The carriage clattered and swayed as it crossed the first set of railroad tracks, then another. She tensed her muscles in a hopeless attempt to avoid being sloshed to and fro.
Nicholas seemed to anticipate every jolt and rode out the bumpiness like a sailor swaying confidently on sea legs.
When they clattered over the last set of tracks, Nicholas spoke. “And why can’t you go there? I heard you marched down The Line with Mrs. Little’s group.”
“That was different.”
“You’re right.” He tipped his head forward like a perturbed bull about to charge. “You ladies went to judge, throw stones, and ignore the needs of the people wallowing in sin,” he rumbled, his voice filled with exasperation. “But today, I’ll require you to actually talk to one instead of throwing condemnation from afar.”
“I did talk to one!” Where had this accusation come from? Lydia sat on her hands to keep from crossing her arms and looking like a petulant child. “She threw a glass bottle at me.”
He turned his head to the side but kept his gaze on her. His forehead wrinkled. “And she did this after you offered to help her?”
Lydia ground her teeth. She would’ve helped if not for the others . . . maybe.
But if he was so worried about the needs of that streetwalker, he should be worried about her needs too. She grabbed the front of her worn coat and wriggled it. “I’m in disguise, with a man, inside an enclosed vehicle, in the town’s sporting section! Do you have no concern for my reputation?”
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have brought you if the danger was greater than the night you sang ‘The Price of a Drink’ or ‘Come Home, Father’ in front of the saloon houses.”
Well, she hadn’t actually sung, especially not the one about asking Father to come home in case Papa was actually in one of those saloons that night and came out to embarrass her. “So you intend for us to stand on the street outside a saloon and give firewood away?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me we’re going inside the bar.”
He leaned back, his fingers tapping his knees in an agitated staccato. “What would you have us do? Holler the lady’s name and drop her firewood in the middle of the str—”
“We’re visiting a . . . a—”
“Prostitute?”
She nodded.
“No,” he replied.
She sighed in relief.
He leaned back against his seat, his eyes intense. “She isn’t anymore.”
“That doesn’t help.” She scowled at him. “Once a prostitute, always—”
“Even one who’s turned to God?”
She put her hands against her face and closed her eyes. Had a soiled dove repented? What would the moral-society ladies say to that? They’d be happy of course, but visiting her? “I . . . I’m sure God accepts her, but I can’t associate with someone who’s been down that path. Do you know what would be said of me?”
“Then what on God’s green earth are you women trying to accomplish with your moral society?” He scooted to the edge of his seat as if he wanted to leap over and strangle her.
Lydia pushed herself into the corner. During her father’s drunken rages, it was best to keep silent or risk being manhandled. But what had dredged this anger out of Nicholas? It was her reputation at stake!
“You moral-society ladies along with the politicians only make things worse. You think kicking prostitutes and gamblers out of town or regulating them to death will solve the problem, but you only drive them underground.”
No wonder this Robin Hood had no merry band of followers.
“And once these sinners make their initial mistake, they are never allowed back into your Christian society.” His voice fogged over and turned scratchy.
No, that wasn’t true—at least not in the way he made it sound.
“Do you know how many of them die friendless and humiliated by the very women they cried out to for comfort in their last days?”
The sound of his holding back unshed tears drained her of any desire to argue.
The coach stopped, but she didn’t have to get out. She wouldn’t be seen if she stayed inside the vehicle.
After an awkward moment, where he did nothing but stare at the side wall, he jerked himself out of his seat, pushed through the door, and whirled to face her. “Are you coming?”
She pressed a hand to her throat. So he wasn’t going to let her out of this? What if she refused? What would happen to the third poor family he was supposed to help, the church donation, the library? “If I don’t come, is our wishes agreement canceled?”
The muscles in his neck tensed. His stare made her squirm. “I’ll go back to choosing my venues of charity without you.” A wicked grin marred, yet at the same time enhanced, his features. “And your precious reputation will remain unblemished by any act of kindness that doesn’t meet the approval of those worried only about themselves.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest, and her hands shook at his insult. Did that include her? Did he think she cared nothing for anyone but herself? And why did his disapproval hurt so much? “You’re being unfair. I do want to help, but if I ruin my reputation, what good am I?”
“Christ didn’t worry about his reputation. He associated with those who desperately needed Him. The frowns of the religious leaders didn’t stop Him from helping the lowly.”
“He was God. He didn’t have to care, but I do. My future depends on it. I’m not like you, a man with great wealth.” Nicholas hadn’t thought this scheme through. At least not how it would affect her. If she did as he suggested, she’d be unmarriageable. With one parent dying and the other squandering every penny they made, how could she possibly recover from a ruined reputation? Did he even care? “If I sully my character to the point no good man would marry me, you’ll be adding my name to the list of paupers needing your handouts.”
“So marriage to a man who’d fault you for being charitable is more important than the lives of people less fortunate than you?”
How dare he insinuate such a thing? The Bible told people to mind their reputations.
She glanced out the door but couldn’t see much, considering Nicholas filled the doorway. Had his raised voice drawn attention? “Choosing to do things your way may doom me to be a penniless spinster.”
But not a prostitute. She’d never, ever, let herself go that far.
“If Christ called you to be penniless, would you not become so willingly?”
She worried her lip. How was she supposed to know? Hadn’t Christ already called her to poverty given her father’s habits and her mother’s health? Burning filled the back of her eyes, but she blinked it away and swallowed. This was too much to think about. He shouldn’t be pushing her to make a rash decision.
“I see.” He stepped back even farther and grabbed the door. “I’ll send you home then.”
“Wait.” She moved to the edge of her seat and peered out. They weren’t in the red-light district but in a slum nearby. No one walked the quiet street. “Are you certain I won’t be discovered?”
He sighed. “It’s very unlikely, but no, I can’t promise.”
“And you say this woman is Christian.”
“Yes, and just as needy as Alec and Theresa. However, as a reformed prostitute, she’s more so. Neither side wants her. What kind of life is that? What kind of Christian refuses to help another member of the Body just to maintain one’s superior position?” He ran his hands through his hair. “I know society teaches you to ignore soiled doves. I know I’m asking you to get your hands dirty, but—”
“But you’re right.” Lydia wrung her hands thinking about the streetwalker Mrs. Little had pulled her away from, whose eyes and barbed words had haunted her conscience for a week. “If we claim to want them to know the love of Christ but don’t give it, how will they believe?” Her insides quivered at her capitulation. Doing as he asked could destroy her future.
Sebastian wouldn’t approve of her stepping out of this carr
iage.
But Nicholas was the one holding out his hand, a tickle of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly so. And don’t forget your third wish—I’m not asking you to serve as the librarian for free. The salary will keep you in a modest home, with all the books you could hope to read in your spinsterhood—if it came to that.”
He planned to pay her to do something she would’ve done for free? How had she missed that detail?
Her hand shook as she placed it in his before stepping down onto the dirt road. She looked up into his softened gaze, the same look his eyes had sported when he’d attended to Theresa and tweaked Errol’s nose.
Was she wrong to think he wasn’t worried about her? Maybe he just didn’t realize that even with a job, a lady’s spoiled reputation destroyed more than her pocketbook.
16
Nicholas breathed out the tension that cinched up his every muscle, laced Lydia’s arm through his, and pulled her along before she changed her mind and made a scene on the street outside of Queenie’s. If they acted normal, as if they were supposed to be here, no one would give them a second look.
Nicholas received a quick, disapproving glance from Mr. Parker before he drove around to the back of the shanty, where he’d unload the scrap lumber stuffed in the fore and hind boots. Queenie wouldn’t like the extra charity, but he’d see that she took it.
Apparently he’d misjudged Lydia, just as she had him. Perhaps she really did want to do what God desired, considering she’d stepped out with him. And perhaps God had given him the privilege to help her choose to court God’s favor over men’s. It was a hard path to follow, though.
Lydia stared at Queenie’s little shack as they approached, her eyes blinking back fear.
Was he going about this wrong? No, he’d thought this through. But perhaps he was pushing her too hard, too quickly.
Maybe his disgust with Christian hypocrites was playing more of a role in this “teach Lydia a lesson” notion than it should. She was right. Her future was in his hands right now. He’d talked to her mother’s doctor before he’d agreed to these wishes and was told there was no medical procedure he could pay for to slow her inevitable death. And he’d never paid attention to who Lydia’s father was. After making inquiries, he knew why he’d never seen him in church. The man was a well-known gambler, and a poor one at that. Her neat appearance had disguised the level of her poverty.
Marrying Sebastian was a financially smart move, but if that was the only reason, he hoped the library salary would free her to do as she pleased. But no matter how badly he wanted her to break away from the man entirely, it wasn’t his place to advise her to do so.
She had to decide for herself, not simply kowtow to pressure he might exert. Otherwise he’d be responsible for all repercussions.
He knocked on the door and ran his fingers beneath his scratchy collar. After today, they’d have no need to traipse about this part of town. She’d be fine.
“Who is it?” A woman’s suspicious voice called from the other side of a poorly hung door.
“It’s Nick.”
“Come in.”
Lydia shuffle-stepped beside him into the tiny leaning structure.
He needed to let Lydia do as she felt led to do while here; otherwise, anything she did would be his work, not hers.
For some reason, he desperately wanted her to believe in the same things he did, to have the same call to help these people. However, he didn’t want to force her into being a hypocrite of another sort. “Queenie, this is Lydia, a friend of mine.”
The strong-jawed woman in her early fifties glanced between the two of them with disapproval sparking in her eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Nick.”
Lydia pulled her hand from his grasp.
He hadn’t meant to hold on. “She knows who you are and where she is. No one else does.”
Queenie’s censure was clear by the exaggeratedly slow shake of her head. “If I can tell she’s a lady despite her getup, others will too.”
He crossed his arms against his chest. Maybe he’d made a small error in judgment, but this was the best way for Lydia to understand the needs of these people. “She won’t be coming again. I only wanted her along on the initial trip, so you could meet.”
Queenie stood with her hands on her hips, the wrinkles around her eyes hardening. “Initial trip?”
“Yes. Lydia told me I needed to start spending my money on people other than myself and decided someone like you ought to be a beneficiary.”
Lydia’s brows shot up.
Maybe he should have told Lydia that Queenie knew his real identity before they entered.
The older woman’s eyebrows scrunched together, causing her wrinkles to become more pronounced. “You already pay me more than average to mend and launder your company’s uniforms.”
“And now I’ll be freeing you from using those wages for heating this winter. My driver will deliver wood to you each week so you can spend that money elsewhere.”
“I don’t need any more help, Nick.” She stuck one hand on her bony hip. “You already do more for me than you should.”
“It was the lady’s idea.” He pointed toward Lydia with his thumb.
Queenie looked over at Lydia. The older woman’s chin went up a notch, but her shoulders didn’t. “I’m sorry that I sounded ungrateful, miss. I thank you for thinking of helping someone like me.”
“I’m afraid I’m not as generous as Nicholas wants you to believe.” She rubbed her hands together and threw a quick glance at him before taking a hesitant step toward Queenie. “Perhaps you could tell me a little about . . . how you live, being that . . . well, I know very little about you, so how do I know you won’t return to—well . . .” Lydia interrupted herself with a cough and clasped her hands together.
“You’re right to assume a reformed prostitute rarely remains one.” Queenie indicated they should all take a seat.
With only a sofa available besides the rocker Queenie grabbed, Nicholas would have to sit by Lydia or stand.
But the sofa was so short her skirts would likely brush his legs if he sat, and he was already too aware of the scent of her flowery soap mixed with the musty wool cloak he’d given her. He searched for another place to sit, but he ended up leaning against the wall in the corner.
Lydia perched on the edge of her seat as if afraid it would break beneath her. “I’ve been led to believe that a . . . a woman of your . . . former vocation is led by what’s . . .” Her cheeks turned slightly pink. “A deep-seated desire inside you to choose such work. So how do you refrain from returning to living that way if that’s true?”
Lord, help this be a good conversation. Let Queenie’s testimony turn her heart.
“I can’t answer for every woman.” Queenie sipped the drink she’d had on a table nearby, her thin hand trembling. “Some do choose this profession, insist they love it. Though I’m not sure that is true, from what I’ve seen. But even if what they claim is true, they are a minority. Some of the others thought prostitution would answer their problems—lack of work, abusive husbands, the desire to be loved. And others were forced or deceived into the profession. Even the ones who think they’ll be adored because they are pretty enough to start in the fancy parlor houses find out soon enough the only direction they can go is down.” She set aside her glass and sighed.
“Many wish they could leave, but once you’ve given up being a lady, life gets harder. Whether one stays or is brave enough to attempt leaving, there’s hardships of one kind or another. I won’t sully your ears with the suffering working prostitutes face, but a nonworking one often finds herself more alone, more penniless, and more despised than before she was driven into this dark profession.”
Queenie looked away but finally turned back to Lydia, whose face wasn’t what he’d call encouraging, though she didn’t look condemning either.
“If it wasn’t for God’s love and my love for Him spurring me on, I might have gone back . . .” Her
words died off. “I won’t lie. If Nick didn’t pay me so well—more than I’m worth—I might’ve been too weak, too poor to keep from returning. Nick’s gifts are really God’s gifts to me.”
He pushed himself out from the shadows. “Queenie ministers to the women here—when they’re beaten, when they want out, when no one else will have them.”
“I’m rather ineffectual, considering how few try to leave after realizing there’s little hope in returning to good society.” The woman’s hard-edged voice clamped off, and she turned to gaze out the window, blinking her eyes more than necessary. After a long, slow exhale, she pulled up her shoulders. “I appreciate your desire to help me, but Nick provides me with enough. I shouldn’t receive more than he already gives. Others need help.”
That was true. “However, though I may be delivering scrap lumber to you, I’m not forcing you to keep it. If I delivered to everyone who has a need, I’d call undue attention to myself.”
Queenie relaxed. “Understood.”
“I’m afraid we better leave before time gets away from us. We have another stop.”
Queenie nodded and moved to open her front door. “Thank you both.”
“Please don’t thank me,” Lydia said, her voice raspy. She muttered a good-bye and slipped outside.
Nicholas gave Queenie’s shoulder a squeeze before following Lydia to the coach.
Parker stared down at him with a narrow-eyed glare. The man had disliked the idea of bringing Lydia here just as much as Lydia had—and liked the idea of taking her to the next stop even less.
Nicholas looked up at Parker. “Things went better than you expected.”
The older man grunted. “You’re still wanting me to drive to Thick Lip Annie’s?”
“Yes.” He would never again be ashamed of helping others because of people’s disapproval. “But if you don’t want to, I can drive myself.” He wouldn’t force either Parker or Lydia to do anything.
His driver shook his head and made a gesture for Nicholas to get in.
He grabbed onto the coach door and yanked himself inside.
“Thick Lip Annie’s?” Lydia’s face was as pale as moonlight inside the dark interior.
A Heart Most Certain Page 11
