by Maureen Lang
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Sprott left, only to return with a stout woman in a cream-colored gown and the tallest, most ridiculously feathered hat Henry had ever had the misfortune to see. She waddled toward him, both hands outstretched.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hawkins! You do recall inviting my husband, Samuel Hamilton, and me to your lovely home this past winter? My husband has been trying to get you to join the Denver Club—it’s attracting all the best men of the city, I assure you. And I represent the Women’s Anti-Saloon League. Both organizations would be happy if you would visit—”
Though Henry had politely risen to his feet upon her arrival and accepted one of her extended hands in a brief greeting, he now took his seat again, despite the fact that she had not yet done so herself. If she were as meticulous as he guessed, she would see it as the slight he meant it to be.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. . . .”
“Hamilton. Mrs. Samuel Hamilton. Esther, if you like.”
“Yes, well, Mrs. Hamilton, I’m very sorry but my responsibilities here at the bank leave me little time outside the office. You understand, of course.”
“Oh, but you must eat, mustn’t you, Mr. Hawkins? I’d be—that is, my husband and I would be ever so pleased to have you to dinner. We’d love for you to meet our daughter! A true beauty, so says everyone who meets her. Can we plan for you to come, then? Saturday evening? Or perhaps Sunday afternoon? Surely you don’t work every day of the week! Even someone as dedicated as yourself must take time for rest. It’s not good for the soul to work all the—”
“Mrs. Hamilton,” Henry said, in a tone so firm he was pleased to see her mouth clamp closed, “if your daughter has recently become of marriageable age, then I am far too old for her. If she has been of marriageable age for some time, then I shall be blunt and tell you she is far too old for me. In any case, I am not in the market for a wife. Good day, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“But I don’t understand, Mr. Hawkins. What would be the right age?”
Thankfully, Mr. Sprott came through the door just as she finished her question, sparing Henry the need to extend an impolite answer.
14
“I’D BEEN LOOKING FORWARD to this task myself all week, in fact,” Tobias said to Henry as he settled a sign across Henry’s desk. “But Etta’s train is due in from Cheyenne at last, and I’m eager to greet her. You understand, don’t you, Henry? She’s been gone an entire month, after all. So you’ll do it—if not for me, then for your dear aunt?”
“Is there some reason you can’t deliver the sign tomorrow? Why must it be today?”
“Because it’s Friday! And as you can see from the sign itself, the first lesson will be on Tuesday. If Miss Caldwell is to have the benefit of advertising, even a single day could be a lost opportunity.”
For the first time since Tobias had placed the sign on his desk, Henry looked down to see what it said. “Free Beauty Lessons, Tuesdays at Two.” He harrumphed. “What’s this all about, anyway? Is she trying to rescue the kind of girls who frequent that neighborhood or just make them more profitable?”
“The former, I assure you. She’s attempting to beautify the soul. Something we could all benefit from.”
The latter words were somewhat mumbled, and Henry knew to whom his uncle referred. He harrumphed again.
“Enough grumbling, Henry,” said Tobias. “You’ll do it, then? Perhaps if you accomplish the task before lunch, and you’re nice enough, she’ll offer you a meal in the bargain, or at least a piece of pie. She’s owed you one, you know, ever since we left that luncheon without dessert.”
Henry doubted Miss Caldwell would see it that way, though he couldn’t help but admit to himself the reluctance he exhibited was entirely fabricated. He wanted to see if her first client remained under her roof—a client his bank had inadvertently supplied. At least some of his money was going to a cause he might find worthwhile: saving someone from repeating the same kind of stupid mistake he’d made.
“Very well. I suppose I can affix it to the bottom of the other sign whether she is there or not. Have you the tools? A hammer?”
“Miss Caldwell has everything you’ll need.”
Henry eyed his uncle suspiciously. If he didn’t know better, he would say Tobias was beginning to sound like one of those mothers eager to arrange a meeting with their daughters.
“And, Henry?” Tobias said as he opened Henry’s office door to exit. “Take my advice and go just before lunchtime. That way you’ll have a better chance of being offered something to eat.”
Whatever doubts Henry had a moment before disappeared with that suggestion.
Not that he had any intention of following through with his uncle’s ploy. He wouldn’t allow himself to arrive on her doorstep waiting to be fed like some stray cat.
Henry stepped from his carriage, taking the sign with him—along with the hammer and nails he’d stopped to purchase. Instructing Fallo, his driver, to wait, Henry stared at the home Miss Caldwell and his money had purchased. It was quiet, like the rest of the street at this time in the late morning.
Not wanting to do exactly as Uncle Tobias had suggested by waiting until lunchtime, Henry had set out for supplies not long after Tobias left his office, just after midmorning. But the process of leaving his office and searching for the right materials had taken longer than he’d expected. First he’d been detained by Mr. Sprott, then again at the bank entrance when one of his biggest investors had stopped by. Then the mercantile he’d hoped would provide the kind of hammer he wanted hadn’t had one in stock, so he’d ended up going to White’s. It had taken him a full five minutes to decide whether to go inside or look for another store. Despite having sat at the same dinner party with William White the other day, Henry had been avoiding the man for years and planned to continue doing so. It was hard not to recall just how close their competition had once been, when Henry nearly drove White’s Mercantile out of business.
William, however, had been unavoidable once Henry went inside. Even so, he was every bit as welcoming. Particularly when Henry handed over the money for the hammer and box of nails.
So here it was, nearly lunchtime after all.
Spotting the sign Tobias had affixed next to the open bay window, Henry approached. Tobias had found a way to drill hooks into the caulking between the bricks supporting the window. All Henry needed was to attach this sign to the bottom of the one already hanging. There was ample room to do so and still have this addition visible from the street.
Henry held up the sign to center it, but just as he did so, he overheard voices from the other side of the open window.
“My mother always said a woman should dress modestly. To her, that meant just plain ugly, I think. Dresses hung on her even worse than they hang on me. I guess that’s why I thought God must want women to dress in a way that hides everything.”
Henry stopped. He recognized Jane Murphy’s young voice and anticipated hearing Miss Caldwell’s in return. He took a step back. He should leave. If he made any more noise they were sure to hear him and would likely come outside to investigate.
“But you don’t have to look any further than a sunset—or a bird, or a fish, for that matter, if the scales shine in the right light—to know God delights in beauty! And we’re made in His image, so of course we’re naturally attracted to beauty.”
Henry started to back farther away from the window, aware that his indecision about whether or not to make his presence known did not give him permission to eavesdrop. But he heard Jane respond and stopped to listen.
“I know men like beauty. Some think almost any woman is beautiful. I guess that’s why there are neighborhoods like this one. They’re looking for a beautiful woman, or for a drink that might make one of them beautiful.”
Miss Caldwell’s brief laugh coincided with the slight movement of the curtain on the breeze. “For a while, anyway.”
“Do you think everybody who . . . well, who lives in this neighborhood is go
ing straight to hell for their sins?”
Hellfire talk. Worse, hellfire mixed with women talk. Still, he was curious to hear what Miss Caldwell said about that.
“No, I don’t. God tells us outright that some behavior is sin, and other behavior seems to be punishment enough without having it named a sin. But no matter what people do, have done, or will do, God’s seen it before. He went to the cross so we don’t have to be punished.”
Now Henry really should go, but his feet would not obey.
Instead he lifted the sign in place as noisily as he could, then gave it a good whack just for the sound of it, without even a nail. It occurred to him at that moment that he might have sent Mr. Sprott to perform this task, or even employed Fallo to do it. And yet here he was, about to make a fool of himself if he didn’t complete what he’d come to do.
“Oh! I wonder what that is.”
Two inquisitive faces soon appeared at the center pane, the filmy curtain pulled aside. He looked up but only nodded an acknowledgment, putting a couple of nails between his lips so he wouldn’t be expected to speak.
“Hello!” Jane Murphy’s pleasure at seeing him was unmistakable in her tone, aside from the broad smile on her face. How had he been fooled, even for a moment, that she was a boy? She looked every bit the girl today.
Beside her, Miss Caldwell looked every bit the woman. Her hair was piled atop her head, soft and loose, with a few curls framing her face. Her shirtwaist, what he could see of it, was pure white and close fitting. Just now she offered him a smile he couldn’t help but return. He nearly dropped one of the nails, so he let them fall into his palm.
“I came to hang the sign Tobias had made for you. It won’t take long, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“But it’s lunchtime!” Jane said, looking from him to Miss Caldwell. “Isn’t it?”
Dessa tilted her head and considered him with pleasantly raised brows. “Have you eaten, Mr. Hawkins? We’re having leftover chicken pie, and there’s more than enough for all three of us.”
Chicken pie wasn’t exactly the blueberry he’d missed from that first luncheon, but it was a fine substitution. He nodded before the refusal already forming in his mind would deny him what he really wanted to do.
Dessa took up the used plates from the kitchen table, glad that the meal seemed to have pleased Mr. Hawkins despite the informal setting. He’d eaten enough to prove that; the chicken pie was gone.
Jane had done most of the talking—Dessa found the girl to be a pleasant chatterbox, but a chatterbox nonetheless—and Mr. Hawkins had answered her many questions, though he’d done so in his usual one-syllable way. Had anyone else ever tried robbing his bank? No. Was that because of the guard he hired? Yes. Did he like working with money? Yes.
When Jane spoke of her father, saying he’d been a clerk at a warehouse back in Nebraska, a shine of love came over her face, followed by unmistakable grief. She said she thought he’d have been better off working in an office here in Denver instead of at the smelting factory. But it was the only job he could find after his try at mining failed, and so he’d done his best until the day he died.
“He was a wonder at numbers and taught me everything I know,” Jane said. For a moment she looked ahead with a smile as if she could see his face, then back at Mr. Hawkins, her expression earnest. “I can add and subtract without paper and pencil, and I’m faster than most. I saw an arithmometer at the textile factory, and oh, how I wanted to try it. Do you have any at the bank?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need any more help in the bank? Another clerk?”
“No.”
Dessa caught a glance from Mr. Hawkins and wondered if he’d had enough questions for the day. “Speaking of the bank, I’m sure Mr. Hawkins must return to his duties.” She let her gaze meet his. “It was so kind of you to make the time to hang the sign for me.”
He stood, obviously having taken her words as a prompting to leave—when all she’d really meant was to spare him more questions that he obviously didn’t enjoy answering.
But before leaving the kitchen, he turned back to Jane. “Work hard at whatever you choose to do, Jane, and maybe someday when you’re a bit older you’ll find a place in my bank.”
From the opposite side of the table, Dessa sent him a smile over the back of Jane’s head. How could she have doubted he had a heart?
Both Dessa and Jane escorted Mr. Hawkins to the front door. Jane held out her hands and asked him to wait, then hurried to the mostly wilting flower arrangement still sitting in the corner of the parlor.
“You can rescue the last of the flowers, Mr. Hawkins!” She boldly took hold of his lapel and looped a flower into the empty buttonhole provided for such things. “My father always told me wearing a flower on his coat reminded everyone around him to smile.” Then, looking rather sheepish, she turned to Dessa. “I hope it’s all right?”
Dessa smiled. “Perfectly. That was the last one holding any freshness. I meant to carry them out this afternoon.”
“Still from the dinner party?” Mr. Hawkins asked.
She nodded. “A Mr. Turk Foster had them sent over. Do you know him?”
“Foster.” The single name came with more than a frown; it came with obvious dislike. “I do know him. Do you?”
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine why he sent the flowers, except the boy who delivered them said they were to welcome Pierson House to the neighborhood.”
Mr. Hawkins turned to take his leave, but hesitated. He looked at Dessa. “Miss Caldwell, you may rightly think I have no business offering you advice, but let me assure you, Mr. Foster’s interests aren’t likely to be compatible with yours.”
Then he placed his hat on his head, bid them both a good day, and left the house.
15
“MISS CALDWELL? Miss Caldwell?”
Dessa stirred at the sound of her name. It took a moment to realize the voice was not at her door, but came from the open bedroom window facing the back of the house. Throwing off her covers, she glanced at her watch on the bedside table to see that it was just past two in the morning. With some alarm, she went to the windowsill and knelt beside it to look out.
A girl not more than fourteen years old stood on the weedy grass that grew between the laundry-line poles and water pump. “Oh, Miss Caldwell! You remember me, don’t ya? Nadette. I took ya over to Cora, to help her with her baby? I’m still deliverin’ the laundry to places like hers ’til I get me a spot in the business.”
Dessa had been hoping Cora might turn up to ask about her baby—safely placed in a good home—but so far she hadn’t. Perhaps Nadette had come to find out.
“Cora’s baby is just fine, Nadette. Living in a home with two fine parents right here in Denver.”
“That’s good. Cora woulda liked that.”
“Would have?”
“She’s dead. Swallowed the carbolic she used to ward off the syphilis ’stead of usin’ it like it shoulda been used. Found out it didn’t work to prevent syphilis anyhow, but it worked all right to kill her.”
Dessa sank back on her heels. “Oh no. That’s just awful, Nadette. Why didn’t she come here instead?”
“Why would she? You couldn’ta helped her get rid a the burn.”
“No, but . . .” Dessa, fully awake now, wanted to scream at the pain and waste, but only allowed herself a swipe at her tearing eyes. “Why don’t you come in, Nadette? You can live here and never join the Line at all.”
“You got yourself a pie-ano in there?”
“A piano? No, I’m afraid not. But maybe someday we will.”
“Well, it don’t matter anyhow. I come because there’s somebody else who might want to stay here, not me. Only she ain’t ready just yet. She don’t—I mean doesn’t—want nobody to know she’s even thinking about coming. She’s only three doors down from here, Miss Caldwell! She promised to put in a word for me over there if she ever left, and so I’m trying to hurry it up. If I get to talkin’ better, I can
take her spot straight off, and as you can tell, I’m workin’—working—at it. You reckon those beauty lessons you’re startin’ might teach me how to talk better? Or is it just for lookin’ prettier?”
“It’s for inner beauty, Nadette. Come on Tuesday and find out all about it.”
“I don’t know if I can, ’specially if it won’t make me prettier on the outside. . . . So you’ll go and see my friend tomorrow, then? Right down the street? She goes by Miss Remee, only she ain’t no madam like the name sounds. She’s just a sportin’ girl, same as I wanna be.”
“No, Nadette! Come here instead. I’ll find a job for you, and pretty clothes, and you’ll have a safe place to live.”
But Nadette was already shaking her head. “You want me to be some kind of shopgirl? Pshaw, I’d make barely twelve dollars a week, and I don’t talk good enough for that anyways. You can’t get me a job that’ll bring in the kind of money I can make at one of them nice houses—like the one down the street! That Miss Remee can make fifty dollars in one night. I aim to hold out ’til I can get me a spot like that. A nice place with a pie-ano, too, ’cause I can play anything I hear. And besides the money, the madam buys the girls all the pretty dresses they want. They got candy there too.”
Dessa had folded her arms halfway through Nadette’s tirade. “She buys those dresses without expecting to be paid back?”
Nadette shrugged. “If you’re in the business, it’s all the same. Pretty clothes on the girls bring in men with more money, and that’s what I want. So, you gonna do it? Visit Miss Remee?”
“But if she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s thinking about leaving, my visit won’t—”
“That’s just it, Miss Caldwell! You don’t hafta convince her; you could get her in trouble with a visit. Why, they’re apt to throw her out on her—well, toss her right out on the street any day now. Nobody talks to her but me, she’s so uppity. But the men like her, so Miss Leola keeps her on. If she’s tossed out, she won’t have noplace else to go but here. She won’t go down to the cribs, let me tell you that! She’s likely to leave the business altogether. She just needs a little push, is all.”
