by Amanda Cabot
The words rang false.
If Warren had been thirty years younger, he might have jumped with joy, but legs that were more than half a century old did not take kindly to such exuberance. Instead, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and toasted his good fortune.
She was perfect. Not beautiful, but not ugly, either. Not so young that people would gossip, but young enough that she could give him a child of his own. Best of all, she was respectable. Highly respectable, unlike the women who saw to his other needs. No one would look askance if Warren married a hardworking widow with a small child. They’d applaud him for his kindness. They’d see that he was indeed an upright citizen, a man worthy of membership in the Cheyenne Club.
Gwen Amos was perfect.
“You shouldn’t have disappeared with him.”
Miriam took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t disappear. Richard and I remained on the sidewalk in full view of anyone who came outside. And, Mama, I might add that there were many who did.”
Her mother picked up the silver-backed mirror from Miriam’s dressing table and scrutinized her reflection. Apparently pleased that she had not discovered any new wrinkles, she nodded briskly. “What exactly did you talk about?”
“Music. Richard told me that although he enjoyed the Ninth, his favorite piece by Beethoven is the allegretto from the Seventh Symphony.” As Miriam had expected, her mother rolled her eyes. She might as well be speaking Greek for all Mama understood. Perhaps that was why the memory of her conversation with Richard lingered in Miriam’s mind. It was the first time she’d found someone who shared her love of music enough to spend a quarter of an hour discussing the finer points of two melodies.
Barrett would have listened politely if she had told him that the tempo was slightly too slow during the first movement of tonight’s performance, but he wouldn’t have understood. Richard did. Barrett would have agreed if she’d announced that the “Ode to Joy” was a magnificent piece of music, and then he would have changed the subject. Richard was different. He’d asked her why she cared for the Ode, what specific aspect of the music touched her heart.
Richard might not be as handsome as Barrett. He might not be quite as wealthy. He might not be a man her parents would consider a suitable son-in-law because he had no aspirations outside of Wyoming, but he challenged her in ways no other man had. That was the reason—the only reason—she couldn’t stop thinking of him.
“Music!” Mama sniffed. “I suppose that’s perfectly respectable, but make sure it doesn’t happen again. Even though the man is almost old enough to be your father and no one would think you were interested in him, you wouldn’t want people to have the wrong impression, would you?”
“No, Mama.”
Two days later, Charlotte pinned on a hat and slid her hands into gloves. Though she was only going next door and could forgo a cloak, no well-dressed lady would consider leaving her home without a hat and gloves.
“I should be gone only a few minutes,” she told Molly, who was watching Élan in her absence. It was a quiet time in the shop, and Charlotte needed a few items for David. Gwen had chuckled over the fact that Charlotte, whose creations dressed many of Cheyenne’s wealthiest women, bought clothing for her son. A proverbial shoemaker’s child, she had declared. Be that as it may, David had worn holes in his socks, and while Charlotte might be an expert seamstress, darning was not one of her accomplishments. Fortunately for her, Yates’s Dry Goods occupied the northern half of the building that housed Élan. With the James Sisters Millinery just down the block, Charlotte and Mr. Yates had chuckled over the fact that the city’s women could clothe themselves from head to foot, all without crossing a street. Men who wanted custom-tailored suits had a slightly more difficult shopping experience, for the best tailors were more than a block away, but for those less particular customers, Mr. Yates offered ready-made trousers, shirts, and coats.
Charlotte was reaching for the doorknob, preparing to enter Mr. Yates’s establishment, when the door swung open.
“Mr. Landry.” Though it was foolish in the extreme, Charlotte’s heart began to race. The man looked even more handsome dressed in his ordinary clothes than he had at the opera house. She had thought nothing could compare to the sartorial elegance of his evening coat, but the tweed sack coat he wore this morning was at least as attractive. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with the man inside.
“Madame Charlotte.” He doffed his hat in greeting, then wrinkled his nose as he closed the door behind him and moved to her side, positioning himself so that the slight breeze would not chill her. “I suspect it’s very forward of me, but would you object if we dispensed with formality? My friends call me Barrett, and I’d like to count you among them.”
It was a simple request, yet it warmed Charlotte’s heart more than the October sun. “I’d be honored if you called me Charlotte.” She paused before pronouncing the name that then lingered on her tongue. “Barrett.” She had called him that in her mind, but this was the first time she had spoken the word. It felt good and at the same time oddly unsettling to be so familiar with him. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Charlotte gestured toward the package Barrett held in his left hand. “I see your shopping excursion was successful.”
One of the crooked smiles that she found so endearing lit his face. “Promise you won’t tell Mr. Bradley I was here.”
“That’s an easy promise to make, since I have no idea who Mr. Bradley is.”
“He’s my butler. Richard and Warren convinced me that I needed one if I was going to live on Ferguson Street.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I live on Ferguson Street,” she pointed out, “and I don’t have a butler.”
“Touché. I should have said that they convinced me that if I was going to live in an excessively ornate house with enough rooms for a family of ten, I needed a butler. Now I find myself in a predicament, because that very same butler believes that he should be responsible for all of what he calls procurement.” Barrett gave the brown-paper-wrapped package a rueful look.
Charlotte couldn’t help it. She chuckled as she stared at the man who stood so close that she could smell the bay rum on his cheeks. Listening to Miriam’s description of him, Charlotte had believed Barrett to be like Jeffrey. He wasn’t. Jeffrey would never have mocked his station in life, especially if it was such an exalted one. Jeffrey would have found a way to ensure that everyone knew that he lived in a mansion, and Charlotte doubted that he would have done his own procurement, as Barrett called it.
“I have to disagree with you. Your house is not excessively ornate,” she said firmly. “I find it tasteful and remarkably restrained.” Though the three-story brick building boasted four chimneys and an equal number of bay windows, not to mention a turret, nothing about it seemed ostentatious. Compared to some of the other cattle barons’ houses, it could almost be described as modest. “I can’t disagree with one part of your description, though. Your home is large, especially compared to my lodging.” She accompanied the last sentence with a gesture toward the second floor of the building.
“That’s right. I heard you lived above your shop.”
“With Mrs. Amos and her daughter.” Charlotte couldn’t help smiling at the irony. “Four of us live in a fraction of the space you own.”
The instant the words were out of her mouth, Charlotte winced. Perhaps she would be fortunate and Barrett wouldn’t notice that she’d said “four.”
“Four people?” It was not her lucky day. “Who’s there besides you, Mrs. Amos, and her daughter?”
There was no way out of the predicament save the truth. “My son,” she said. Oddly, she felt a sense of relief once she’d made the admission. Barrett Landry was not the baron. She had no reason to fear him.
Barrett frowned, but Charlotte couldn’t tell whether it was because of her words or the cloud that chilled the air and made her shiver. “You’re fortunate to have Mrs. Amos and the children. My h
ouse can be lonely, but I doubt you have that problem.”
“Indeed, I don’t. David sees to that.”
“David’s your son?”
“Yes. He’s a very special boy.”
Barrett appeared intrigued, and for a second Charlotte expected him to ask her why her son was special. Instead, he said only, “Perhaps I can meet him someday.”
“Perhaps.” It was the polite response, even if it would never happen. Though she had made a major step forward by admitting David’s existence to this man, she was not ready to expose her son to potential scorn. Barrett appeared to be kind, but there was no way of knowing how he would react if he learned that David was blind. As a cool breeze swept down the street, Charlotte shivered again. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to buy a few items before I turn into an icicle.” And I want to end this discussion of my son.
Seconds later, she was inside the store. A quick glance told her there were no other customers, and so she walked briskly toward the back counter, where the proprietor greeted her with a broad smile.
“I saw you talking to Mr. Landry.” No more than medium height, Mr. Yates looked smaller than that because of his thin frame and stooped shoulders. Weary was the adjective Charlotte normally applied to him, and yet this afternoon his gray eyes sparkled with what appeared to be amusement. “Landry’s a good man. He bought shirts from me when he first came to Wyoming, and he still comes here, even though he could shop anywhere. A good man,” Mr. Yates repeated, almost as if he realized that Charlotte needed the assurance. “Now, what can I get for you?”
“David needs new socks. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to knit.”
Shaking his head, the man who seemed older than the sixty-five years he acknowledged reached for a box of children’s socks. “Prudence used to say that knitting relaxed her, but I don’t imagine you have time to relax.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right.” She’d been busy before, but now that she was remaking Miriam’s old gowns for Mrs. Kendall’s boarders, Charlotte had even less time. Perhaps it was foolish, not telling Gwen what she was doing, but Charlotte knew that Élan’s cachet would be compromised if anyone learned she was providing gowns to the city’s less fortunate. While Gwen would never intentionally tell anyone, she might let something slip. And so Charlotte sewed in her room late at night, knowing that the light would not disturb David.
“I’m not complaining,” she told Mr. Yates. “Business is good, and needing socks gives me an excuse to visit you.” Charlotte took her time, choosing two pair each of brown and black stockings, darting occasional glances at the proprietor. It was as she had feared. Though Mr. Yates had appeared chipper when she’d entered the store, his demeanor changed when he didn’t realize she was watching him. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look a bit glum.”
His eyes clouded as he nodded slowly. “Nothing’s the same without Prudence.” His wife of more than forty years had died six months before Charlotte arrived in Cheyenne, and Gwen, who had known the elderly man for the half dozen years she had been in Wyoming, claimed that the difference in the man’s attitude had been dramatic. “It’s like he lost his zest for living,” Gwen had said. “Poor man.” That was one of the reasons the two women insisted that Mr. Yates join them for Sunday dinner a couple times each month. Even though David’s and Rose’s antics tired him, Charlotte knew he enjoyed both Gwen’s cooking and their company.
“Some days I don’t even want to get out of bed,” Mr. Yates admitted. “My sister down in Arizona keeps telling me I should move there. She says the weather would be kinder to these old bones.” He frowned as he calculated the cost of Charlotte’s purchase. When she’d handed him the few coins, he said, “The trouble is the store. I don’t want to sell it to just anyone, not when Prudence and I worked so hard to turn it into a success. I want someone who’ll do right by the customers.” Mr. Yates paused for a moment, his expression lightening. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking over, would you?”
“I wish I could.” Charlotte’s heart went out to Mr. Yates and his dilemma. He had once told her and Gwen that since he and Prudence had had no children, the store was their only legacy, and they had hoped it would continue, even when they were both gone. “I don’t know anything about running a store like this,” she said, wishing she had another answer for her neighbor. “It’s much different from Élan.” And then there was the money. She had none to spare.
The gleam in the shopkeeper’s eyes faded. “I figured you’d say that.” As his lips tightened, he nodded slowly. “It’ll be all right. I’ll figure something out.”
Charlotte wished she were as confident.
5
Charlotte retrieved a hat pin. Though the plain black bonnet with the heavy veil that would hide her face fit well, she would take no chance of the wind dislodging it. Once her arms were filled with packages, she would be unable to clasp the hat if it started to shift. Fortunately, this early in the morning, the wind had diminished. Even more importantly, David and Gwen were still asleep, and there would be few people on the streets. Few if any would see her, and anyone who did would not realize that it was Madame Charlotte who was approaching the boardinghouse. That was why she had chosen 5:30 as the time to make her delivery. Gwen had mentioned that Mrs. Kendall started breakfast preparations at that time but that none of her boarders entered the kitchen until close to an hour later. If Charlotte hurried, she’d be gone less than half an hour, and neither David nor Gwen would know that she’d left. But, just in case David wakened, Charlotte had left a note in her room, telling Gwen she’d be back soon.
Tiptoeing, she made her way to the door, closing it as quietly as she could. Moments later, she’d descended the stairs and was headed south on Ferguson. Mrs. Kendall’s boardinghouse was less than three blocks away, and yet as Charlotte turned onto 15th Street, she felt as if she’d entered a different city. There were no fancy houses or shops like Élan here. Instead, the ramshackle buildings were testaments to despair and deprivation. It was no wonder Gwen had been anxious to escape.
Charlotte scanned the street, looking for the drunkards Gwen had claimed were all too often present. The Lord must have been watching over her, for Charlotte saw no one. She increased her pace, walking as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. While the widow’s weeds that she’d chosen as her disguise had a fuller skirt than was currently fashionable, they would not accommodate running.
There were no streetlamps here, perhaps because the city fathers had no desire to encourage the establishments that lined this block, but Charlotte saw the light of a kerosene lantern in the back room of the second house. It was just as Gwen had described it.
Though she shivered from a combination of cold and apprehension, Charlotte knocked firmly on the kitchen door. Seconds later, an almost skeletally thin woman opened the door a crack.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Even in this part of town, it was unusual for a woman to be out so early.
Mrs. Kendall looked to be a year or two shy of forty, an inch or two shorter than Charlotte’s five and a half feet, her hair a shade or two lighter brown than Gwen’s. Though the voluminous apron covered most of her dress, Charlotte’s trained eye recognized the style as one that had been popular almost a decade ago, and the faded line along the hem left no doubt that it had been turned more than once. It wasn’t only the boarders who needed clothing. None of the frocks she had brought with her would fit Mrs. Kendall, but Charlotte resolved that when she returned, she would have a new dress for the woman who had been so kind to Gwen.
As Mrs. Kendall’s eyes narrowed, Charlotte held out the packages. “I brought some clothes for your boarders.”
The woman blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting nobody and no clothes.” She gave Charlotte an appraising glance before nodding. “You might as well come on in.”
Charlotte found herself in a kitchen so cramped that she wondered how Mrs. Kendall managed to cook for more than a dozen women. The stove
was smaller than average, with only three burners. No wonder she wakened early. Even a juggler would have trouble preparing eggs, sausage, potatoes, and coffee here.
Mindful of the ticking clock and the need to return before David stirred, Charlotte unwrapped the dresses, spreading them on the large table that occupied most of the room. “I didn’t know what sizes you might need, but I hope these will fit some of your boarders.” When she’d altered Miriam’s gowns, Charlotte had shortened one and let out the seams in another, guessing that the boarders were not all as thin as Miriam.
Mrs. Kendall stared at the four frocks that covered her table. Gingerly, she fingered the fabric, her eyes brightening when she touched the smooth poplin.
“They’re beautiful, ma’am, but I can’t pay what they’re worth. I ain’t got much money, and neither do my gals.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t want any money. They’re a gift.”
Mrs. Kendall stroked the poplin almost reverently. “A gift? For us?”
Charlotte nodded.
Still dubious, Mrs. Kendall lifted her eyebrows. “No strings attached?”
“None. And if you tell me what other sizes you could use, I’ll bring more.”
The older woman swallowed deeply, as if she were trying to control her emotions. “I’m much obliged, ma’am. Some of my gals ain’t got decent clothes. They’ll be mighty pleased to get these.” She looked at Charlotte, her curiosity apparent. “Who are you?”
“Just a widow who wants to help.”
Barrett strode back and forth in front of the depot, listening for the humming of the rails that would announce the incoming train. When he’d lived in Pennsylvania, black smoke had been the first sign, but Wyoming’s prevailing westerly winds meant that trains from the East had no visual harbingers. He pulled out his watch, checking it for what seemed like the hundredth time. As he did, Barrett let out a short laugh. If his watch was correct, the train wasn’t due for another ten minutes. It was only his own eagerness to see Harrison that had brought him here so early. Harrison would laugh at the notion that his youngest brother, the same one who’d once described him as the scourge of the earth, all because he’d refused to share his slingshot, was excited about his visit.
