Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “Let’s put him out of business,” an overweight matron shouted. “My husband has been frequenting that disgusting show at the Aurora every night for a week, then coming home drunk and smelling of strange perfume. I say burn the place down.”

  A burst of cheers went up, and Laurel’s face paled. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think, ladies?” She rose to her feet. “After all, innocent people could get hurt.”

  Drucilla, almost recovered from her burns, jumped up. “I was an innocent bystander who was hurt because of your illicit relationship with Mr. Rafferty. How dare you try to spare the lives of your lover and his friends? You’re a trollop and should be kicked out of this organization.”

  The room grew ominously quiet as the two women faced each other. The hatred emanating from Drucilla Gottlieb was tangible, and Laurel thought that if words could kill, she’d certainly be dead by now.

  Obviously, Drucilla was not the least bit grateful to Laurel for saving her life, and it was further evident that the scars on the young woman’s arms and face were not the only ones she carried.

  Deciding that to provoke this agitated woman would not be the wisest course at the moment, Laurel replied in a soft voice, “I’m very sorry you were injured because of me, Drucilla. It was never my intention that any harm should come to you.”

  “You should be sorry. You should be—”

  “That will be quite enough, Drucilla,” Hortensia interrupted in a voice that brooked no refusal. “I will make allowances for your vicious attack against Miss Martin because you are still recovering from a terrible ordeal, but the fact remains—Laurel did save your life. And she is doing everything in her power to shut down the Aurora, short of burning it to the ground, which is a totally unacceptable suggestion.

  “Our leader, Miss Willard, does not advocate violence. We demonstrate through example and strength of character. We do not take the law into our own hands, nor do we target innocent men and women. That is not the WCTU way. Those of you who do not agree with our methods are free to leave.”

  Drucilla remained standing. “I am not feeling well and would like to return to my room at the hotel.”

  “As you wish, Drucilla. Perhaps while you are in your room you might wish to commune with our Lord and ask for His guidance and intervention into this recent ordeal, and perhaps His forgiveness.”

  Laurel watched the teary-eyed woman flee from the auditorium and sighed with sadness; she felt truly sorry for Drucilla. The woman was filled with inner demons, and Laurel wondered if anyone, including God, could ever exorcise them.

  “Now,” Hortensia began, clapping her hands to bring the room to order, “does anyone have any other ideas on how we can shut down Mr. Rafferty’s saloon?”

  Laurel rose to her feet once again. “I’ve been spending a considerable amount of time at the library, consulting various books on the law. It appears there is a statute that the founding fathers of Denver enacted many years ago, prohibiting public nudity and lewd and lascivious conduct. There is a little known and even lesser enforced law called the Denver Decency Code.

  “I propose that we force the law and public officials to shut down Mr. Rafferty’s business if he does not comply with the Decency Code. And we won’t stop with the Aurora; we’ll target every saloon, gambling parlor, and brothel that does not strictly adhere to the letter of the law.”

  Hortensia beamed. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “But the police are corrupt. The mayor himself frequents the saloons and gambling parlors. How are we going to accomplish such a difficult task?” Sue Ellen Turner asked. No longer employed at the Aurora, Sue Ellen had become a devout WCTU member and outspoken critic of vice and corruption.

  “It’s simple,” Laurel said, smiling enthusiastically for the first time in days. “We shall take our case to the people. We shall take our case to the loudest voice this city has to offer: the newspaper.”

  * * *

  The newspaper headlines over the next few days screamed for social reform and an end to Denver’s vice and corruption: MAYOR CAUGHT WITH HIS PANTS DOWN AT THE SILVER SLIPPER; THE AURORA’S STARS NO LONGER SHINE; POLICE CHIEF’S WIFE LAYS DOWN THE LAW BY CRACKING HIM OVER HEAD WITH WHISKEY BOTTLE.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Chance said, shaking his head as he read the latest edition of the Rocky Mountain News, and the fact that he was being touted as the Destroyer of Decency. At least they hadn’t called him the Demon of Denver; that honor had gone to Al Hazen.

  “It looks as if the Destroyer could use a friend long about now.”

  Chance, looking up from the newspaper as Gus Baldwin entered, was clearly disturbed by what had been written about him. “Friends are few and far between these days; I can tell you that.”

  Seating himself at the kitchen table, Gus poured himself a cup of coffee from the blue-speckled enamel pot. “You targeted the wrong woman for revenge when you went after Laurel, I’m afraid, Chance. No good ever comes of revenge. And Laurel’s made a lot of friends in this town.”

  “She started it.”

  At the childish response, Gus wiped the smile off his face. “I would think you would know by now that Laurel is no simpering miss. Didn’t you learn your lesson over that oil painting and stereoscopic device you were so intent on shoving down everyone’s throats?” He shook his head. “At least you’ve made restitution by getting rid of the dancing girls. That little stunt really went beyond the pale, son.”

  “I thought you came here as my friend, Gus. You sound as judgmental as Bertha and Jup.” The black woman had given him a tongue-lashing he wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon, commenting on his ancestry, the stupidity of white folks in general, and the Lord’s vengeance against sinners. According to Bertha, he was about to be smitten by a mighty blow of retribution. Chance heaved a sigh of regret. “Even Whitey took me to task over the ‘nekked women,’ as he terms them.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes, as they say,” Gus commented.

  “I just wanted to teach Laurel a lesson.” Chance clanged the teaspoon against the sides of the coffee cup as he stirred the dark liquid around and around in an agitated fashion. “She made me mad with her holier-than-thou opinions and accusations.”

  “Crystal told me what happened at Rooster’s engagement party. I’m glad now to have missed it. Sometimes this tuberculosis has its advantages.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ve got a sickness, too, and I aim to get over it real quick. Laurel Martin is just plain bad luck. I curse the day I ever laid eyes on the woman.” He remembered that day as if it were yesterday. How sweet and beautiful she looked, eating that gargantuan meal, her big blue eyes so full of innocence and self-determination. Who could have known that such a tempting example of womanhood would turn his life upside down, wreak havoc on his emotions, and rip his insides to shreds?

  But that’s exactly what his little angel had done.

  Draping a comforting arm over Chance’s shoulders, Gus said sympathetically. “You love her, don’t you, son?”

  Chance looked defeated, as if the woes of the world rested squarely on his shoulders, and he nodded. “That’s the hell of it, Gus, and it’s likely to kill me. I love Laurel so much I can’t see straight anymore.”

  “Have you told her?”

  Chance stared at the clergyman as if he’d lost his mind. “What? And give her something else to hold over me?” he shook his head. “No, sir. I’m keeping that bit of information to myself.”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Chance. A woman can forgive a man a lot, if she knows he acted out of love.”

  “Yeah? Well, tell that to Bertha, Crystal, and Flora Sue. They all hate my guts.”

  “They’re not the ones who matter in this, now are they?”

  “I thought confession was good for the soul. So how come I feel like shit?”

  Repressing a smile, and doing his best not to be offended by Chance’s profanity, Gus replied, “God grants man wisdom, a heart, and soul, so he can think for himself and ma
ke the right decisions in life. Sometimes we choose poorly, and we are burdened with unhappiness and misery. But sometimes we choose wisely, and are rewarded with peace, contentment, and, most important, love.”

  “And sometimes God gives us no choice at all.” Chance spoke the depressing thought aloud. Loving Laurel certainly hadn’t been a conscious choice on his part. He’d sooner have been tarred and feathered than have fallen in love with that stubborn slip of a woman.

  “That just isn’t true,” Gus said, shaking his head, trying to get through the stone barricade Chance had erected around his heart. “We always have a choice. It’s what we do with it that shapes our destiny. Think about it, Chance, then choose wisely.”

  * * *

  A bone-numbing wind whipped the thin cottonwood branches against the windows of the parlor, scratching the glass like fingernails raking a chalkboard, and Laurel shivered, grateful to be sitting in front of a roaring fire instead of delivering a speech to the Denver Historical Society’s monthly Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting.

  Hortensia had graciously offered to substitute when Laurel, complaining of a headache and nausea, had informed her she didn’t feel well enough to go. The influenza was making the rounds in the city, and Laurel feared she’d been bitten by the nasty bug.

  Taking a sip of hot tea, which Mrs. Costello insisted would cure any ailment known to mankind, Laurel ripped open the envelope from her sister that had arrived that morning from San Francisco.

  It had been months since she’d heard from Heather, and Laurel was eager to hear how her sister’s governess position at the Montgomery mansion was working out. Heather was not one to follow orders graciously; she was more adept at giving them. And she wondered if she and Mr. Montgomery had butted heads over the raising of his children. Heather had very definite ideas when it came to rearing young’ns.

  Dearest Laurie, she began, using the nickname from Laurel’s childhood and filling her heart with homesickness.

  Having received your last letter before the Christmas holiday made me feel as if I’d gotten a cherished gift from home. I’d been feeling lonely for you and Rose Elizabeth—I do miss you so—and hearing from my little sister was better than any gift you could have bought me.

  Much has happened since last I wrote, and not all good, I’m sorry to say. Mr. Montgomery and I still have certain obstacles to overcome, but I won’t go into that now.

  Obstacles? Whatever did that mean? Laurel wondered, her brow furrowing as her mind searched out the possibilities. Heather was always so closemouthed about everything. Why didn’t she just come out and say what the problem was, for heaven’s sake?

  Rose’s last letter was filled with her continuing difficulties with the duke and the many problems they’d had with the farm. Apparently, they don’t see eye to eye on a great many things, but that’s not unusual when dealing with men.

  Laurel knew exactly what her older sister meant. She and Chance didn’t see eye to eye on much of anything.

  How are things between you and Mr. Rafferty? This courtship you speak of sounds interesting, especially in light of your current employment with the temperance league. I’m sure it won’t be long until you’re writing to tell me of your marriage.

  Tears slid down Laurel’s cheeks, landing on the white vellum stationery and smearing the ink. After the horrible fight they’d had, and the newspaper articles painting him out to be the vilest of men, she doubted that Chance would ever speak to her again.

  Not that she wanted him to, mind you.

  But it certainly did get lonely with just a bunch of boring women for company, especially ones who didn’t laugh, sing, look at the stars . . .

  “Oh, Chance, I miss you so,” Laurel whispered, staring at the flames in the fireplace and having the sudden urge to vomit. She took several deep breaths until the queasiness subsided.

  Maybe her illness was a sign. Maybe God was trying to tell her something. Maybe she and Chance just didn’t belong together. Or maybe she was just sicker than she thought.

  * * *

  Two days later, Laurel entered the Busy Bee Café to keep her luncheon engagement with Crystal. She should have canceled, as awful as she felt, but Laurel knew that Crystal looked forward to their weekly luncheons as much as she did.

  Being with Crystal was like breathing fresh mountain air. No words of condemnation ever fell from her lips, and the young woman, having borne her own share of life’s burdens, never sat in judgment on anyone.

  Drucilla could definitely take lessons from Crystal. Laurel was sick and tired of her roommate’s snide innuendos about her relationship with Chance, and she was definitely weary of hearing about Drucilla’s near brush with death.

  Though she knew she’d be cast down to hell for even thinking it, there were times when Laurel wished she’d never dragged the spiteful woman from that burning bed. Times like last evening, when Drucilla had been unusually nasty.

  “What’s happened to that fancy man of yours, Laurel? I don’t see him hanging around here much anymore.”

  “That’s really none of your business,” Laurel had replied, trying to ignore Drucilla’s sarcasm and concentrate instead on brushing her hair. They’d been moved to another room because of the fire, but unfortunately Hortensia had not seen fit to separate them, much to Laurel’s regret.

  “Men like that gambler of yours tire easily of women. It’s the chase and the challenge that make life interesting for them. Once they bed a woman, they lose interest fast enough.”

  Laurel had jerked her head around at the insinuation. “How would you know, Drucilla? I doubt any man’s ever paid that much attention to you.”

  Drucilla’s spine had gone so rigid that Laurel thought it might snap in two. “I wouldn’t want a man putting his dirty hands on me, pawing and petting my flesh.” She shivered, as if the very thought of being with a man totally repulsed her. “I intend to remain virginal and pure for the remainder of my days.”

  Sorry or not about Drucilla’s misconceptions of life, Laurel had had enough of her roommate’s narrow-minded opinions and acerbic tongue. “That shouldn’t be too difficult, Drucilla, considering the fact no gentleman ever comes to call on you.”

  At Laurel’s remark the young woman had stormed out of the room, but not before assuring Laurel in a purely childish way that she would make her sorry if it was the last thing she ever did.

  Sighing at the recollection, Laurel was grateful when Crystal finally arrived and seated herself at the table.

  “Sorry I’m late, but Gus had me helping out at the church again. I’m sewing altar blankets, if you can believe that!”

  “Of course I can believe it. You’re the only one who ever doubted your abilities. I’m so happy you took my advice and agreed to marry Gus. I know you’re going to be very happy.”

  “It was a difficult decision, what with my previous occupation and all. I don’t want to bring shame on Augustus. I love him too much for that.”

  “And he loves you. So be happy and quit worrying needlessly.”

  “What I’m worried about at the moment is you, Laurel honey.” Crystal reached out to feel Laurel’s cheek, then she frowned, “You’re so pale. And you look terribly unhappy. Have your troubles with Chance made you ill? You look white as clotted cream.”

  “I think I’ve got a touch of the influenza. I haven’t been feeling well these past few days.”

  “The influenza! That sounds serious, honey. Have you seen a doctor?”

  Having never put much stock in doctors—they sure hadn’t done much to save her parents—Laurel shook her head. “I’m sure it’ll pass in a day or two. I’ve been nauseated, unable to keep much of anything down, except for Mrs. Costello’s tea.”

  A gnawing suspicion took root in Crystal’s mind and began to grow. “Laurel honey, have you been feeling overly tired lately? Are your breasts tender when you touch them?”

  Blushing, Laurel whispered rather emphatically, “I don’t touch them!”

  Crystal laughed
. “I meant when you’re taking a bath, silly. Surely you touch them then?”

  “Well, of course I do, then. But what does that have to do with the influenza? Honestly, Crystal, sometimes you don’t make a lick of sense.”

  Her face sobering, Crystal grasped Laurel’s hand. “Laurel honey, we need to talk, but not here. I want you to come back to the Aurora with me.”

  Knowing exactly what her well-meaning friend was trying to do, Laurel shook her head. “Oh, no, Crystal. I’m not going to let you pull me into that trap. You’ve got ‘matchmaker’ written all over your face.”

  Crystal weighed her options, then decided to be blunt and to the point. “You may need a matchmaker more than you know, Laurel honey. I think you’re pregnant.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Pregnant. The word reverberated off the walls of Laurel’s mind and heart, and she slammed the door to Crystal’s room, then leaned heavily against it.

  Looking down at her flat abdomen, then up at her friend, who stared worriedly at her, she said, “Pregnant? I . . . The thought never crossed my mind.” Even though her breasts had been sore, and she had been feeling unusually listless of late, she’d just chalked it up to the influenza. How ridiculous her self-diagnosis seemed now, as did her own stupidity. The signs had been there; she’d just ignored them.

  Leading Laurel to the chair by the window, Crystal poured a small amount of brandy into a glass and pressed it into Laurel’s hands. “Drink this. It might bring some color back to your cheeks. You look white as a ghost.”

  With no thought to how the liquor might affect her, Laurel downed it in one gulp, coughing as the burning liquid seared her throat. “Tha-thank you,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  Crystal took the chair next to her. “There’s always the possibility that you’re not, Laurel honey, but from what you’ve told me, I’d lay odds on the fact that you’re carrying Chance’s child.”

  Laurel’s hand went to her abdomen, and her eyes filled with wonder. “Chance’s child.” She smiled wistfully. “I never realized . . .”