by Maureen Lang
A rest home for prostitutes was not a sound business investment, even if they euphemistically called it a home for wayward girls. Such things were best left to the churches, where charity was meant to originate. Henry had a business to run, and that meant enjoying profits without suffering unnecessary—or quite predictable—losses.
“This so-called charity idea might be just what your soul needs, Henry.” Tobias looked around, raising a palm to encompass their surroundings. Henry looked too, despite knowing exactly what he’d see: a sensibly appointed room with the highest-quality furniture. He owned no knickknacks or sentimentalities, just a clock on the mantel and an oil lamp in case there was trouble with the recently installed electricity. One portrait hung on the wall, of a man Henry had never known. His mother had told him that man was her father, making him Tobias’s father as well. It was all they had of him, a canvas she’d rolled up and taken with her from Manchester, England, when she and Tobias had come as little more than children. Tobias said Henry resembled him, but Henry didn’t see it.
In truth he wasn’t like his grandfather, or his parents, either. They had worked as hard as he did, or harder, but had little to show for it. Still, the portrait offered investors the human side of Henry, since he had little other family to show them.
“There’s nothing wrong with my soul, Tobias—not that it matters, since it won’t be needed until that’s all that’s left of me. This loan you’re so eager for us to issue is untenable. Have you told the party to seek out the church’s help as I instructed?”
“As I’ve said before, the church has given all it can. The girls—perhaps even an occasional young mother-to-be . . . Well, the idea is to turn no one away, so not all churches are eager to help.”
“Here is your supper, signore!” said Mrs. Gio, her cheerful voice a stark contrast to Tobias’s awkward tone. “Ah, you always bring a good appetito, Signore Tobias. È buono! È buono!”
Tobias had the grace to set aside his annoyed frown over the interruption, an annoyance that was evidently forgotten once a full plate was settled before him. His smile turned serene.
“Thank you, Mrs. Giovannini,” he said, sitting at the table nearby and using it rather than his meager lap.
Henry took another bite of the savory meal and thanked Mrs. Gio on her way out of the room.
A few minutes of silence followed as Henry ate, watching Tobias do the same. As usual, the man ate with gusto, his only sounds an occasional moan of satisfaction over one taste or another. Henry would have been amused if he wasn’t still irritated by the one trait he both admired and detested in Tobias Ridgeway, depending on whether or not they agreed about an issue: Tobias lived with tenacity.
“There are places for such people already,” Henry persisted finally. “Poor farms, I’m told, won’t turn away someone in need. Surely there are already such places within a reasonable distance of a city as large as Denver.”
“True enough, but there are a great many needs those of us who are blessed should not ignore. Much is expected from those who are given much, Henry. And you have been given much.”
Henry washed down the bread—flaky and white, rubbed with garlic butter on its crust—with a glass of the wine Mrs. Gio made and stored in the cellar. He leveled a stare at Tobias. “You’re paid a generous wage, aren’t you? Isn’t everyone employed at my bank given a wage that’s the envy of nearly all other bank clerks in Denver?”
“Yes, you’re a generous employer.”
“How I choose to donate discretionary funds is my personal business, but I’ll not authorize bank funds for something that will undoubtedly bring not a cent in return.”
“But that’s just it, Henry. Miss Caldwell explained how she plans to turn a profit, along the lines of the very poor farms you cited yourself. She intends to teach the girls to sew linens and such to help with the expenses. It’ll not run entirely upon charity, only the initial investment—”
“Which hasn’t a hope in heaven to be repaid.” Henry shook his head and wiped his mouth at the same time. Once his mind was made up, he never changed it. Surely Tobias knew that by now.
“Perhaps not repaid in money, but in satisfaction? In knowing you’ve helped the lives of those less fortunate? Your mother would be proud if you made such a decision.”
“I’ll thank you not to bring my mother into it. As it pertains to bank matters, the relationship between you and me is strictly business.” Henry set aside his tray, as tired of the food as he was of the company. “Go home, Tobias. Aunt Etta is no doubt waiting for you.”
“No worries there; I stopped in before I came here.”
“And ate her dinner as well?”
Tobias shrugged one hefty shoulder, then took another mouthful of the eggplant, squeezing his words out around the food. “There is another reason I think you ought to get involved in this particular project.”
“Any benefit would be hard-pressed to outweigh the sheer nonsense of the proposal.”
Tobias took the last of his bread and scraped it around his empty plate, scrubbing up the last bit of the red sauce. He popped the bread in his mouth, took a final swig of wine, then wiped his mouth as Henry had a moment before.
But when he began to speak, a hearty burp came out instead. Tobias smiled, satisfied with himself. “Pardon me, but that was a delicious meal. I’ll be sure to stop in the kitchen and tell your Mrs. Gio before I leave.”
“You were saying, Tobias? About the benefits of whatever loan you want me to extend? Finish your argument so I can have some peace and quiet.”
Tobias set aside the wine and the napkin, then placed both palms on his brawny thighs with a thud. “It’s this, Henry. You’re a miserable, lonely old banker trapped in the healthy body of a much younger and viable man. I don’t know what’s made you build a vault around your heart and soul and life, but because of a promise I made to your mother, it’s become my goal to see it blown to smithereens.”
Henry cocked his head. “My life? Blown to smithereens?”
Tobias laughed loud. “No, just the vault around it. Once you’re free, I guarantee you’ll be a much happier person.”
Henry might have declared himself happy already, but even he knew that apart from the satisfaction of a successful business, there wasn’t much evidence for such a claim. “And what has this to do with offering a bad loan that will no doubt tarnish the sensible reputation I’ve spent all these years building for my bank?”
Tobias stood, approaching Henry and leaning over him so their eyes were level. “If the goodness of Miss Dessa Caldwell cannot ignite the dynamite it’ll take to do the blasting, then I’ll give up hope for you altogether.”
“By giving up hope, do you mean you’ll stop hounding this soul of mine that you insist I acknowledge?”
Tobias stood full height again, adjusting his jacket, patting his rounded stomach. “Let’s just say I’ll reconsider my tactics should I fail in this venture.”
Henry leaned his head against the plush leather chair. He closed his eyes, eager for peace. “Off you go, Tobias. If the goodness of Miss Caldwell is so extraordinary, I’m sure she won’t have trouble finding the money she needs at her church. Or at another, less practical bank.”
“No, Henry.” Tobias’s oddly stern voice, deeper than usual, caused Henry to open his eyes again. “I came here tonight to tell you this: I put through the necessary paperwork to approve Miss Caldwell’s loan, based on my authority. You can give me my walking papers if you like, but tomorrow morning when she visits your bank, she’ll be taking with her every penny she requested.”
Dessa wiped her brow with her wrist, careful not to touch her bloodstained fingertips to her hair or face.
“By God’s mercy,” she said, cradling a small, wet infant, “you’ve only to deliver the after-matter now, Cora.”
Dessa, with no more training than from books and her role as a silent witness to a number of births Sophie Pierson had assisted, had watched over the delivery of three such infants
on her own since Sophie’s death. She didn’t doubt the regularity of needs like this around here, where even midwives refused to come.
Today Cora’s young friend had taken over the role Dessa used to play at Sophie’s side. Now that the child was delivered, the girl’s eyes weren’t quite so frightened. Not like they’d been when she’d shown up at the back door of the mercantile where Dessa lived, well after it had closed for the day. She hadn’t stopped pounding until Dessa answered.
Dessa was surprised anyone knew she was living in the upstairs corner of White’s Mercantile, especially someone who never frequented the store. But the girl said she’d heard of Sophie Pierson, who’d been everything from suffragette to midwife, wherever support of women was needed. Quickly introducing herself as Nadette, with little more than a plea about helping to birth a baby, she’d pulled Dessa out of the mercantile and led the way—at least a mile—to this forlorn building in the city’s Fourth Ward.
Dessa had yet to spend much of her time in this neighborhood—the very one she hoped to serve. Hobnobbing with potential donors from the more respectable end of town was the only avenue toward establishing the mission Sophie had envisioned. Dessa hadn’t yet graduated beyond that step.
She hadn’t been afraid to follow Nadette here—she knew God was at her side—but she’d taken the opportunity to look around. Not just because she’d likely have to find her own way home. She’d be living in this neighborhood sooner than even Sophie had hoped if everything went well at the bank tomorrow.
“You’ve delivered a fine, healthy girl,” Dessa told Cora now, but as quick as the words were uttered, she turned away from the exhausted young woman, taking one of the cloths Nadette offered and bringing the infant to the washbasin in the far corner of the small room.
The newborn was dark haired, matching the inky hair of her mother. Unlike some of the women Dessa had met while traveling the country’s best—and worst—neighborhoods, Cora didn’t live up to any of the advertisements the more expensive brothels might circulate. She had crooked teeth and a bent nose, a sure sign that this was no fancy parlor house where the madams employed only the prettiest girls. Cora, even now, was too thin in body and face for a calling like this.
Calling. The word caught in Dessa’s mind. This life was no calling; it might not be hell, but it was certainly close.
Dessa gently washed the squirming infant. Such a sweet child, only whimpering to show she was alive, allowing herself to be wiped clean without protest or demand.
“Are you sure you want to give the child to me, Cora?” she whispered, despite her fears that there was only one way this evening could end happily, and that was if Dessa could take the infant to the woman she’d met some time ago who arranged adoptions.
From the bed Cora turned her face away, with not so much as a whimper to match her daughter’s.
Dessa wrapped the child in the cleanest rags that were left, pulling open one of the drawers on the nearby dresser—it was almost empty but for some kind of wispy material—and settling the child there while she turned back to the basin to wash her hands one last time.
“I’ll take care of Cora now, Miss Caldwell,” Nadette said calmly, already taking away the afterbirth and gathering the warmed bandages for Cora’s abdomen and thighs, just the way a midwife might have done. “She’ll be all right with me.”
Dessa left the towel by the basin, pausing a good long moment in hopes of finding a crack in Cora’s demeanor. Would she send a quick glance the baby’s way? Was there indecision on her brow? Any sign could be enough—perhaps through her child Cora might be persuaded away from such a life.
But there was none of what Dessa sought. Cora had known what she was doing when she’d sent for Dessa. She’d been summoned to help deliver the child and take her away, out of this house, out of this neighborhood. To a better life.
If only Dessa could have offered Cora shelter, a taste of life in a safer, more hope-filled environment. Wouldn’t she then long to keep her baby?
Visions of all Pierson House could mean filled Dessa’s mind. Soon she would have the power to offer that very thing to women like Cora. She must have misread the hardness on Mr. Hawkins’s face earlier today—and even if she hadn’t, God could soften any heart. Any heart, even that of a man whose face offered not a trace of compassion.
For now, though, Dessa could only wish the young, now-childless mother well, and then take the baby with her to the woman who would find new parents.
God, oh, God, have mercy on us all!
3
HENRY HAWKINS tipped his hat to each clerk as he passed by on the way to his office. Clerical desks took up one row to his left, while tellers’ cages lined the wall to the right. At the opposite end and closest to his office stood the massive bank vault, built with no expense spared by the best manufacturer in the country and delivered all the way from Cincinnati. Thirteen by eighteen feet, with walls three feet thick, a two-and-a-half-ton outer door, and a fifteen-hundred-pound inner door. Safe from explosives, burglary, fire, or mobs. Safe even from young and foolish masked men with rifles.
Henry’s pride assured him that such a vault wouldn’t fail to inspire a sense of security in anyone who banked with him. He even employed an armed guard twenty-four hours a day, something other banks thought a needless expense for an impregnable safe.
Henry slipped wordlessly past his personal clerk, Mr. Sprott. Like Henry’s home, the office in the corner of the bank was well furnished yet not ostentatious. The quality and size of his mahogany desk spoke of importance, confidence, success, and longevity, without appearing excessive. Other than the hook upon which he hung his hat—and in winter his coat and scarf as well—there was no sign of personal belongings. He discouraged that throughout his bank. This was a place of business, where personal lives were not to be seen.
He sat behind his desk in the light from an arched window, placed high for safety, the panes crossed with iron bars. Because it was an outside wall and farthest from either of the two huge furnaces that heated the radiators, the room tended to be chilly in winter. But Henry didn’t mind; if his office was too comfortable, visitors might linger too long.
As usual when Henry arrived midmorning, Mr. Sprott had left the mail in the center of his desk. The desktop was neat and clear of clutter, offering only a pen and inkwell, blotting paper, a silver-handled ivory letter opener, and an olive-wood string dispenser. Anything confidential or of value to the bank was secured each night: seals and pending letters, account ledgers, and bank stationery.
After unlocking his desk, Henry took a cursory glance at the mail. He found the usual correspondence from his directors, reference inquiries regarding former or prospective employees from cashiers to clerks, a letter he expected from the state outlining banking regulations. Near the bottom of the stack was an invitation from Lionel to a charity event that Henry had no intention of attending.
As he tossed one envelope aside, a smaller note that must have been stuck beneath fell to the floor. Thinking the size identified it as yet another social invitation, Henry picked it up with the intention of discarding it. He made it a practice never to attend social functions, not even for charity. Because he was universal in his refusals, no one could feel slighted. And because he was one of the richest men in the city, everyone on his guest list attended his semiannual gatherings despite not having him attend theirs in return.
A single slip of onionskin fell out of the envelope—the kind of paper Henry forbade his employees to use since it invited the accompanying use of carbonated paper and risk of forgery. Besides, such paper was too thin for easy use, especially for his bold pen stroke, and so delicate that even water could destroy it.
The writing was simple, almost childlike in its printing. He read it once with profound confusion, but even before the words took meaning his pulse began to speed.
There are no secrets from God.
Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.
The note
itself was neither directed to him nor signed. He looked again at the envelope; it bore his name and the bank’s address, but there was no return, not even a postage mark over the stamp.
Henry sprang to his feet, sticking his head around the door. “Mr. Sprott,” he called. “Come here a moment, will you?”
The young man—who couldn’t be much older than Henry had been when he’d returned from college in Chicago—straightened an already-straight tie, then pulled at the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you leave the mail on my desk this morning?”
“Yes, of course, sir. As usual.”
“And did you go through it first?”
“Yes, sir, and removed anything that wasn’t addressed directly to you.”
Henry returned to the other side of his desk, holding up the unsealed envelope. He had slipped the contents into his pocket. “This one, this small one—was it delivered as usual, or was it brought here personally? It was already opened and you can see the stamp was not canceled.”
Mr. Sprott reached for the envelope but Henry kept it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, I see that now, sir. I opened the envelope as usual, but I hadn’t noticed the stamp wasn’t canceled. Shall I complain to the mailman?”
Henry contained his impatience. “No, Mr. Sprott. I only wondered if you knew who delivered it.”
“The mailman, I suppose. It was with everything else he brought to my desk this morning.”
“Thank you, then. That’s all for now.”
With a request that Mr. Sprott close the door on his way out, Henry sank into the leather chair behind his desk and pulled the note from his pocket once again.
Innocuous enough, but for that reference to secrets. A prank? What sort of prank, and to what end? Was the reference to God meant to spur him to church—with hopes of his bringing a tithe? What sort of evangelizing was this, anyway? Was Henry the only one to receive such a thing?
