Many of the pioneers came prepared, bringing with them all the implements needed to start life anew on the vast desolate plains, but others did not. By 1880, the newspapers were filled with tragic stories of starving, needy refugees. Black churches and aid societies did what they could by sending food, clothing, and money, as did sympathetic societies in England.
Closer to home, the great Chicago meatpacking king Philip D. Armour pitched in by soliciting donations from his wealthy friends and sending beef from his own plants to help feed those in need. Now, five years later, the Exodus had reduced to a trickle. Some colonies had prospered and many had died, but the face of the country had been changed forever as a result of the determination of men like Price and his friends—and the determination of the women soon to be their brides.
At the bank a week later, Grace sat at her desk going over the list of supplies she’d need for the journey when a knock on her office door made her look up. “Come in.”
Lionel Rowe, the bank’s head clerk, entered. During enslavement, Lionel had been head butler to one of the oldest families in Virginia. He continued to carry that formal air to this day. Today he was as impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit and snow-white shirt. As the aunts liked to point out, the short brown-skinned man was still quite handsome, in spite of his having celebrated his sixtieth birthday last October. “There’s a man from the sheriff’s office here to see you.”
A confused Grace asked, “What on earth for?”
“He says it has to do with that man Emerson you hired to lead your wagon train.”
She was speechless for a moment as she tried to figure out how her newly hired guide and the sheriff’s office could be connected, but since she had no answers she said simply, “Have him come in.”
Twenty minutes later, Grace was seated at her desk with her head in her hands, wondering, What now? It seemed Mr. Emerson had gotten himself killed in a knife fight at a tavern on the city’s south side two nights ago. According to the man from the sheriff’s office, two drunks began brawling over a prostitute’s favors and when Emerson tried to stop the fight he’d been stabbed. The authorities found Grace’s calling card in his pocket and had come to ask about next of kin, but she’d known Emerson less than a week and could offer up no helpful information.
The news had solved the mystery as to why Emerson hadn’t shown up for the meeting they’d had scheduled for yesterday. It also threw her plans for the wagon train into flux. Where in the world would she find a replacement? Finding him had been a hard enough task. When she first began her search for a guide, she’d talked to everyone she knew and posted broadsides in various sections of the city. Once word got around that the man hired would be paid a substantial amount of gold in exchange for his services, candidates descended upon the bank like a hard three-day rain.
Most had no experience whatsoever and seemed interested only in the gold. The few who were qualified laughed out loud when she told them it would be an all-woman expedition; they seemed to think women were incapable of mastering the skills necessary to complete the journey successfully, and wanted nothing to do with the trip. Only Mr. Emerson seemed to find the task a worthwhile challenge. Granted, he had the twinkle of mischief in his eye and Grace sensed he’d end up being a handful, but he’d been the only candidate, so he’d gotten the job. And now?
She got up and walked to her window. Now that winter seemed gone for good, the trees were sporting fat brown buds and the grass was starting to green, but Grace’s thoughts weren’t on the annual renewal brought about by spring. She was too busy trying to find a solution to the problems the wagon train faced as a result of Mr. Emerson’s untimely visit to that south side tavern.
That evening at home, Grace told the aunts the sad news. Although they were sympathetic, they had no solution.
The next day, Lionel Rowe came into her office un-announced and softly closed the door behind him. “There’s a man named Peterson out here to see you. I suggest you pretend to be busy so that I can send him away.”
A bit taken aback by Lionel’s unconventional entrance, Grace, seated behind her desk, asked curiously, “Why?”
“Because he’s inebriated.”
Grace stared. “Drunk?”
“Very.”
Her disappointment showed in her tone. “He’s the man Mrs. Ricks thought might make a suitable replacement guide for the trip to Kansas City.”
“Virginia Ricks should stick to her mops. The only ‘guiding’ this man is qualified to do is guiding a tankard to his lips. Shall I show him the door?”
“No, send him in. Mrs. Ricks will never forgive me if I don’t at least see him.”
“Grace—” he began warningly.
She waved him off. “It’s all right, Lionel. Your concern is noted, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. To be on the safe side, have Mr. Jones post himself outside the door in case I do need assistance.” Mitchell Jones served as the bank’s constable.
The impeccably dressed Rowe nodded but warned, “Okay, but you’re going to be sorry you didn’t take my advice.”
And indeed, she was.
Grace smelled Lucas Peterson the moment he walked in. The acrid odor wafting from his big burly body burned her eyes and nostrils like smoke. He was dressed in a shirt and a pair of breeches that looked to be made from tanned animal skin. The color appeared to be brown, but due to the stains left behind by perspiration, food, and grime, it was impossible to tell. The shaggy uncut hair was lint filled and gray. Because of his immense size, he’d probably been quite intimidating in his younger years, but now all his musculature had softened to fat. Grace would be willing to bet he hadn’t seen soap, water, or a barber in her lifetime.
“You the lady needing the guide?” he asked. His brown eyes were bright with drink.
Grace had been taught by her father to shake a man’s hand when introducing herself, but not this time; she stayed right behind her desk. “Yes, I’m Grace Atwood,” she stated, trying not to breathe too deeply, “but unfortunately, I hired someone for the position last evening.”
Behind him she saw the smiling Lionel Rowe exiting the office. He did take pity on her, however, and leave the door slightly ajar to let in the fresh air.
“Aw, that’s too bad,” Peterson was saying, in response to her lie about the job being filled.
While Grace wondered how long a woman could hold her breath before fainting, Peterson’s drink red eyes scanned her slowly. When he’d looked his fill, he grinned, showing off tobacco-brown teeth. “You’re a pretty little thing, all that fine red hair. You know what they say about red-haired women,” he stated, then winked lewdly.
Grace stiffened. “No, what do they say about redhaired women?”
“That they’re real man pleasers—lots of fire.”
If there’d been any doubts before, there were definitely none now. Grace wouldn’t let this man lead her across the street, let alone all the way to Kansas City.
“Thank you for inquiring about the position, but as I stated, it’s no longer available.” The statement was a lie of course, but she’d lead the wagon herself before letting this offensive and smelly man anywhere near her enterprise.
As if cued, Mitchell Jones, the bank constable, stepped into her office and Grace greeted him with gratitude in her voice. “Oh, Mr. Jones, good morning.”
“Morning, Miss Atwood,” he replied, as he discreetly wrinkled his nose in response to the pungent Peterson.
Unlike Peterson, the brawny, brown-skinned Jones was in prime shape. He’d served with the Ninth up in Minnesota before settling in Chicago and still had the tough, fit body of a cavalry man beneath his black suit. He towered over Peterson by more than a few inches.
“Would you show Mr. Peterson out please, Mr. Jones? We’ve concluded our business.”
“Be my pleasure,” the constable responded. “This way, sir.”
Peterson didn’t balk, but as he walked to the door, he said to Grace, “Too bad you already hired somebody. I w
as looking forward to sharing a tent with you, Red.” He gave her a wink, then treated her to another tobacco-stained grin.
Upon his exit, Grace rushed to the office’s lone window. Throwing it open, she stuck her head outside and drew in great deep breaths of sweet fresh air.
The faint scent of Mr. Peterson’s visit lingered well into the afternoon. The low-spirited Grace had just about given up hope on ever finding a man to lead the wagon train when Felix Duggan, one of the younger clerks, knocked on her door and told her of a man he’d seen recently in one of the local taverns. To make extra money, Duggan kept books for the tavern’s owner. Felix hadn’t actually been introduced to the man in question, but had heard the man hailed from Texas.
“His name’s Jackson Blake. I don’t know if he’ll do, Miss Atwood, but he looks rugged enough, and he doesn’t stink. Seems educated, too.”
The fact that this potential candidate didn’t smell pleased Grace immensely, but the sketchy information on his background did not fill her with a lot of confidence; however, at this juncture she had no other choice but to view Duggan’s news as positive. “Do you know where I might find him?”
“Last night, I took the liberty of copying his address from his tavern account. Thought you might want it.”
Grace took the slip of paper he handed her, and read: 677 Sunshine Lane. The street name did not seem familiar, but she was sure a hired cabbie would be able to get her there. Grace thanked Duggan for his help, then went back to the work piled on her desk.
When she next came up for air, it was night. Running her hands over her weary eyes, she realized she’d worked through dinner again. The aunts would not be pleased. They thought she worked too hard to begin with and never got a proper amount of rest. But in Grace’s mind her father, Elliot, had not built the bank into a successful enterprise just to have his daughter lose everything because she did not give matters the energy and dedication they deserved.
Grace had one more task to accomplish before she could end the day, but as she sat in the back seat of the hack she’d hired and looked out at the dark street, she began to wonder if maybe this task should’ve been saved for tomorrow morning.
“Are you certain this is the right place?” she asked the hired driver, as she surveyed the torchlit lines of the large house in question. The mid-April night was cold and blustery and Grace pulled her long wool cape closer about her body.
“Yep. Six seventy-seven Sunshine Lane. Says so right there on the fence post.”
Under the light of the lantern atop the fence the address could be clearly seen, as could the words above it which read Sunshine’s Palace. Lively music could be heard emanating from the house’s interior and there were all types of carriages and rigs parked along both sides of the dirt road. In the few minutes since her arrival, she’d seen a stream of other carriages arrive and watched well-dressed men of all races step out and head up the walk. “What is this place?”
The driver hesitated a moment then said, “Pardon my language, but it’s a whorehouse, miss.”
Grace’s eyes widened.
The old Black driver turned to view her. “You’re not planning on going in there, are you? A lady like you got no business in a place like that.”
Still a bit bowled over, she stated, “You’re right, but there’s someone inside I must speak with.”
“Why don’t you wait until he comes home? There’s no sense in embarrassing yourself here.”
Home? At first, Grace had no idea what he meant; then, after a few moments, it became clear. She chuckled softly. “You think I’m here to confront my husband?”
“Yes, miss.”
She patted him on the hand. “Rest assured, that isn’t my intent. I’m here to see a man named Blake.”
She then explained why.
The old man smiled. “Oh, well, that’s something else entirely, but you still shouldn’t be going in there. It ain’t proper.”
Grace agreed, but had no alternative. She did toy with the idea of waiting for Blake to make another appearance at the tavern, but who knew how many days that might take? If she wanted to make the journey to Kansas City before the heat of summer began, she had to get things in motion very soon. She decided she would not be put off; she was here now, and she needed to act tonight, while she had the chance.
“You got anything to protect yourself with, if need be?” the driver asked.
“No,” Grace confessed. It hadn’t crossed her mind that she might need to defend herself.
“Well you might need something. Here, let me look and see if I can find you a couple rocks.”
“Rocks?”
He got down from his seat. Holding one of the hack’s lanterns in his hand, he began to search the snowy road edge. “Yeah. Put them in your handbag. It’s a trick I taught my daughters. Knock a ruffian for a loop if you catch him off guard.”
Grace stared at him fascinated.
A few moments later he presented her with six good-sized rocks, which she promptly placed in her knitted handbag; then she pulled the drawstrings tight.
Grateful for his concern, Grace asked, “Will you wait for me? I’ll pay extra for your time.”
“Sure will, but if you’re not back in thirty minutes, I’m coming in after you. I’ve a daughter about your age.”
Grace smiled. “I promise to be back as soon as I can.”
The pact made, Grace left the hack and slowly followed the path the men had taken to the door. Wearing her heavy wool cape over her navy silk business dress with its matching little hat and jaunty feather, Grace clutched her rock-filled handbag and wondered how in the world she would convince the proprietor to let her in long enough to see Blake. She knew that if her aunts ever got wind of this they would skin her alive. Decent women weren’t even supposed to walk by such an establishment, let alone venture inside, but Grace had made a promise to her cousin Price and his fellows and she planned to keep her word.
The closer her steps brought her to the torchlit porch, the more distinct the piano music became as it floated out over the night. Grace could also hear the sound of voices and laughter, making it easy to determine the good time being had inside. As she stepped up onto the porch, a large man wearing a fire red uniform stepped out of the dark, scaring her half to death.
“May I help you?” he asked brusquely.
It took the usually unflappable Grace a moment to gather her wits. Grabbing the shreds of her composure, she stated in as firm a voice as she could muster, “I’d like to see Mr. Blake.”
“Why?”
The man didn’t sound or appear the least bit friendly, making Grace wonder if he’d also mistaken her for some man’s wife. “I’m told he might be interested in leading a wagon train to Kansas City. I represent the bank handling the business affairs,” she bluffed.
Under the wavering lights of the porch’s lanterns, he looked her up and down. His stony manner did not help her nerves. Just when she thought he would turn her away, he announced, “This way.”
He led her around to a side entrance and opened the door. “Up the staircase. Third door on the right.”
Grace stepped into the dimly lit space and turned to say thanks, but he’d already closed the door behind her and was gone. Looking around, she saw that she was standing at the base of a big staircase. Small votive candles positioned along the thick wooden handrail lit the way up to the shadowy landing and floor above. Where the stairs were in relation to the rest of Sunshine’s Palace was hard to determine because Grace could hear the music only faintly, but the staircase seemed to be located on the house’s outside wall. She wondered if it sometimes served as a clandestine entrance and exit for those patrons wishing to keep their visitations anonymous.
The carpet looked to be a garish red, but it felt soft and costly beneath Grace’s feet as she slowly began the climb. Taking off her cape and placing it over her arm, the swish of her silk skirt made the only sounds.
A well-dressed man suddenly appeared at the top of th
e stairs. The sight of him stopped her in her tracks. Unconsciously tightening her hold on her handbag, she waited to see what he would do. Smiling, he began his descent. When they came abreast of one another, he politely touched his hat, saying as he passed, “Evening, Miss Lilah.”
A tense Grace had no idea why he’d called her “Lilah,” but she nodded hastily in response and quickly resumed her climb. He continued on down the stairs and exited through the side door. Her prayers that she not meet anyone else were answered. She found the third door on the right without further incident.
When her first knock went unanswered, she knocked again, this time a little harder. She didn’t want to make too much noise. There were four other closed doors on the floor and she doubted the room’s occupants would welcome being disturbed.
She knocked again.
Again, nothing.
In a way, Grace felt relieved that Blake was not in, giving her the opportunity to leave this place as fast as the heels on her black kid boots could carry her, but the promise she’d made to Price and his friends pulled at her conscience. Maybe if the door were unlocked she could slip in and leave Mr. Blake a note stating her proposal and a request that he visit her at the bank at his earliest convenience. Casting a quick look up and down the dark hall, Grace quietly turned the knob. It opened. She slipped in, but left the door slightly ajar so that the faint light from the hallway could guide her steps.
The room was dark. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, the sounds of someone snoring caught her by surprise. Her eyes found the bed in the dark and she assumed the snoring occupant to be Blake. What to do now, she asked herself; she’d never stolen into a strange man’s room before. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself. Should she attempt to awaken him, or just leave her note and depart? Gathering her courage, she tipped over to the bed. She was standing there still trying to make a decision when a strong arm encircled her waist. Before she could scream, she was tumbled onto the bed. She landed on her back with her arms gently imprisoned above her head and her body pinned beneath his weight. Several things registered at once: his bare torso, the softness of the mattress, the faint scent of soap and her own shock.
Always and Forever Page 2
