All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy)

by Maureen Lang

  “I’m not saying you were tempted to the work of a sporting girl, or the money that might come with it,” Dessa said. “But there can be a security of income, even from things God wouldn’t approve. Sometimes we allow ourselves to do desperate things if we don’t trust God to take care of us.”

  Suddenly there was a crash at the window—the noise so close Dessa and Jane simultaneously dropped their sewing to lift their arms and protect their faces.

  Then silence.

  “What in the world?”

  A glance at the other end of the dining room revealed the window broken through the center—and a rock the size of Dessa’s palm teetering on the end of the table.

  “Stay here, Jane,” Dessa ordered. She ran toward the front door.

  Commotion down the street drew her attention. A man had a boy by his tattered collar, not far from a carriage stopped behind the most magnificent pair of black horses Dessa had ever seen. The door was wide open, as if the carriage had been hastily vacated by the man who even now yelled and shook the boy. The captive flailed his arms in a futile attempt to free himself.

  When the man caught sight of Dessa, he shoved the boy in her direction, keeping hold of the collar in case the boy had any ideas of fleeing. With his free hand, the tall, slim man managed to tip his hat Dessa’s way. “Is that your home, miss? The one this boy chucked a rock at?”

  “Yes!”

  Stopping only a few feet in front of her, he gripped the child by both shoulders, forcing him to stand at attention before Dessa.

  “Here he is, ma’am. Caught in the act—I saw him myself. I can take him down to the police station if you like. That’s my carriage right there.”

  “Oh no, please don’t.” She looked at the youth, who couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. He was only a bit shorter than she, and dirty from head to toe. “Why did you do such a thing, young man?”

  “I—I just did, that’s all.” He glared at her. “Go ahead, have him take me to jail. I don’t care.”

  “But I don’t want to be responsible for someone so young being sent to such a dire place,” Dessa said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come inside and help me clean up the mess? I’ll give you a cookie. Then the next time you feel like throwing rocks, you might remember the cookie and pick another window to smash. Or maybe you won’t throw any rocks at all. Would that be all right with you?”

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “What kind of cookie?”

  “Shortbread.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll have to come and see. They’re my favorite; that’s why I make them.” She smiled. “I have a feeling you might like them too.”

  She thought he might smile back, but he looked away instead. He did, however, nod.

  “Are you sure you want to take this urchin inside, miss?” asked the tall stranger, still holding one of the boy’s arms. “He’s probably a thief as well as a vandal.”

  “It’s quite all right, sir,” Dessa said. “I haven’t anything worth the trouble of stealing. Won’t you come inside as well? Tea and cookies are the least I can offer to repay you for your help.”

  The man and boy exchanged a somewhat bemused glance, which Dessa found oddly amusing. They looked as though kindness wasn’t to be found in this neighborhood, something she was here to prove wrong.

  Inside, Jane had already set about sweeping up the broken pieces of the window. The boy, evidently eager to fulfill the duty he’d been assigned, grabbed the dustpan she’d left nearby and held it steady for her to collect the shards.

  “Hello there,” Jane said to the boy as she continued the task with his help. “What’s your name?”

  “Ryan. But everybody calls me Rye.”

  “Rye and Mr. . . .” Dessa turned to the man beside her inquisitively. He was staring at Jane and for the moment seemed to be assessing her in a way that suggested he knew what sort of neighborhood he’d ventured into. She’d have to assure him he wasn’t in the kind of place he either feared or had been looking for.

  He was appealing in a rugged sort of way, with a scar splitting one eyebrow. Between the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw, she thought he might have been the inspiration behind any one of the frontier-tale dime novels she knew girls back East regularly devoured. She’d read more than a few herself when she could afford them and had the time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know how to introduce you to my friend, or to welcome you to Pierson House. You’re inside a mission to help those in need.”

  “Indeed?” he said, the brow with the scar rising curiously. “A mission . . . of what sort?”

  “God—and a group of generous donors—have made it possible for Pierson House to open its doors to girls who find themselves in need of a safe place. If you’ve heard of the YWCA, it’s like that.”

  “I see.” He held out his hand toward Dessa. “Actually, I did know you were new to the neighborhood, but I wasn’t sure of your purpose. The rumors around town aren’t always reliable. My name is Foster. Turk Foster.”

  Dessa pulled back her hand ever so slightly before pushing it forward again. She hoped he hadn’t noticed that her first response to his name was to recoil. How silly! It was a reaction based only upon the input of a stodgy, stingy old banker. Well, not so very old. But most definitely stodgy and stingy.

  Mr. Foster accepted her hand, and she shook his warmly. “Oh, Mr. Foster! Thank you so much for the flowers you sent to welcome us to the neighborhood. How did you know they were needed on the very day I hosted a dinner party for some of my most important donors? The flowers brightened up the parlor nicely.”

  He smiled, then without letting go of her hand, he pulled it upward to kiss her fingers. “It was my pleasure. And it is again now, to see they brought you a smile.”

  Rye stood by with the full dustpan, and Dessa reluctantly pulled her gaze from Mr. Foster’s friendly eyes. She directed Rye to follow Jane to the kitchen.

  “Won’t you sit in the parlor, Mr. Foster?” Dessa asked. “I’ll bring in some tea and a plate of cookies—”

  “Oh, no, no, Miss Caldwell. Don’t go to the trouble.” He glanced at the window. “I’ll send someone round this afternoon to repair your window before dark—at no charge to you or to your donors.”

  “How very generous. How can I thank you?”

  He placed his hat back on his head, going to the door. “I’ve an idea. You could accompany me to the opera house on Tuesday night. That’s how you can repay me, if you insist that you need to at all.”

  Desire to agree mingled with her inevitable answer. “I—I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Foster. Except to apologize that I couldn’t possibly go. I haven’t proper attire for an opera, for one thing. My lifestyle is far simpler than those who usually go to such places.”

  He stared at her a moment, making no attempt to conceal a light of appreciation. His blue eyes were clear and bright and at the moment searing right into her. “The more formal opera season won’t start again until fall, Miss Caldwell. If you accompany me on Tuesday, there will be a light musical revue, one that’s sure to entertain even as it requires no formal attire.”

  Instead of being embarrassed by her lack of experience with high society’s seasons, Dessa offered an unabashed laugh. “There, you see? I’ve been inside many lecture halls throughout the country, Mr. Foster, but never once as a patron of the arts. I am a woman of work, not leisure.”

  His smile nearly mesmerized her, accompanied by his avidly attentive gaze—as if he were trying to see inside her soul. It made her feel as though she was the only living person who existed for him at that moment.

  She broke the gaze, reminding herself she’d seen such a thing before. We’re all attracted to beauty and charm . . . but it shouldn’t blind us to all else.

  He wasn’t deterred. “All the more reason for you to taste the theater as it was designed to be. For music and . . . did you say this mission—” he glanced around—
“is from God?”

  She nodded.

  “Then if music is from the gods, you shall hear it as you’ve never heard it before.”

  “There is only one God,” she said, embarrassed when her words came out as little more than a whisper. Rather than looking at his eyes, now she couldn’t seem to take her gaze from his mouth.

  “Say that you’ll come with me,” he said, and his voice, too, was low. Intimate.

  “I . . . I don’t normally—”

  “But I assure you,” he said with a smile, “this will be anything but normal. It will be an experience you’ll never forget. Shall I call for you at eight, then?” He let his gaze leave her face, doing so with such eager appraisal she nearly welcomed the sensation as he scanned her from head to toe. “What you’re wearing today is certainly presentable. Any man would be proud to escort you, and I shall count myself honored.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to agree. It would have been so easy. But an image of the sugar-tongued Bennet Pierson rose to an unlikely rescue.

  “No, Mr. Foster. I’m afraid I cannot go.” Dessa took hold of the doorknob nearby, grateful that it was cool to the touch. She nearly leaned her forehead against the door itself. “I’m very grateful for your help today, and if you would be so kind as to send someone to repair the window, please tell them I’ll provide a very pleasant meal in return. I haven’t any money to pay for the glass, but I’m a good cook and would count the service as a great favor.”

  Mr. Foster turned to the door. “Then I shall accompany my man for the job and share the meal as well.” He winked at her. “One way or another, Miss Caldwell, I intend to enjoy your company.”

  He tipped his hat in farewell and saw himself out the door.

  Closing it behind him, Dessa leaned against the solid wood and folded her arms against herself. It had been a long time since a man had paid her any attention; she’d nearly forgotten what it was like.

  It wasn’t only that she hadn’t allowed the time to get to know any of the men she’d met across the country; she’d been inspired by Sophie.

  Sophie had never once let a man turn her head. She’d been far too sensible, and more importantly, entirely dependent upon God and His direction. She’d never expressed a void in her life for not having been loved by a man. She was, instead, loved by the many she helped.

  And Dessa meant to be just like Sophie. Charming as Mr. Foster might be, she must never forget that she’d once been so desperate for the admiration of a man that she’d freely given away what the women in this neighborhood sold for a fee.

  17

  “SO YOU’LL COME, won’t you?” Dessa asked Mariadela. After Mr. Foster had left, after Rye had been given first a sandwich and then the promised cookie, Dessa had nearly run all the way to White’s Mercantile in search of her friend’s advice. She would stop at the market on the way home for what she would need for dinner guests—Mr. Foster and his glass man, and Mariadela and William, too, if they could both get away.

  But Mariadela was already shaking her head. “We have a buyer coming this afternoon from Cheyenne and a salesman due to arrive any minute all the way from Chicago. I must be here for both. The order from Cheyenne is important, and the salesman from Chicago is bringing sewing samples. William depends on me to know what we need in such matters.” She frowned. “Why do you think you need me there, anyway? Jane is with you now; you won’t be alone.”

  Dessa sighed, looking momentarily at the ceiling but seeing right through it all the way to heaven. How could she explain that Turk Foster reminded her of her greatest failure? One that had very nearly ruined her life? “You know Mr. Foster—”

  Mariadela shook her head again. “I know of Mr. Foster. I don’t know him personally.”

  “That’s more than I know! Mr. Hawkins told me I’d have little in common with the man’s interests. And believe me, from the few minutes I spent in his company, I think I already know the kind of man he is.”

  “What kind of man is he?”

  “One who knows how to get a reaction out of someone else—particularly a woman.”

  Mariadela’s brows shot upward. “Don’t tell me he got a reaction out of you!”

  Dessa looked around to be sure neither William nor any of their children were nearby, then whispered, “Tell me, Mariadela: What would you do if a handsome man made you feel as if you were the only woman in the world?”

  “And that’s how he made you feel?”

  “Let me just say I know that’s what he’s capable of making a woman feel.” Unlike a certain banker who might be every bit as handsome, only he made her feel as though he’d rather be with anyone except her.

  Mariadela grinned. “If it’s Mr. Hawkins who warned you about him, then why don’t you go to him for help? Invite him to tonight’s supper.”

  “Oh, Mariadela,” she said, exasperated.

  Her friend patted her hand. “I wish I could help you, honey. But I just can’t get away. The best I can do is to try to stop by afterward. You can make it clear that I hope to join you for dessert. Would that help?”

  Dessa nodded slowly, though she wasn’t at all sure. This was, she knew, ridiculous. She’d learned her lesson, hadn’t she?

  Bennet Pierson was the only male heir to the Pierson name and money—and as smooth-talking a man as Turk Foster. Bennet had gone through one maid after another, even after his marriage. When it had been Dessa’s turn—just after she’d reached seventeen—she’d been foolish enough to welcome his attention. He was not only older, wiser, and handsome; he was so important, so respected. And he’d chosen her! A girl of no means, an orphan. She couldn’t deny dreaming that she would last longer than the others, if she ever had a chance.

  It had only taken one time for Dessa to realize she’d been as much a fool as the others who’d believed themselves to be special recipients of his attention.

  Thankfully, Sophie had learned what happened and rescued Dessa from ruin by taking her along on her travels. As Sophie used to say, it was God who had rescued Dessa, since He’d inspired the mission to help women in need. Given Dessa’s experience in the Pierson family’s employ, as well as in the orphanage, she had been the perfect choice to understand some of the girls they would encounter.

  But this was neither the time nor the place to tell all that to Mariadela. Perhaps the memory of Bennet Pierson was all Dessa needed to remind her how shallow were the promises of some men.

  Even so, when her favorite market stop took her within a few blocks of Hawkins National Bank, she couldn’t help going out of her way to pass by. Without conscious effort, her steps slowed. Perhaps she’d overreacted to Turk Foster’s visit. Had it only been Mr. Hawkins’s warning that made her so wary of Mr. Foster? And what did it matter what Mr. Hawkins thought, anyway?

  It didn’t, of course. And yet Mr. Hawkins was the kind of man she knew she could trust, even if he’d never offered her more than disapproval over both her mission and how she’d spent his bank’s money. He was an honest man, if a bit curmudgeonly.

  She had half a mind to go in there and invite him to dinner, just as Mariadela had suggested.

  Yet she knew she would not. She kept walking, the grip on her market basket all the tighter. She was no longer that young, naive girl Bennet Pierson had taken advantage of. She could take care of herself—and she would.

  Henry, at one of the tellers’ cages to oversee a rather large withdrawal, spotted Miss Caldwell on the sidewalk outside, slowing in front of the bank. He lost count of the money in his palm. Would she come in?

  But then she continued at a faster pace than before. Surely this street wasn’t on her normal route for errands. Had she intended to come inside but changed her mind? Why? And why would she have wanted to come here in the first place?

  He nearly dropped the money he was distributing to go out after her.

  But instead, knowing not only his duty but that such an action would have been hard to explain—a banker chasing down a woman on the street?—he
went on with his business, just as he always did.

  Perhaps, though, he would have Fallo take him home by way of Pierson House this evening. It was several blocks out of the way, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so.

  It didn’t take the glazier long to install a new pane of glass, and when he neared finishing, Dessa went to the kitchen to check on the last-minute preparations for dinner. Duckling, new potatoes, peas in turnip cups, and dinner rolls she had made yesterday. For dessert, she would serve a silver cake that was just like a golden one except she’d siphoned off the egg yolks—which she would use tomorrow for a vanilla pudding recipe.

  The duckling only needed to cool a few minutes before she could slice it and serve dinner. After asking Jane to fill the glasses with water, Dessa made her way back outside.

  Although the glazier had told her he came at Mr. Foster’s request, Mr. Foster himself had not yet arrived. Dessa wondered if she would be relieved or disappointed if she had only the friendly, middle-aged glazier to share her dinner. She should definitely be relieved . . . and yet, she wasn’t entirely sure that was all she felt.

  However, when she arrived outside to let the glazier know his promised dinner would be served as soon as he was ready, she saw that he and his wagon were already gone.

  In the wagon’s spot was a fancier carriage, the same one she’d seen earlier that day. Mr. Foster’s. She knew because it was pulled by a pair of shiny black horses with long and thick matching manes—a uniquely attractive pair.

  Mr. Foster was just alighting.

  “That’s what I like,” he said with a broad smile, “a woman so eager to see her guest that she comes out to the curb to meet him. As long as I am that guest, of course.”

  Dessa looked around. “Your glazier must have just left. I was about to tell him dinner is ready.”

  Mr. Foster gently took her arm and looped it through one of his, leading her toward the Pierson House porch. “He’s been well compensated, I assure you. But he has a family waiting at home and a wife who would rather he ate dinner only at her table. You understand, of course. This neighborhood has a way of making a woman want to see her man at home, if you know what I mean.”