Courting Kate

by Rich, Mary Lou

  Mark followed him. “What’s that lump under your sleeve?”

  “Had a little accident.”

  “Let me see,” Mark insisted.

  “I’m not one of your sick critters.” Then deciding that Mark wouldn’t leave otherwise, he rolled up his sleeve and took off the bandage.

  A whistle of air slid between Mark’s teeth. “The ax?”

  “No. A deadfall. I don’t want the others to know. Think you might be able to stitch it?”

  “I’ve sewed everything else. Don’t know why your hide should be any different.” Mark left the room. He returned a minute later with an amber bottle, a needle and a spool of thread. “Had this rum left over from the fruitcakes.” He pulled the cork and dumped the liquor into the wound.

  Tanner bit back a curse and closed his eyes against the pain.

  Mark pulled the flesh into place and stitched it, cutting the thread when he was through. His movements quick and efficient, he bandaged the arm. “Keep it clean,” he warned. “We don’t want it getting infected. I’ll check it again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, doc.”

  “You haven’t seen my bill yet,” Mark said, closing the door. As his abused muscles melted into the feather bed, Tanner could hear the boys complaining—about his marital status and about not being allowed to help in the woods. He’d heard it all before, and no doubt would again. But he would not let their complaints sway him. He would not lose one of them the way he’d lost his father.

  Trying to shut out their voices, he turned onto his side and pulled the blanket up over his ear. It must have worked. The sounds became distant and muffled. He grinned and snuggled deeper into his pillow. It was then he realized he hadn’t muffled the sounds at all. His brothers were whispering.

  Suspicious, he sat up and tilted his head, listening. Nothing. He couldn’t make out one word. Flopping back on the bed, he glared into the darkness. They were up to something. He could feel it. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d nip their shenanigans in the bud before they even began.

  Just like he had the last time.

  Chapter 2

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “She has to go!”

  “What would you have me do, Stephen? Kathleen is my cousin. She has no other kin. I can’t throw her out into the street. She has no money. The poor dear has little more than the clothes on her back.”

  Kathleen Deveraux stopped midstride in the hallway, her arms wrapped around a pile of newly washed sheets. Her fingers bit into the worn linen. Dear God, she hadn’t meant to be a burden. She had tried so hard to help. She should have realized. She eased closer to the doorway, closer to the words that were tearing into her soul.

  “Melody, darlin’, I’m not trying to be mean. But I have to be practical.” Stephen Courtney tried to reason with his wife. “You know how difficult it’s been, how hard I’ve worked to feed the two—soon to be three—of us. Now I’m saddled with your spinster cousin as well.”

  “It’s all Uncle Jason’s fault. You’d think he would have had more foresight, especially where the future of his only child was concerned,” Melody stated angrily.

  “Well, he didn’t. The fool gave everything he owned to the Cause, then mortgaged the rest. You can’t blame the bank for foreclosing. He brought it on himself. Listen, I don’t have time to discuss this now. I have to get to work, but we will talk about it later tonight.”

  “Lots of people lost their homes after the rebellion.”

  “But most didn’t blow their brains out,” Stephen said.

  A surge of grief rushed Kathleen, then anger. They were right about her father. How could he have done this to her? To them? But she had to accept blame as well. She’d taken it for granted that Stephen and Melody would take care of her. Never once had she considered their position. As a struggling bank clerk, Stephen barely made enough to support his own small family and the baby soon to come. Their house was tiny, with only one small bedchamber and an alcove that would be the nursery. They had done everything they could for her. She’d done nothing but add to their burden.

  Smothered by waves of guilt and hopelessness, she turned away and silently went into the alcove she’d been using for a bedchamber. She set the pile of sheets neatly on the end of the bed and dropped down beside them. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to think. She had no money, nothing of value. For goodness’ sake, she barely had enough clothes to cover herself. Massaging her temples, she knew there had to be something she could do. But what? The men who normally would have courted her were either dead or financially ruined, as she was, by the war. And she had no training of any kind, unless one would pay for smiling prettily at guests or dancing the latest steps. Somehow she doubted that many of those jobs would be available. Still, she could learn. She glanced down at her hands, rough and red from lye soap. She had learned to do laundry, hadn’t she? Besides, she had no choice. She had to find work.

  Rising from the bed, she checked her appearance in the cracked pine-framed mirror. Tucking a stray lock of ebony hair into the bun at the nape of her neck, she pinched her cheeks to bring a touch of color to her pale skin, then picked up her reticule and headed for the door.

  Wanting to tell Melody her destination but knowing she couldn’t without revealing what she’d overheard, she slipped silently from the house. She’d find either employment or other accommodations. She had to.

  Striving to keep her hopes high in spite of the gray clouds overhead, Kathleen hurried down the dusty street. But it was hard to be cheerful when the gutted buildings and the charred tree stumps reminded her at every turn of the way things had been, but would never be again.

  Before the war, elegant mansions with broad expanses of green lawns had lined the tree-shaded streets. Then Sherman and his Union troops had marched through, burning, looting, leaving Atlanta in smoldering ruins. Some buildings escaped the fire, but most had not. Despite a few attempts at rebuilding, she doubted that Atlanta would ever see prosperity again.

  She pushed open the weathered door of a millinery shop, activating a bell that jingled merrily overhead.

  Immediately a small, white-haired woman in gray dropped the bundle of lace she been working with and hurried forward. “Hello. Can I help you?” she asked, her voice soft and Southern. Her blue eyes bright, the little woman smiled and clasped her hands together in front of her in a gesture of expectation.

  “I wondered if you could use any help?” Kathleen asked, the words tumbling out in a rush of air.

  “Oh.” The smile disappeared and a trace of sadness etched its way across the milliner’s face.

  “I don’t sew very well, but I could learn,” Kathleen assured her. “I could wind laces onto spools, sweep, wash windows. Anything.”

  The woman sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I sympathize with your plight. I wish I could help, but I, too, am in dire straits. I can’t afford to feed a stray cat, let alone hire help.” She moved to her window and adjusted a bonnet on the display stand, tilting the brim to a jauntier angle as if hoping that might lure someone into her shop.

  “I don’t sell many bonnets these days. The Southern ladies can’t afford them. And those Yankees”—she confided in a hushed tone—“order French creations from that Northern Bloomingdale’s catalogue.”

  It was then that Kathleen noticed the neatly mended but worn lace that adorned the cuffs of the woman’s sleeves, the almost threadbare state of her dress. “I understand.” She reached out and touched the older woman’s hand in sympathy, then nodded toward the window where a woman in scarlet silk that boldly announced her trade had paused to peer through the glass. “It looks like you might have a customer, so I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, I hope so. I do hope so,” the milliner murmured softly almost as if in prayer. “Good luck, my dear.”

  Their eyes met, sending each other a message of understanding, of silent hope, then Kathleen nodded and went out the door.

  She paused on the boardwalk next to the gaudily clad shop
per and sent a prayer heavenward for forgiveness for what she was about to do. “That would look perfect on you,” she fibbed. “The colors are exquisite, the workmanship superb.” At least that was the truth.

  “You really think it would look good on me?” the soiled dove inquired in a nasal twang.

  “Madame’s hats are lovely. I’ve heard the Countess Des Moines shops here when she is in the area.”

  “A real countess?”

  Hiding her crossed fingers in the folds of her dress, Kathleen nodded. “One in the queen’s own court.”

  “If a countess can wear her hats, they ought to be good enough for me.” The woman glanced at the display again, then pranced into the store.

  Feeling only a twinge of guilt, Kathleen squared her shoulders and headed down the street.

  Passing several partially destroyed buildings, she entered the general store and approached the proprietor. “I was wondering...”

  “No! Don’t ask.” The thin, sour-faced man pointed to a posted sign: NO HELP WANTED.

  “I would be willing to do most anything,” Kathleen pleaded. “You and every other female in town.” He eyed her up and down in a way that made her want to slap his face. “I do know of one place that is hiring.”

  “Where?” she asked warily.

  “I hear the Gilded Lily is taking on a few new girls.” Again his gaze slid suggestively over her figure.

  Whirling around, she slammed out the door. The Gilded Lily; a house of ill repute. Never. She would sleep under a tree and starve to death first.

  Bypassing several burned and boarded-up buildings, she inquired at the mercantile and the laundry. The answer was the same at each. No work.

  The restaurant owners said they hire only relatives and not even all of them.

  Her hopes sagging, she made her way to the hotel, the only place beside the Gilded Lily where she hadn’t inquired. To her amazement the owner, a Mr. Smythe, offered her a job.

  “One day’s work, that’s all I can give you. Cleaning rooms, scrubbing slop jars.” He paused to see her reaction. “I couldn’t offer that if my wife weren’t sick.”

  Kathleen clenched her teeth to hide her expression of distaste. “How much will you pay?”

  “Pay?” The hotel owner ran pudgy fingers down one side of his drooping handlebar mustache. “I can’t afford to pay hard coin, but I can give you some food.”

  “How much?” If she had to stoop to such disgusting labor, she intended that it be worth her while.

  “A rasher of bacon”—he glanced at her—“and a loaf of bread.”

  “A slab of bacon and two loaves of bread,” she stated firmly.

  “Now hold on here. Do you want the job or don’t you?”

  She narrowed her eyes—and gambled. “You could do it yourself, I suppose.”

  His nose wrinkled. “A half-slab and two loaves. That’s as much as I will go.”

  Better than she had hoped for. “Done. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” Before he could change his mind, she whirled and strode through the door.

  Outside the hotel, she sucked in a breath of air tinged with wood smoke, manure and mud. The rain that had threatened all day now drifted down in a soft, but steady, shower. A forgotten newspaper fluttered on a wooden bench. She picked it up, using it to cover her head from the droplets. She couldn’t afford to get sick, especially now that she had a job. Granted, it was a job no one else had wanted. A Deveraux emptying and scouring slop jars. Her ancestors would be spinning in their graves.

  But then, they didn’t have to worry about a roof over their heads. She quickened her footsteps and hurried down the street. Upon reaching her cousin’s, she urged Melody to lie down and quickly finished preparing supper, a meal of dried beans, salt pork and corn bread. She placed it on the table a few minutes after Stephen arrived home from work.

  The meal was eaten in silence, and Kathleen sensed the tension between Melody and her husband, despite their halfhearted attempts to be congenial. Avoiding their eyes, Kathleen stared at the small portion of food on her plate. She would try to eat sparingly until she found more work.

  Her cousins were unhappy because of her. She could not, would not, allow it to continue.

  After doing dishes, she pleaded a headache and retired to her room. Too restless to settle into bed, she picked up the abandoned newspaper she’d brought home and began to scan the pages.

  She read the society section, finding most of the names mentioned unfamiliar. Understandable, since most of her peers were almost as destitute as she. She poured over the classified, hoping to find an opening for a governess, or a lady’s companion, but found nothing listed. She read and quickly dismissed an ad for a mail-order bride. She wasn’t that desperate. She didn’t know how any woman could consider marrying a man she had never met.

  Finally, her head truly throbbing, she folded the paper and set it aside. She had a hard day’s work waiting for her tomorrow. But at the end of that day, at least she would be able to contribute some food to Stephen’s table.

  And the day after that? Then what would she do?

  * * *

  The next morning, after telling Melody that she was going to the river in search of wild pecans, Kathleen donned her oldest clothes, tucked a much mended apron and a clothespin into a burlap sack, and left for the hotel. The day was cool but clear. That much at least was in her favor.

  She pushed through the glass-paneled door and made her way to the heavy desk where the proprietor sat, going over his ledgers. “Good morning.”

  He scowled and peered at her over his glasses. “Oh, it’s you.” He removed his pencil from behind his ear. “Let’s see, that was two rashers of bacon and two loaves of bread.”

  “No. We agreed on a half-slab of bacon and two loaves of bread.” She stood, waiting.

  “All right. I just wanted to see if you remembered.” He handed her a ring of keys and motioned toward the stairway. “Better knock first. Some of the gents had a late night. They might still be abed.”

  “Where do I dispose of—of...” She flushed crimson.

  He snickered. “In the privy—out back. There’s two tubs in the alley, one for rinsing and the other for washing. You’ll have to carry the water—and dump it when you’re done.”

  “Of course.” She had never entertained any idea that he might decide to help with anything.

  “After you’re done with that, you can clean the spittoons, make the beds, beat the rugs, sweep—” He shrugged. “And whatever else needs doing.”

  “You never mentioned any of that.”

  “You never asked.” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think I intended to pay you for less than a full day’s work, did you?”

  Full week’s work was more like it. “You’ll get your money’s worth, Mr. Smythe.” She tied on her apron and headed for the kitchen to put kettles on to boil.

  The first three rooms were empty, but the chamber pots certainly weren’t. Their stench permeated the very walls. Gagging, she rushed to the windows and threw up the sashes, hoping the fresh air would settle her stomach while airing out the place. She gulped in large quantities of clean air, then deciding she couldn’t very well hang out the window all day, she reluctantly forced herself back inside. She clamped the clothespin on her nose and gingerly moved the containers into the hall; then one by one she hoisted her smelly burden and carefully made her way down the stairs.

  As she worked, her thoughts turned to how to earn more money to help Stephen and Melody. Perhaps if she worked hard enough, did a superior job, Mr. Smythe would find something else for her to do. It was her only hope. There was nothing else in town.

  After she’d placed the last beaten rug on the floor in front of a freshly made bed, she pressed a hand to her aching back and straightened. She had gained a new respect for her former servants. Brushing the dust from her skirt, she headed for Mr. Smythe’s office, saying a little prayer as she walked.

  Mr. Smythe glanced up from the figures he’d
been adding and motioned to a chair across from him. “All finished?”

  “Yes. Unless there is something else...” she began hopefully.

  He shook his head. “You earned your pay, I’ll say that for you. But my wife is feeling better, and she’ll be able to take over tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t there anything?”

  “You’ve done a good job, and if I could afford to hire anyone, it would be you. But the fact of the matter is, we barely make enough to keep ourselves and pay the cook.” He shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “Now, let’s go to the kitchen and collect your foodstuffs.”

  Mr. Smythe had been generous, adding five pounds of beans as a bonus. But as she carried her bounty home, the haplessness of her situation struck Kathleen anew. She had never worked harder, but the hotel owner had stated his position clearly. There would be no more work.

  “Melody, I’m home,” Kathleen called as she entered the house.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Melody stood in the kitchen doorway. “Thank goodness. I was afraid something might have happened to you. Did you find any pecans?”

  “No, but I did obtain a day’s employment.”

  “You worked? Where?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking over some simple chores that Mrs. Smythe was too ill to do. This was my pay.” She removed the foodstuffs and placed them on the counter.

  “Bacon!” Melody bent her cumbersome body, her soft brown curls sliding forward over her shoulders, and sniffed. “We haven’t had any since the war. And the bread...mmm, smells heavenly.”

  “Shall we fry up some bacon for supper?”

  “Yes.” Melody clasped her hands together, as excited as a child. “Won’t Stephen be surprised?”

  Stephen arrived home later than usual and even though he tried to appear cheerful before Melody, Kathleen could tell by his manner that something was terribly wrong.

  Insisting that Melody go to bed early, Kathleen finished the dishes, then went into the parlor to find Stephen staring out the window. “Would you care to talk about it?” she asked softly.