Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

  “Damned if I’m not already,” he mumbled as he turned and left. Within seconds, she heard the door slam and silence descended upon the Pullman.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she pinned her hair into a bun. Turning her head from side to side, she recalled his comment. Desirable? She saw nothing remarkable about her appearance. She had two eyes, a nose and a mouth, all properly positioned, she supposed, but she knew there were more beautiful women.

  Perhaps that was why the feminist movement had appealed to her. Women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton emphasized a woman’s intellect and attributes over her beauty.

  Still, she wondered if there was room for compromise between her desire for a career in music and a family. Everything she’d heard and read said no; women had to choose one or the other. Could it be different with Max? While he tried to keep her safe, he didn’t ignore her right to exercise some independence. Would he keep his wife cloistered, unable to experience the world without his permission?

  She gave a snort, deciding it was ridiculous to even think about, since Max didn’t appear to be a man ready to settle down and marry. And she certainly didn’t intend to, either.

  Did she?

  * * *

  When they arrived in Denver, Max took Abby by carriage from the train station to his Aunt Elizabeth’s home. She felt a twinge of nervousness when they walked up the wide stone steps. She wasn’t one to impose on another, and she didn’t know this woman.

  A huge black man opened the door and greeted him with enthusiasm. “Well, good day, Mr. Grant. Good to see you again. I don’t think your aunt is expecting you.”

  Max guided her into the foyer. “Hickory, since when did my aunt care whether she had drop-in company?”

  Hickory guffawed, a belly laugh as big as the man himself. “There’s more people in and out of this house than at the state capitol, sir, and most of them be the same people. What I meant is your aunt isn’t home— not ’til supper, that is.”

  He reached for their bags. “I’ll put these in your room, sir. Where do you want the miss’s bag?”

  “The daisy room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want to go to your room and freshen up?” Max asked her.

  “Max, I don’t even know your aunt, much less wish to impose on her. I can’t stay here.”

  He looked taken back by her comment. “Why not?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Did you notice Hickory’s reaction when you came in with me?”

  She frowned. “I think it was more a lack of reaction.”

  “Exactly. My aunt is always in the midst of some civic function, benevolent fund-raising or social reform. Most usually, there’s more than one person connected with those activities living off my aunt while they supposedly conduct their business.”

  “But that’s exactly what I mean. I don’t want to be a burden. I’m capable of finding a rooming house that suits my needs.”

  “Look. Just stay here until Aunt Elizabeth comes home. After you meet her, if you decide you can’t remain, I’ll see you to a proper hotel or rooming house first thing in the morning.”

  The house was beautiful, and Abby felt very comfortable in the opulent surroundings. The parlor was furnished in dark brocade couches and chairs and included a huge fireplace. White draperies lightened the interior and balanced the darker colors. A dreary rooming house really didn’t appeal to her at all.

  She knew without even climbing the stairs that the rest of the house would be elegant. Plush carpeting and solid oak banisters completed the stairway that narrowed toward the second floor.

  “It does remind me of Boston,” she said and a pang of homesickness hit her. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stay here for a day or two. Besides, there’s no chance winning an argument with you, is there?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then I would like to rest.” A little time away from his powerful influence certainly wouldn’t hurt. She followed Hickory up the stairs.

  The daisy room was just as bright and cheerful as its namesake. Pale yellow satin covered the windows and bed, but all was trimmed with a brighter shade of sunshine. Throw pillows on the bed and sitting couch boasted clusters of hand-embroidered daisies in white and varying shades of yellow. The furniture was oak, lending itself well to the exceedingly feminine décor.

  “Does Miss like it?” the servant asked, setting her one bag on a flat chest at the foot of the bed.

  “Oh, yes. It’s lovely.” She pulled back the draperies to find a door leading to a balcony. “In fact, it will do quite nicely.”

  * * *

  As Abby descended the stairs early that evening, female laughter, mingled with Max’s deep chuckle, led her across the foyer into the front parlor. He was pouring drinks at a side cart. The firelight illuminated his profile. His broad shoulders stretched the material of his black coat as he settled the crystal decanter back on the rack. His hair looked freshly cut, and she noticed he had recently shaved.

  Everything about him strummed deep within her. His image reminded her of the lower resonating chords on the piano—deep, powerful and full bodied. His voice was perhaps an octave higher, and was in full harmony with the movement of his hands and body. He was a symphony in motion; a musical masterpiece packaged as a man.

  “Abby?”

  “Huh?” She’d been so lost in her fantasy she hadn’t heard the first of what he said.

  He took her hand and tugged her closer, his eyes twinkling. “Aunt Elizabeth, this is Abigail O’Brien from Boston. Abby, may I introduce my mother’s twin sister, Elizabeth Gentry.”

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but Elizabeth Gentry didn’t fit the image. Where Max was tall and broad, this woman was petite, even shorter than Abby’s own five foot, three-inch frame. Her hair was silver gray, cut short and curling about her head. Two small feathers that matched the boa she wore around her neck were pinned into her hair with a jeweled comb.

  The only resemblance to Max was her startling blue eyes. Twinkling with good humor, they steadily scrutinized Abby. Apparently liking what she found, she put out her hand. Abby was taken aback, for it was an uncommon practice for women to shake hands. She looked into the woman’s open, friendly gaze, recognizing a kindred spirit. She firmly shook her hand in acknowledgment.

  “Welcome to Denver. You’re quite far from home.” She guided Abby to the nearby sofa where they sat. Max handed her a glass of wine, and she took a sip.

  “I didn’t exactly intend to end up in Denver, Mrs. Gentry.”

  “Please, call me Elizabeth, or Libby. Where did you intend to be?”

  “I had a perfectly fine job as a Harvey Girl in Topeka, Kansas, until Max—”

  “Monty has gone missing, Libby,” he interrupted her, “and somehow Abby has his watch. At the moment, she’s the only connection I have to my wayward brother.”

  Libby’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear, Monty’s missing?”

  “It’s a long story, Aunt Libby,” Max said. “Could it possibly wait until after supper? I’m starving.”

  Hickory had just entered the room and Abby supposed Max was using that as an excuse not to tell his aunt everything. Since she didn’t know his intentions at the moment, she decided she would remain quiet.

  “Ladies?” Max cocked both elbows, escorting her and his aunt into the dining room.

  As he seated his aunt then came to seat Abby, she took a minute to soak in the beauty around her. Everything from the fine china and crystal to the silver plate and chandelier that graced the center of the table gleamed in the candlelight. A soft carpet cushioned her feet. The smooth wood of the chair arm felt cool beneath her palm.

  “You have a beautiful home, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, dear. My husband was quite generous, and I love to entertain, so we did need a rather enormous place. At the moment I have no other company, though, so I am delighted that you are here.” She reached over and squeezed Abby’s hand.


  “That brings us to a point,” Max stated. “I had telegraphed Abby’s father from First View that I would be sending her home, but that’s not possible now. And since he knows she’s with me, I thought perhaps you might help us by…by…” He let the sentence die. Abby was amazed, for she had never seen him at a loss for words.

  “Maxwell Jeffery Grant. What kind of trouble have you dragged this poor girl into?” His aunt sounded quite offended on Abby’s behalf. It made her smile to see Max duck his head, but she did come to his rescue.

  “I’m not in trouble at all. Max simply needs my help to find a killer. But we must notify my father. As much as I like to think myself independent like Miss Anthony, I fear he might not agree.”

  “A killer?” Elizabeth asked, quickly followed by, “Are you referring to Susan B. Anthony?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, it all sounds rather confusing doesn’t it?” Abby asked. “Max really didn’t explain it very well.”

  “Me?” He raised both an eyebrow and his voice. “Why you—”

  “Lamb, sir?” Hickory asked, lowering the platter so it blocked Max’s view of her. It effectively shut him up, and Abby took an immediate liking to the servant.

  Elizabeth smiled at Abby before lifting her napkin to cover her lips.

  Once Hickory had served the main course, conversation resumed.

  “I didn’t mean I thought Susan was a killer,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve known her for years, although it has been quite a while since I’ve visited with her.”

  “She’s probably considered a killer of sorts, by some husbands,” Max muttered under his breath, but loud enough for both women to hear. Abby took her cue from Elizabeth and ignored him.

  “She’s still quite involved with the Movement,” Abby replied, “and has been publishing a newspaper called The Revolution. Has the suffrage movement had an impact here in Denver?”

  “Oh, my, yes,” Elizabeth said. “After women gained the vote in Wyoming Territory in 1870, a petition for women’s suffrage was circulated in the west part of Denver. We managed to get seventy women to sign it.”

  “We?” Max raised a brow.

  His aunt continued to ignore him. Being able to talk to another woman felt wonderful to Abby.

  “So Colorado women have the vote?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Unfortunately, while the legislative council passed it seven votes to six, the House killed it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Max commented sarcastically.

  His aunt leveled a stern look in his direction. “Maxwell, I thought you’d been raised to respect all individuals, regardless of their beliefs.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth, I do respect women. How could I not when I have a wonderful stepmother like Jessica and you as models? But I also happen to think that women should be treated with deference and protected.”

  “Only if they want to be revered and protected.” His aunt made a tsking sound. “I see we have some reform ahead of us, Abby.” To Max, she added, “As long you’re a guest here, we shall adhere to Susan B. Anthony’s motto: ‘Men—give them their rights and nothing more’…”

  Abby gleefully joined in the recitation. “‘Women—give them their rights and nothing less’.”

  Elizabeth rang a small silver bell for the next course to be served. “First thing in the morning, Max, you shall send a telegram to Abby’s father and tell him she’s staying with me as my companion. It will be a delight to visit with someone who has more recently had the opportunity to listen to Susan and the others.”

  Abby lifted a fork of poached salmon to her lips, certain she heard Max swear under his breath.

  “Good God, what have I done? Now there are two of them.”

  * * *

  Max had telegraphed Abby’s father and now was more than willing to leave her with his aunt, even after discovering they were both suffragists. God help the men of Denver. Over the next several days, he managed to return to Garland House in time for the evening meal, but otherwise didn’t interfere with their rounds of shopping and tea. Abby seemed content to follow in his aunt’s wake, and that allowed him to conduct his investigations knowing she was safe.

  He’d spent some time informing local law enforcement on what he suspected about the robbery ring in Kit Carson. Neither of the two men they’d brought in had seemed inclined to talk, apparently fearing what would happen if they ratted on their companions. Until today, all he had to go on was the conversation Abby had overheard.

  He’d also apprised the police captain of the sketchy description of the killer he was tracking and received assurances they would not hamper his investigations. He hadn’t worked in Denver for awhile and didn’t know the current law. He was courteous, but leery about involving them at this point.

  Now Max was returning from yet another visit to the local jail, where the robbers awaited trial. At least today he had information, thanks to Hickory’s presence, for he was built like the tree for which he was named—half a foot over six, broader than two men and darker than a moonless night.

  While credibly employed as his aunt’s servant, the former slave often obtained valuable information for Max during his investigations. The political and social circles in which his aunt moved and entertained were not always known for their scrupulous behavior, whether it be private or business dealings. It helped to have an ally for when he wasn’t around.

  Max had only insinuated that Hickory might help persuade the two robbers to talk, and they began jabbering like a couple of old women. The most valuable piece of information Max had gleaned was the name of a possible suspect in Jerome Smith’s murder—John Dillon. Both robbers had mentioned, in separate conversations, that a man named Dillon had recently joined their gang, had a scar on his face and played a mean hand of poker. It seemed highly likely this was the man they were looking for.

  Max had also learned that the location of the hideout in Kit Carson changed with regularity. He was now glad he hadn’t gone back there looking for Dillon. With corrupt city officials, that was not a healthy choice, anyway.

  He breathed deeply, appreciating the crisp, fresh air and the clean lines of the buildings and homes. Having a newer history—even one created by the mining industry—gave Denver the appearance of clean, healthy living. Of course, Max knew that wasn’t the entire truth, having been to the seedier side of town more than once.

  Feminine laughter welcomed Max and Hickory the moment they opened the front door at Garland House. Max’s lips instinctively curved upward at the sound of Abby’s voice. He could get used to coming home to…

  Damn, why did his thoughts keep returning to that?

  “Max, is that you? You must come and meet Mr. Stanwick,” his aunt called to him.

  Max frowned at Hickory, but the servant shrugged and, with a shake of his head, left Max to his own devices.

  His trained eye took in the entire room within seconds. His aunt sat on a single chair by the hearth. Mr. Stanwick sat dangerously close to Abby on the settee. That was, until he stood when Max crossed the room.

  Abby’s cheeks held a hint of color. Max couldn’t tell if it was from the company she kept or the near-empty glass on the low table in front of her. What was his aunt thinking, serving spirits at this time of day?

  He ignored the man for a moment as he bent to kiss his aunt on the cheek. When he smelled liquor on her breath, he doubted the wisdom of leaving these two ladies on their own. He would have to assign a companion for the companions.

  Only after he’d appropriately bowed over Abby’s raised hand did he focus his full attention on the man, still standing next to her. Max had hoped to make him uncomfortable, but when he looked at his steely gray gaze, he saw a cold reserve that said Stanwick had been assessing him, too.

  “Mr. Stanwick accompanied us home after the horticulture lecture,” Abby said in the silence that fell over the room.

  “Christopher Stanwick.” The man, as tall as Max, but fair where Max was dark, stuck out his hand. His gaze defied Max t
o take it.

  “Stanwick.” Max curtly inclined his head. It wouldn’t do to appear rude in his aunt’s house.

  He turned back to the ladies. “Did you enjoy your day?”

  “The lecture on roses was not up to usual standards,” Libby said, “but it did give me some ideas for the side garden. You should have attended, dear. It wouldn’t hurt you to socialize more.”

  “I had business to attend. Most people can’t afford to spend the entire day smelling flowers,” Max said. When he glanced at Stanwick, the man appeared bright enough to get the idea Max didn’t want him there.

  “Business?” Abby asked. “Max, were you invest—”

  “Investing, which is a business you needn’t worry about.” He cut her off. He didn’t know this Stanwick fellow. Until he did, and maybe not even then, he didn’t want his true occupation discussed in the society page of the Denver Post. At his abrupt tone, Abby snapped her mouth shut and glared at him.

  “Of all the coincidences, Mr. Stanwick said he was also in investments,” Libby said.

  “Really?” Max tried not to sound bored.

  “Along with growing orchids and…collecting rare treasures.” Stanwick’s smug smile grated on Max’s nerves, but the ladies appeared properly impressed with his accomplishments. “You must visit Stanwick Manor and see my gardens, Abby.”

  Max ground his teeth at his familiar use of her name.

  “Madame, luncheon is served.” Hickory, back in the role of dutiful servant, appeared at the doors. Max wondered how the man knew just when to interrupt.

  “You will stay, won’t you Mr. Stanwick?” his aunt asked. Max wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth.

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I have pressing business in the city. Perhaps another time, Mrs. Gentry.” He bowed over her hand.

  Abby stood and took Stanwick’s arm, escorting him to the door. When Max stepped forward to follow, his aunt stopped him. He looked from her delicate, blue-veined hand on his sleeve to her face. She didn’t say a word, but raised one eyebrow in question. He scowled.