment, Gwen ran her hands over her hips. “This style makes me look almost thin.”
That had been the plan. Charlotte nodded as she fastened the last of the thirty-four buttons that closed the back of the dress. “Simple lines are slimming.” When she had designed Gwen’s gown, Charlotte had forgone the intricately draped overskirt and pronounced bustle that were popular, instead choosing vertical panels to give Gwen the illusion of more height and less width. Even the choice of midnight blue silk had been deliberate. Not only did the color flatter Gwen’s blue eyes, but the dark color made her appear pounds lighter.
“You have beautiful shoulders,” she told Gwen. “The gown draws attention to them.” And to the strand of pearls her husband had given her. When Gwen had told Charlotte how long Mike had saved to buy her only piece of jewelry besides her wedding ring, she had decided to give the gown a low scooped neckline that would highlight Gwen’s creamy skin and her necklace.
Gwen’s expression turned wistful as she fingered the pearls. “I wish Mike was here to see me. I miss him so much. I miss being married.” She blinked back tears before forcing a smile. “You understand.”
Charlotte nodded, because she knew it was what Gwen expected. The truth was, she didn’t miss being married. Marriage hadn’t turned out the way she had expected. As a child and then a young woman, Charlotte had dreamt of falling in love with Prince Charming. In her dreams, they married and lived happily ever after. Reality had been far different. She had been wed less than a year and a half, and Jeffrey had spent so little of that time with her that, were it not for David, she could almost believe her marriage had been a dream. But David existed. He and the fear that the baron would find them were the legacies of Charlotte’s marriage.
“Let me arrange your train.” Gwen’s habitual smile was back in place as she turned her attention to Charlotte’s gown. Made of apricot silk, it was similar in design to Gwen’s but had a higher neckline and an apron-style panel of darker silk that dipped gracefully below Charlotte’s waist and draped around her hips, flowing into an elaborate bustle and short train. Had she been making the gown for a ball, Charlotte would have lengthened the train so that it trailed behind her, but since they would spend most of the evening seated, she had left it the same length as the gown itself, barely clearing the floor.
“It’s not that I’m anxious to leave you and David,” Gwen said as she straightened the fall of silk. “I hate the thought of leaving you alone if I remarry, but I want Rose to have a father.” She looked over Charlotte’s shoulder, meeting her gaze in the looking glass. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if both of us found husbands?”
“I’m not ready.” I’m not sure I ever will be, she added silently. “It would take a special man to accept David.” And even if he did, Charlotte wasn’t certain she could trust her judgment. She had believed Jeffrey was the man God intended for her, and oh, how wrong she’d been. Jeffrey had showered her with material possessions, but he had not given her what she craved: true love.
Gwen shook her head. “That special man is out there. I know he is. And if he’s in Cheyenne tonight, he won’t be able to take his eyes off you. Apricot is the perfect color for you.”
“I wanted us both to be walking advertisements for Élan. That’s why I made our gowns out of colors that complement each other.” Charlotte wouldn’t tell Gwen there was another reason she’d chosen the apricot for herself. Though she knew he’d be at the opera house tonight, she doubted Barrett Landry would notice her. But if he did, she wanted him to see that he was right about the color flattering her. And if that wasn’t a silly reason to use the most expensive piece of silk in the store for herself, she didn’t know what was.
Half an hour later, Charlotte marveled as the carriage she’d hired approached the opera house. She’d seen the building at least a dozen times when she’d strolled through her adopted city, but that had been during daylight. Now that the sun had set, everything looked different. Lights blazed from the arched windows. Though the mans
ard roof was shadowed, the windows in the two dormers and the fancy round one that some called an oeil-de-boeuf or cow’s eye window gleamed, leaving no doubt that this was one of Cheyenne’s most impressive buildings.
“Oh, look,” Gwen whispered as they joined the crowd that filed through the front door, then up the grand staircase to the second floor lobby. “The chandelier is even more beautiful than I’d heard. Do you suppose there really are fifty-two lights?”
Charlotte didn’t need to count the bulbs. Whether it had fifty-two or some other number, the chandelier was magnificent, providing decoration as well as illumination. Miriam had told her that until the city was electrified, the chandelier was rarely lit because of the unpleasant smell from the oil, but now it was one of the most admired parts of Cheyenne. Like the building itself, the chandelier was designed to impress, and it succeeded. As discreetly as she could, Charlotte looked up, wanting to see the skylights that were almost as famous as the lighting fixture. During the day, light spilled through them, but now though the glass expanses were dark, a close to full moon cast its glow on the symphonygoers, and a few stars twinkled, giving the opera house an almost magical aura.
“I can’t believe we’re here.” Gwen’s voice cracked with emotion as they reached their seats. “Look at those boxes.” She gestured toward one of the four private boxes whose red velvet swags announced that they would be occupied by the city’s elite. “It’s a different world.”
Charlotte nodded, trying not to frown. Gwen’s innocent words had resurrected a host of painful memories. This was the world Jeffrey had wanted to enter. Places like this were the reason he had taken the risks he had, and ultimately, they were the reason Charlotte was a widow. Forcing herself to smile, she murmured something innocuous, then smiled with genuine pleasure when the lights dimmed and the music began. Within seconds, the glorious strains of Beethoven’s epic symphony transported Charlotte to another world, a world where memories of Jeffrey’s foolishness and worries about a man called the baron did not exist.
