by Joani Ascher
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Joani Ascher and…
Hope’s Daughter
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
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From the time she entered the crowded room, Jane was unable to tear her eyes away from the speaker. He stood on the podium, above the noisy crowd, imploring them to be quiet. Lloyd Hammer, the man pictured on the flyer, held up his hands and waited for silence.
“It is vital to our country,” he shouted, “that we insist there be no involvement of either our men or our resources in this trouble in Europe.” His accent, with absent Rs, sounded strange to Jane’s New York ears, but she had no time to think about it as a roar of protest rose from the crowd.
“I have family there,” shouted one man. “We can’t ignore them.” Several people echoed his protest.
Lloyd Hammer held up his hands. “We must,” he said, as the assembled people quieted. “We have just struggled through an era of terrible poverty. We cannot and we must not risk losing what we have worked so hard to rebuild.”
Jane watched people turn to each other, questioning what they heard. She questioned it herself. The thought of ignoring the dreadful trouble in Europe went against her principles and her upbringing. Her father, while too old to have fought in the Great War, had several younger cousins who had, of whom he was exceptionally proud. It was at the wedding of one of them that he had met Hope, a woman who, even though much younger than he, shared his concern for the downtrodden of the world. From everything her father had told her, Jane could not imagine either of her parents agreeing with the man on the stage.
Yet he held her riveted, as he did so many others standing beside her.
Praise for Joani Ascher and…
This book:
“HOPE’S DAUGHTER is a heartwarming look at one woman’s struggle to make her way in a man’s world to save her family and those she loves.”
~Deborah Nolan, Author
~
Joani Ascher’s other books:
“It was the perfect mystery for curling up with on a couple of cold days.”
~Roni Denholz, author of One of These Nights
~*~
“[Joani] Ascher is a fine writer, and she knows how to make all of her characters come alive. That is, except for the murdered person.”
~Essex Journal
~*~
“[I]t would take a sleuth’s sleuth to solve this murder mystery. It’s an impressive piece of work….”
~Essex Journal
~*~
“Ascher is such a fine writer and is gifted in being able to keep her readers at bay. Her characters are well drawn, especially that incomparable, tiny, friendly and shrewd Wally Morris.”
~Essex Journal
Hope’s Daughter
by
Joani Ascher
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Hope’s Daughter
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Joani Ascher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Historical Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2495-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2496-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my mother, who inspired this book
Acknowledgements
My most grateful thanks to the writers in my authors’ group, Deborah Nolan and Kim Zito, for all their help and insights in shaping this novel.
Much appreciation is due to Nan Swanson, whose editorial efforts improved the flow of this book.
To my daughter, Shonna, who was always ready to read and reread for continuity, as well as cheerlead my efforts, I send all my love.
Thanks also to my son Ari, who could help me find my way out of any sentence I had boxed myself into.
And to my husband, David, who can redline with the best of them, there are no words for how much I love and adore you.
Chapter One
February 1941
Jane Baldwin hurried into her room right after work and closed the door, then leaned back against it in wonder. Her vain attempts to keep her lips from rounding into a satisfied smile soon erupted in a laugh, but she had to keep quiet.
It had been easier than expected to persuade her boss, Prescott Weaver, to formally teach her about his business, the trading of stocks. All she had to do was promise never to tell anyone.
Truthfully, Jane was surprised at his willingness. Always so proper and mindful of decorum, he did not seem like someone likely to go against the narrow-minded men of commerce who dictated that a woman could be a wife, secretary, nurse, or teacher, but could not be in business.
Although Mr. Weaver had said he had his reasons, Jane did not know what they were. She knew some things about his dealings, enough to know it was exhilarating and sometimes risky. She wanted to know how to do it well and someday make it her career. All the struggling she had done was over and nothing could stop her now.
Jane was still bubbling with excitement when she dressed for work in the morning. She ironed her blouse with extra care and took the time to brush her wool skirt and jacket thoroughly. As she finished applying lip pomade, her sister, Olivia, came to stand beside her.
“Is something special happening today?” Olivia asked, gazing into the mirror. “You look beautiful.”
Jane looked at her own reflection and knew she did not. No one thought she was beautiful. Olivia was the beautiful one. She was lovely, with her eyes the color of liquid chocolate and equally dark brown hair, which was long, straight and gleaming. When she twisted it into a chignon it emphasized her long neck and sat on her head like a crown. Her creamy skin was flawless, not like Jane’s freckled complexion. Olivia’s buxom, curvy shape had men looking at her from the time she was thirteen. Now, at
seventeen, she had callers daily.
Jane, a little too tall and too thin, had acorn-colored hair that kinked and curled, making it nearly impossible to keep in a proper bun. Her eyes were of no particular color, neither brown, blue, nor green, but some middling shade, which seemed to change with what she wore. She was twenty-one and had been out of college for two years already, due to rapid advancement in school, and she had never had a single date.
“I’m only trying to look like a proper secretary,” Jane told her sister. “Nothing more.”
Olivia seemed puzzled. “You never worry about what you look like. You always say it won’t matter one bit, because you are going to be a career girl.”
Jane turned away from the mirror and her sister. “Don’t be silly. I never said that. It does matter.”
“But if you aren’t trying to attract a suitor…”
“Now stop,” said Jane. “I am being especially careful with my clothes because an important client will be coming to the office today.”
“So Mr. Weaver should dress well,” Olivia said. “That has nothing to do with you.”
Jane reminded her sister about Mr. Weaver’s rules for proper dress. And if I want my own stock brokerage someday, she told herself, I have to learn from the best and follow his instructions. She picked up her purse and walked into the narrow hallway that separated her room from Olivia’s. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your first class?”
“I suppose.” Olivia pulled at her robe belt and went slowly into her room. Jane shook her head. Her sister’s whole outlook, and even her posture, changed when the subject of college came up.
Olivia had started with so much promise. She was a typical bobbysoxer with a fun-seeking outlook to match, yet over the months she attended Brooklyn College she had become increasingly less enthusiastic about school. Jane wondered why, especially since Olivia had pulled straight A’s in the fall term, but did not ask. Olivia was moody enough without her big sister prying into her personal business. Jane would try to find out later what was wrong. For now, she had to get to work.
Jane left the walkup apartment, descending the worn marble stairs and going outside to the street. The cold winter light did little to provide warmth, and the wind tore through Jane’s good wool coat, a legacy of her stepmother, Pearl. She pulled the fox-trimmed collar close around her throat and hurried to the trolley, pushing thoughts of Olivia’s strange behavior out of her mind. There was too much to do today.
When she got to work she struggled to tuck the escaping ends of her unruly hair back into her tight bun. Mr. Weaver would be in soon, and she did not want to see another look of disappointment on his face when he saw her recalcitrant curls.
“Good morning, Miss Baldwin,” Mr. Weaver said, when he arrived at the office. He took a look at the ticker tape as he came in, even before he hung his overcoat and hat on the tree.
“Good morning, Mr. Weaver,” Jane responded, knowing that the Dow Jones Average hovered near 133. She saw him smile, making his brown mustache seem even bigger.
When she first came to work for him Jane was surprised such a young man would wear such a big mustache. She soon decided his round face would look childlike without it. His baby blue eyes added to the youthful image he tried so hard to hide. He also had several unfortunately placed cowlicks in his light brown hair, which no amount of hair dressing seemed able to conquer. At twenty-six, his face could pass for that of a twelve-year-old, except for that mustache.
Yet somehow, with his tall form in his loose-fitting tailored suits, the mustache did not look silly. From what Jane had heard, he had dozens of young society ladies clamoring for his attention. While she held him in the highest esteem, she had done everything she could, since getting her job, to guard herself against personal feelings for him. She knew she would only be hurt in the long run, because a man like him would never think of her that way.
****
Prescott Weaver noticed as soon as he arrived at work that Jane looked different. Her honey-colored hair, usually unruly, was neatly tucked into its bun. Although he had often experienced a strange urge to touch her escaping curls, this looked more businesslike.
She seemed different this morning, with more color in her cheeks, more sparkle in her hazel eyes, and he thought, a touch of lip pomade. She disdained putting makeup on her pretty face, as far as he knew, saying it was not for serious career-minded ladies such as she but for upper-class society women with time on their hands.
He could not help remembering, though, as he looked at the ticker tape, that she had come from an upper-class background, and if not for the crash of the stock market, her life might have been more like that of those other girls.
Yet somehow he doubted that. One of the things he admired most about Jane was how she took care of not only herself but others as well. She was so kind that she even took care of that poor gangly boy Horace, her sister Olivia’s friend, when he was left orphaned and alone. She had gone so far as to find some delivery work the boy could do here on Wall Street to help make ends meet.
She was also thoughtful of her employer. She never missed an opportunity to do something nice for Prescott, from finding a new nib for his favorite fountain pen to bringing him an autographed baseball her father had once caught at Ebbets Field, just because he mentioned his childhood idolization of some of the players.
“Good morning, Miss Baldwin,” he said, hanging up his hat and coat.
“Good morning, Mr. Weaver,” she responded, in her soft, melodious voice.
Prescott went into his inner office. Jane had truly been a find, when she came to work for him two years before, and he appreciated her interest and enthusiasm for his business. Jane was quite astute, and if he let his imagination roam and ignored the tradition of men only in the field, he could foresee the day when he attained his seat on the New York Stock Exchange and she would be the one to manage the office, counseling clients and calling in buy and sell orders. She was eager to learn everything, and he was willing to teach her. If the truth were known, she had not had to work very hard to persuade him to be her teacher.
She would probably never be in the position to need the knowledge he was so happy to impart. He knew that someday someone would come along and convince Jane to leave the business and marry. That man would be one lucky fellow.
Meanwhile, since Prescott had no family money to fall back on to help him with the payment for his seat, not since his father had cut him off, it would be some time before he could afford to buy it and require an associate.
****
At ten past eleven, Mr. Weaver’s client, Hugh Canfield, arrived. As usual, he was accompanied by his wife, a woman many years younger than himself, swathed in furs. Mr. Canfield had been one of the few lucky ones who avoided the crash of ’29. He had taken his money out of the market and bought real estate, precious metals, and some oil wells. Since then he’d lived an extravagant lifestyle, with several homes, and a country club membership in each locale.
He belonged to one where Mr. Weaver’s father, a prominent attorney and longtime friend of Mr. Canfield, was also a member. That was where he first met Prescott Weaver.
“It’s good to see you, my boy,” said Mr. Canfield. “I hope you’re ready to make some more money for me.”
Mr. Weaver smiled. “Of course. I have some paperwork I’d like to show you.” He turned to Jane. “Has it come in yet?”
“No, sir. I’ll go get it.”
“Stay here,” said Mr. Weaver. “I’ll get it. Make sure my clients are comfortable.” He went out, closing the door behind him.
“He’s a real pistol,” said Mr. Canfield as Jane led him and his wife into the inner office and indicated where they should sit. “His own man.” Although Jane had heard the story several times, she did not interrupt.
“Did you know that he defied his father’s recommendation, to go into law, in favor of a business career?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “and he lost his father’s tuition suppor
t. His father is a fool for not seeing how capable and hardworking Prescott is. Why, if I had a son like that…” He did not finish his sentence but looked quickly at his wife.
She gave him a frosty look.
He took out his pipe, filled it, tamped down the tobacco, and lit a match. “I wanted to help Prescott out,” he said, between pulls on the pipe to light it, “so when he opened his office, I decided to invest a small portion of my money with him. He’s done well with it.”
Mr. Canfield was a decent man, Jane knew, yet his cold-as-ice wife was another story.
Mrs. Canfield was elegant, with carefully coifed hair and manicured nails on fingers that displayed diamonds and rubies. Just one of her earrings would have been enough to pay the rent on Jane’s apartment for six months, though she seemed unconcerned by their value. She pulled off the heavy earrings and rubbed her lobes before dropping the jewelry into her purse.
Mr. Canfield seemed momentarily annoyed about his wife’s carelessness with the earrings. He did not look like a man to regard investments lightly. There was a lot Jane could learn, she knew, from studying the transactions Mr. Canfield made.
Jane could get lost in the subject of stock trading for hours. Mr. Canfield had on several occasions remarked that she had a knack for the market. “Too bad you aren’t a man,” he had said. “You could have had a bright career.”
Jane smiled. “Can I get either of you anything?”
Mrs. Canfield, who had slung her mink-collared Persian lamb coat over one of the office chairs, revealing a bright red wool dress from Saks Fifth Avenue, narrowed her eyes. “I think Miss Baldwin has more important things to think about than our little investments,” she said. “Perhaps a young man?”
Jane felt her face get hot, and suddenly the drafty room seemed to have a warm breeze running through it. Nothing could have been further from the truth, nor in all likelihood, would it ever be. “C-coffee or tea?” she stammered.
“Nothing for me,” said Mr. Canfield, attempting again to light his pipe. He succeeded, exhaled slowly, and turned to his wife. “For you, darling?”
