by Maureen Lang
20
DESSA HAD WORRIED that having a man sit at their breakfast, lunch, and dinner table would invade the privacy and female camaraderie she was trying so hard to build between herself and her two new boarders. But Fergal Dunne was more like an eccentric old uncle than an interloper—and he never ate breakfast, leaving at least one meal each day just for the ladies. Plus, through the first week, Fergal had stayed sober.
It was a week of hope and laughter under the Pierson House roof. Over various sewing projects Dessa had designed, they got to know each other. Jane had set a tone of chatty openness earlier in the week, revealing more about her growing-up years in Nebraska, where all her happy memories had been left behind. Since coming to Colorado, she’d found nothing but heartache, at least before she’d come to Pierson House.
Why her father had suddenly left his stable job as a clerk in an Omaha warehouse she would never know. He’d always been so reliable back home . . . not unlike Mr. Hawkins, she’d added. That was how she preferred to remember her father. As a clerk, not as a gold-seeking dreamer, a dejected miner, or a frustrated smelter who’d died far too young.
Miss Remee was slower to reveal her past, at first saying only that she’d left family behind in Indiana. But today, just after lunch when they’d enjoyed a companionable silence for a while, she started talking without even being asked.
She told them her father had never forgiven her when the man she was supposed to marry broke off their engagement because of rumors he’d heard about her. Rumors that were mostly true, about disappearing from a party for several hours with the dashing cousin of her best friend, a young man from New York who dazzled everyone he met. Including and most especially Remee—although it had broken her heart to learn he hadn’t thought her worthy of marriage, not even when the rumors about them spread like dust on the wind.
It hadn’t taken long for her misplaced trust to destroy her reputation as well as her future. So she’d left home to find an independent life in the West, leaving her past far behind her. But like Jane, she’d found the respectable jobs didn’t pay enough to live on. At first she’d supplemented her income only now and then, arranging to meet certain men for a certain price. Eventually, though, full-time prostitution had provided the best financial security she could find.
“I thought I was lucky to get into Miss Leola’s,” Remee finished. “I had my regulars and most of them weren’t too bad.” She lifted her gaze to stare straight ahead, but Dessa could tell from the hardness on the other woman’s face that the memories were anything except pleasant. “But some of them wanted more than what they paid for. I don’t know what was worse: suffering a slap now and then or some pitiful soul begging me to pretend I loved him. They were just renting my body. What right did that give any of them to think they should have something more from me?”
Dessa listened, as did Jane, as Remee talked on. She told of women who had been abandoned by their husbands and forced into the sporting world to take care of the children they sent to boarding schools. About women who ran off from homes where they were ill-used, only to suffer another kind of ill use by society. Women with no trade other than their bodies, foolish young girls who’d been tricked into believing a sporting life was easy and profitable, women who turned to alcohol or opium to lessen the burden that came not only with social ostracism and contempt, but with the deep-down knowledge that they sold something most people believed was never meant to be used in such a way.
“You want this place to attract women like me, Miss Caldwell? You get them here with the promise of making money.” Remee looked at the embroidered pillowcase in her hands. “Not the pittance we can make with things like this. You find a way for a gal to support herself without selling her body, and you’ll see a line of women eager to get in. And when you figure that out, you ought to say something about earning money in those flyers you pass around.”
When a knock at the door sounded, Dessa rose to answer it, sorry that the interruption had cut Remee short. She was no doubt right about the financial needs of women in her situation. But how could Pierson House promise anything but living off the generosity of sympathetic donors?
Opening the front door, she found Rye with a bouquet of flowers so wide he had to hold it with both of his scrawny hands.
“For you, Miss Caldwell. From Mr. Foster.”
Dessa had been about to receive them when the name stopped her short. She should have guessed. This was the third time he’d sent her flowers, along with a note asking once again to escort her to the Tabor Opera House. Would the man never give up?
It also meant she would probably be seeing him sometime soon; the last time he’d sent flowers, just a few days ago, they had served as a prelude to his arrival.
“Come inside, Rye,” she said, not entirely pleased by the pretty bouquet or the note accompanying it. “We have scones on the kitchen table.”
“Yeah?” he said, passing her for a quick jaunt to the kitchen.
At the dining room table, Dessa addressed Jane. “Perhaps you might pour him some milk to go with the scones?”
Jane nodded, but her gaze was on the flowers. “Mr. Foster again?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“I don’t know what Foster is up to,” Remee said, looking at the delivery with raised brows. “From what I hear of him, he’s not the marrying kind. But if you ask me, you’re lucky to have caught his attention.”
“Was he a regular visitor to Miss Leola’s?” Jane asked from the kitchen door. Dessa was glad the girl had stayed long enough to ask, because she wanted to know too. “Is that how you know him?”
“No, I never once saw him there. Let’s just say lots of girls would’ve been happy to give him their services for free. As if he were a mac.”
“A mac?” Jane repeated.
Remee smiled. “I don’t think Miss Dessa would approve of educating you on sporting terms, Jane.” She slid a glance Dessa’s way, then continued despite her words. “Maquereaux like to call themselves ‘one lover to many ladies,’ but they’re nothing but salesmen sampling the wares they sell. And what they sell are the women they’ve likely seduced into the trade.”
“Oh, you mean a pimp?”
“Jane!” Dessa said, surprised the girl knew the term and hoping Rye hadn’t heard from the other side of the door. He might not be much younger than Jane, and he no doubt knew a lot from living on the streets, but Dessa had no desire to add to his education.
The girl’s cheeks pinkened, but she raised her brows in indignation all the same. “I worked in a factory, Miss Dessa. You don’t work in one long before you learn a few things.”
Dessa looked again at Remee once Jane closed the kitchen door behind her. “Do you think Mr. Foster is invested in prostitution?” That was just what Dessa needed, to be inadvertently involved with a man who kept the very business going that she wanted most to fight! “Is there anything I should know, considering Mr. Foster has been here under our roof?”
“I never made it a point to get too involved in anyone’s business but my own, so I don’t know much about Mr. Foster. Except that he’s popular with the ladies on or off the Line.” Remee cocked her head to one side. “Any gal would brag if she’d been to Foster’s place. Lots of deep pockets on the patrons there! If Foster had let us, we’d have attended there every night in the hope of finding rich lovers.”
“He says his place is all perfectly respectable.”
Remee laughed. “It’s a theater, but it’s mostly women who sing and dance on his stage. Everybody stops whatever game they’re playing to watch the shows because they’re so good.”
“But it’s respectable?”
Any trace of a smile on Remee’s face disappeared with Dessa’s persistence. “Look, Foster’s Verandah is as respectable as it gets. It’s not a brothel, if that’s what you want to know.”
Dessa looked again at the flowers and the note. “It’s just that I heard he’s . . . well, I guess you’d call him of the snake v
ariety. Not taking no for an answer suggests he might just be a snake after all. A polite person would stop asking after a time or two.”
“If he is a snake—and I don’t think he is—then he’s a rattler.” She winked. “That’s a gentleman kind of snake. Warns its victim first, you know?”
Later that afternoon, Dessa stopped by Mariadela’s for a variety of plants divided from those in the Whites’ garden. But the lovely greens couldn’t lift her spirits once Mariadela told Dessa her news.
“The Plumsteads are leaving Denver?”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than it sounds, Dessa. They’re going back East to live with family. The donation they made a few days ago will be their last.”
They were on the porch overlooking Mariadela’s yard, where the plants had been neatly tucked in a burlap sack, awaiting Dessa’s pickup. Thankfully there was a set of wicker chairs nearby, because Dessa needed one to sink into.
“Couldn’t they wire their donations here? Or . . . leave something behind, a fund of some kind? Perhaps Mr. Hawkins’s bank could arrange—”
Mariadela was already shaking her head and joined Dessa on an open chair. “I’m afraid they’re leaving because they’ve lost their income. I don’t know the details, but apparently the mine Mr. Plumstead invested in has gone dry. I’m so sorry, Dessa, but we can’t count on them for further donations. Mr. Plumstead even came by this morning to see William. I heard him hint that he hoped to get back the funds he gave us.”
“You told him that’s impossible, I hope! I’ve already handed it over to the bank.”
“I heard William say that very thing. Mr. Plumstead was likely too proud to come directly to you, but he’s known for some time that things were going bad. The truth is they haven’t a penny to spare, especially now.”
Dessa’s chest felt so weighted she could barely breathe. “But what are we to do?” The moment she heard her own words she wished them back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for them. Yet . . . it puts Pierson House at risk.”
Tears heated the rims of her eyes, but she refused to cave in to them. She stood, taking up the burlap bag. There was no sense sitting here wallowing in her worries.
“I know you’ll be praying with me,” Dessa said over her shoulder. “Don’t stop until we have the answer.”
Dessa should have taken a hansom cab but knew sitting still was impossible. She needed to move, to spend some of her nervous energy. Once she reached Pierson House, she didn’t go inside.
She wasn’t yet ready to face Jane or Remee. Leaving the burlap bag in front of the house, she went round to the porch for a garden hat, gloves, and small shovel. She’d never stored such things in the carriage house, not with its faulty door, and since Mr. Dunne had taken up residence in there she was glad not to have any need to go in.
Mr. Dunne. He would have to leave too if they couldn’t afford Pierson House anymore. Her leaden heart sank even lower.
But she refused to give in to the desire to sit down and cry.
It was well into summer, and these plants needed planting. Certainly they would make Pierson House all the more appealing with a garden of its own to greet every visitor. She swallowed the lingering lump in her throat. She’d actually looked forward to this task, but now it came with a sense of desperation. She must make this place at least look like it would succeed!
Oh, Lord, please open some funds from somewhere to help us!
There wasn’t much room between the house and the street, but Dessa meant to make the most of what soil she had to work with. She should have been tired after the long walk from Mariadela’s, but she still had plenty of energy. She dug into the ground without mercy.
The first cuttings went in easily, but she had little sense of satisfaction. Money, she decided, was more trouble than it was worth. Why must she always worry about it? If only the value of a service, not its popularity, determined revenue.
“Good afternoon, Miss Caldwell!”
Dessa turned from her task, the effort to rid her face of a scowl nearly more than she could handle.
Dismounting from horseback was Turk Foster. Apprehension flared in place of her temporarily squashed worries. Setting aside the hand shovel, she removed her dirty gloves and watched him tether his fine, shiny black horse to the hitching post near the curb. The animal—one from the pair he’d used to pull his carriage—possessed an incredibly long mane that, at least for a moment, calmed her senses with a vision of God’s artistry.
“How do you do, Mr. Foster?” she asked as she accepted his extended hand—a gesture he drew out to simply hold her hand. “Your horse is certainly lovely.”
Still not letting go, he looked over his shoulder at the mount. “Yes, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Then, both hands covering hers now, he added, “I’m a great admirer of beauty, which automatically makes me a great admirer of yours.”
Pulling her hand from his gentle captivity, she murmured her thanks, glad when he turned his attention to her work behind them.
“And what have you embarked upon today?”
“It doesn’t look very appealing yet, I admit, but before many days have gone by, I’m hoping this will be the brightest spot on the street.”
Mr. Foster returned his gaze to hers and tipped his hat. “I’m sure it’s that already, Miss Caldwell.” He winked. “Quite sure, in fact.”
She offered a smile before looking away again. Perhaps he wasn’t a rattler, after all. More like one of those snakes a charmer used, that stared before striking. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t neglect my work. I really ought to get back to it.”
He looked toward the house. “Are you all alone? No more boarders?”
“Oh no! Jane is still here, of course, and I don’t believe you’ve met my newest guest.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Actually we have two new boarders. One of them is in the carriage house.”
“The carriage house? Your rooms are full already?”
“We have room for several more ladies, particularly if we put more than one to a room. So if you know of anyone, please tell them about us.” Surely her tone hadn’t matched the desperation in her heart. It wasn’t too late to fill up the rooms, and in so doing attract new donors.
“Sounds like you’re creating a nice little family here.” Then he frowned. “Well, except for the poor creature in the carriage house. Why have you banished one from the house? Someone from Hop Alley, maybe?”
“No, that boarder is a man. I’m not at all certain we should have agreed to take him in, so his stay may be brief. But he has noplace else to go for the time being.”
“And who is this man? Perhaps I can help out, take him off your hands.”
Her brows rose. If Mr. Dunne secured an income, they might ask him to contribute toward the loan payment! “It would be so helpful if you could give him a job. Only . . . I must warn you he has a taste for drink. But if your theater doesn’t sell alcohol, it could work out wonderfully.”
“I’m afraid alcohol flows rather freely at my establishment—to offer my patrons every enjoyment of their choosing, of course.” He grinned. “After a glass of wine or two, all my performers become incredibly talented.”
She supposed she should have been amused by his attempted wit, but the brief moment of hope so quickly burst wouldn’t allow her encouragement of any kind. She shook her head. “Then having my boarder join you can’t possibly work, since Mr. Dunne readily admits he cannot stay away from strong drink.”
“Mr. Dunne?” he repeated. “Fergal Dunne?”
“Why, yes. Do you know him?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And you’d be wise to tell him to leave. He’ll find a way to drink, Miss Caldwell, and be a pest until he does.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but I can’t seem to get him to seek help elsewhere. He insists he doesn’t want to leave the neighborhood.”
“Why leave the land where alcohol flows out of nearly every spigot?”
Dess
a pulled on her gardening gloves again. “Thank you for your concern and advice, Mr. Foster.”
Instead of taking his leave, he placed a hand on each of her arms, effectively forcing her to look at him again. She knew such contact wouldn’t be permitted in polite society but reminded herself she wasn’t sure that was where she lived anymore . . . or belonged.
“Miss Caldwell.” He freed her arms and smiled abashedly over his touch. “I came by to issue yet another invitation to the opera, this time in person, with the hope that you’ll see on my face how eager I am to have you accept. Is there any particular reason you continue to refuse me?”
“I thought I explained already, Mr. Foster. I rarely attend social events unless they’re connected to raising donations for Pierson House.” She’d looked away, but now sent him a quick, exploratory glance. “And if I may be even more personal than that, I don’t participate in behavior that can be described as . . . courting.”
“Now that, Miss Caldwell, is a travesty.” He’d caught and held her gaze steadily, and she did not doubt his sincerity. She shouldn’t let it warm her heart, but it happened anyway, burrowing its way right through her downtrodden mood. “You are a lovely young woman of virtue and generosity. Any man on earth would be pleased to court you.”
Nor should she let him look at her that way. . . . She turned, wishing either Jane or Remee would walk out the front door. Perhaps Dessa should have learned by now how to refuse a man, except that she had encountered so few of them while living her nomadic life with Sophie, and her frantically busy one since settling in Denver.
“Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Foster, but I really must get back to work on my garden.”
Still, he made no move to depart. “You know where that leaves me, don’t you?” The timbre of his voice was light, appealingly playful. Flirtatious. “With no alternative but to arrange a fund-raising opportunity for you.”
Dessa’s weary heart picked up a beat. “What sort of opportunity?”
“To do exactly as you wish: raise money for Pierson House. Why not? I have a theater, don’t I? A business that can be dedicated—at least for one special day—to a cause more worthy than fattening my own pockets?”
