She rolled off him and was on her feet as quick as a scalded cat. “You should have known I’d never agree. You know how I feel about his education. He’d be too worn-out even to study after working up there.”
Tom sat up. “He promised that if he got the job, he’d do his best at school.”
She was shaking her head as she pulled on her clothing. “I hate the mine. Look what mining’s done to my father. I want a better life for Eli, you know that.”
Tom tried to reason with her. “He’s not quitting school. All he wants to do is earn some money in his spare time and the mine’s the only place a young man can do that around here. Cut him some slack, Zelda.”
“He’s not working on the picking tables, and that’s final.” She shoved her feet into her shoes and Tom could hear her fumbling with the laces. “I can’t believe you’d encourage him. You’ve said often enough how much you hate the mines.”
“I do.” Tom kept his voice low, even. “But I’m not Eli, and neither are you, Zelda. Quit trying to live the kid’s life for him.”
He heard her draw in a breath and hold it for a long moment before she released it. “I hardly think you’re well qualified to give me advice about my brother, Tom Chapman.”
Her scornful words were like a blow to the solar plexus, immobilizing him. He heard her fumble her way to the ladder and climb down swiftly.
He heard the back door of the house open and softly close.
She was absolutely right, of course. He’d deserted his own brothers. What the hell made him think he had the right to make a single suggestion to Zelda about hers?
It seemed that Eli hadn’t relied totally on Tom in this battle of wills with his sister, however. Directly after breakfast the following morning, Virgil took his cup of tea and his daughter into the front parlor and closed the door.
Tom and Eli washed the dishes in silence, both uncomfortably aware of the heated, husky sound of Zelda’s voice and the quiet, low rumble of Virgil’s. They were out in the yard, tossing the softball back and forth, when Zelda appeared.
Red flags burned on her cheeks, and her back was ramrod straight. She marched down over to Eli. “Dad and I have agreed that you may accept the job, but if your schoolwork suffers, that will be the end of it, young man.”
Eli whooped and threw his arms around her. Zelda hugged him back, and her eyes met Tom’s over the boy’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” As usual, her apology wasn’t easily made.
The night before her words had stung him deeply, but the hurt faded when he saw the tears shimmering in her brown eyes.
She’d been forced to compromise her ideals, and he knew all too well how that felt. She was doing it as gracefully as she could.
He smiled at her. “C’mon, Eli. Let’s see if we can teach your poor sister to throw a softball properly. Girls aren’t born knowing how, like men are.”
And, of course, that incendiary remark dried her tears on the spot, just as he’d planned it would.
June brought sunny, hot weather, and on the second Sunday of the month, Zelda bullied the entire household into working in the yard, Eli, pretending to complain but actually enjoying himself, slopped a fresh coat of whitewash on the fence and the outhouse.
Her father cleared away the undergrowth from the lilacs at the back of the yard, and Tom was on his hands and knees helping her weed the garden.
Never having gardened before, he expressed astonishment at the way the weeds grew far faster than the young plants.
“It’s a conspiracy. We probably were meant to eat the damned weeds all along. Why else would nature do this to us?” he complained, and Zelda laughed at his nonsense, her hair tucked under the battered straw sunhat. She’d tucked her skirt up and was kneeling on an old sack, vigorously clearing weeds away from her cabbages when Jackson’s cheerful voice sounded from the corner of the house.
“Hey, there, y’all look real industrious. Makes me feel downright lazy.”
Zelda scrambled to her feet and tugged her skirts down, swiping at rebellious curls of hair that stuck to her forehead under the hat’s brim before she realized just how filthy her hands were. She’d had gloves on, but she’d tossed them off, sensuously enjoying the feel of the rich, warm dirt on her skin.
Now she wished fervently that she’d kept them on. Holding on to Jackson’s arm was one of the prettiest, daintiest women Zelda had ever seen, and she felt a total frump in comparison.
Jackson introduced each of them, and Zelda forced a welcoming smile. “How do you do, Miss Day?” She tried to wipe some of the dirt from her hands and succeeded only in leaving ugly black streaks down the sturdy apron she’d tied on to protect her brown work skirt.
“Do call me Leona.” She smiled a dazzling smile. She was wearing an impossibly chic little hat on her smooth golden hair. She had on a dainty white-sprigged dress with immense sleeves trimmed in fine lace. Zelda noted that the lace also edged her neckline, which was low enough to reveal a lush bosom. A delicate cameo on a fine gold chain clung to the base of her shapely throat. She had a soft blue shawl over her shoulders that Zelda identified as cashmere.
The dress, Zelda decided, was cut quite daringly low, taking full advantage of a spectacular bosom. The hand that held the shawl was as soft and white as a child’s, without a single one of the chemical stains from developing fluid that constantly marred Zelda’s hands. The nails were unbroken perfect ovals, without a trace of grime.
Zelda had the absurd urge to hide her hands behind her back, just the way little Eddy did when Isabella asked if he’d washed before dinner.
At that moment, Zelda happened to look at her father. He was standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Eli and Tom, and to a man, they were staring at Leona as if they were under some sort of spell.
They looked for all the world like dumbstruck sheep, and Zelda decided on the spot that she thoroughly detested Miss Leona Day. It was just like that rogue of a Jackson Zalco to admire a woman like this and bring her here.
“It’s fine of you to come visit, Jackson.” Virgil was beaming. He loved company. “How about we all go inside and have a cup of tea and a bite of lunch? It’s getting around that time of day, ain’t it Zelda?”
Furious, she shot him a look. Now she was trapped. They’d stay all afternoon, and she and Tom would miss their walk up to the little cave. She’d have to make polite conversation with a woman she knew would have baked Alaska instead of a brain.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Eighteen
It was impossible to look the way Leona Day did and be intelligent, Zelda concluded, pressing her lips together to stop herself from saying something unforgivably rude.
“I’ll just go in and clean myself up a little and put the kettle on,” she managed to say while looking daggers at Virgil.
Of course, he didn’t even notice. He was too busy asking Jackson about his job at the hotel and shooting admiring glances at Miss Day.
“I’ll come with you,” Leona said with a fetching smile. “I can help with the tea.”
That was the last thing Zelda wanted. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, I can manage fine.” All she needed, Zelda decided petulantly, was Leona around while she scrubbed dirt off her face and hands.
“But, I’d like to help. Please allow me.”
Zelda gritted her teeth and led the way into the house.
Of course the fire in the cook stove was almost out. So before anything else it had to be built up again, which involved kindling and blocks of coal and still more dirt on her hands and arms.
And the kitchen was an absolute mess. Zelda had forgotten that in her eagerness to get outside she’d told Eli just to soak the porridge pot instead of scrubbing it. The kitchen table wasn’t cleaned off, either. There were still dirty cups and the sticky jam pot sitting there. Well, things couldn’t get much worse, Zelda thought morosely.
“You go ahead and wash up. I’ll tidy this away.” Without a thought for her dainty dress, Leona tucked up her lace-trimmed sle
eves and began scrubbing the sticky pot. “I’ve never been in one of these houses before. They’re really comfortable, aren’t they?”
Feeling like a commoner being patronized by a queen, Zelda didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she whipped off her hat and sloshed water in the basin, using a cloth and soap to lather her face. She couldn’t get all the dirt out from under her nails, and when she looked in the wavy mirror, her skin was flaming pink with sunburn. Her freckles had popped out like the weeds in the garden, and her impossible hair was every which way. Horribly conscious of Leona’s perfect grooming as well as her scrutiny, Zelda used her brush with savage zeal and shoved pins in at random.
“I do so love your hair. I always wanted uncontrollable curls like those.” Leona had conquered the pot, rinsed and dried it, and was now clearing off the table. “Even a curling iron won’t make a dent in mine. It’s straight as a poker.”
Zelda glanced at the golden mass, smoothly coiled and perfect under the absurd little hat, and she wanted to snort. She didn’t need this woman’s pity, she concluded in a huff, refilling the kettle and setting it on to heat. She’d been about to excuse herself and change into her good blue dress. Now she decided stubbornly that what she had on would do just fine. Nothing she owned would stand up against Leona’s costume anyway.
“Jackson told me you were a photographer, and of course I noticed your sign out front.” There was something that might have been admiration in Leona’s voice. “I wonder if you’d show me some of your work?”
It wasn’t what Zelda had expected. She eyed Leona suspiciously. “Are you interested in studying photography, Miss Day?”
“Leona, please. And, no, I don’t know the first thing about photography, but I am interested in having some pictures made for publicity purposes. I’m a singer, you see.” Her voice took on a steely, determined tone. “I’m going to become the most sought after singer around, and photographs are the way to publicize oneself. I did talk to another photographer, a Mr. Beaseley, but the man absolutely set my teeth on edge.” She shuddered. “He’s a smarmy little weasel. I couldn’t bear the thought of being in the same room with him long enough to have him take my photograph.”
In spite of herself, Zelda had to giggle. Weasel was the perfect word for William Beaseley, all right.
“Do you sing opera?” Zelda knew very little about music, real music, anyway. She’d grown up listening to Virgil play the mouth organ, and before Jackson moved to the hotel, he entertained them several times with his unusual songs. He’d invited Zelda to join in on the chorus, but she’d realized years ago that she couldn’t carry a tune to save her soul.
“Gracious no, never opera. That’s much too high-brow for me. I never really had any training,” Leona confessed without a trace of regret. “I’m the low-brow dance-hall type, saloons and that sort of thing, lots of volume and innuendo.” She winked.
Zelda was fascinated. “I’d love to hear you sing. Do you perform at concerts?”
Leona shook her head. “Not so far. I’m afraid I’m not considered very respectable, you see. I sing in the bar at the Imperial most Saturdays, and there’s several dance halls in Lethbridge and Macleod that hire me three or four times each year.”
She wrinkled her elegant nose and shrugged. “Not cultivated, but my audience is usually appreciative once I get their attention. And the work pays well.” Her grin was wide and wicked. “Drunken men tend to be amazingly generous with tips.”
Zelda swallowed. “Do you---I mean, isn’t it dangerous, being a woman, alone in such places?”
Leona nodded. “It likely would be without a gentleman friend on hand. Mine is known to be something of a sharpshooter, and we pretend that I’m his lady.”
Zelda struggled not to look shocked, and again Leona grinned. “George is like a father to me, but the illusion works well. When I travel to other towns to sing, he either accompanies me or else sends one of his friends to protect me.” She dimpled and blushed. “Now, of course, Jackson is there most of the time, and no one, no matter how inebriated, would dare challenge Jackson.”
Zelda was captivated. Apart from handing out temperance pamphlets in front of drinking establishments, she’d never really set foot in a saloon. Secretly she’d always wanted to, just to see what it was like. A dozen questions popped into her mind, none of them polite enough to voice.
As if she’d read her mind, Leona volunteered answers to several without Zelda saying a word.
“Of course, I’m still sometimes mistaken for a saloon girl, which can be quite tiresome – ”
Zelda silently substituted prostitute for the more polite terminology and stifled a gasp.
“---- actually, I get to know most of the working girls.”
Zelda, not to be outdone, confided, “I’ve met several saloon women myself. They were not at all what I’d imagined.”
Leona nodded. “Don’t you find that people seldom are, once you get to know them? Several of the women from the Tenderloin have become my good friends, in fact.” Leona looked straight into Zelda’s eyes. “I suppose that offends you, Miss Ralston?”
There was a definite challenge in her voice, one that Zelda knew well; it was the same tone she herself used when, as Virgil described it, she climbed on her soapbox.
“Not in the slightest.” She emptied the teapot and generously spooned in fresh from the tin of good English tea she saved for very special occasions. “I try my best not to be a moral bigot. As far as I can see, we women have enough to contend with in life without being critical and judging one another.”
She was honest enough to feel embarrassed now at her own hasty judgment of Leona. “Back, East, I participated in a campaign sponsored by the Women’s League to save the Fallen Angels. That’s what they were called there,” Zelda explained. “The whole thing was a resounding failure.”
“They didn’t want to be saved, I suppose?” Leona looked amused.
“Absolutely not,” Zelda confirmed. “One of them, a young woman about my age, explained exactly why, in graphic terms that I’ll never forget. Her name was Rosie O’Dale, and she said--- On an impulse, Zelda tilted her head back, put her hand on her hip, and assumed Rosie’s disdainful, nasal tones. “Now why would I wanna be like any of you respectable women? Everythin’ belongs to yer husbands. You ain’t got a penny to call yer own, and you’re called upon to give away fer free what I get paid good fer, nine chances outa ten, to that same man you cook and clean and kowtow to. At least I got a decent bank account to call my own.”
Leona tipped her head back and laughed, clapping her hands in appreciation of Zelda’s performance. “You’ve missed your calling. You belong on the stage, Miss Ralston.”
Zelda flushed with pleasure. “Please, call me Zelda.”
“If you call me Leona.”
They grinned at each other.
“Rosie was absolutely right, you know,” Leona continued. “Wives often do have the worst of it. My friends have plenty of time to themselves. They can sit around and read, or tend a garden, or keep chickens if they want, or sew, or make fancy cookies. But they don’t have to do any of those things, the way they would if they were married. And they can afford to dress in the finest of clothes. Still, according to them, a great many saloon girls choose to get married anyway. They want a husband and children, a family.”
Zelda shook her head. “It gives one pause for thought, doesn’t it? In our soul, we females are all the same. I suppose we’re all just searching for love.” She spread a fresh cloth on the table and sliced bread.
“I couldn’t agree more. If you ask me, I think married women ought to be petitioning for some of the same rights prostitutes have, particularly bank accounts of their own and control of their money. Unfortunately, that’s not a universal concept at the moment. Where do you keep the cutlery?” Leona was setting the table as if she’d done it many times before. “You know, I was terribly nervous when Jackson suggested we come here today. As you can well imagine, I’ve had my difficul
ties with respectable women who don’t approve of my choice of career or my ideas.” She laid knives and forks and spoons carefully beside the plates and centered a dish of bread and butter pickles Zelda had set down.
“Jackson told me you were a woman well ahead of your time, Zelda, and that we’d get along, but you know how men are, they have no real idea of what we women actually think. I suppose I was deliberately trying to shock you just now, to see how you’d react.” She wrinkled her nose and dimpled. “I’m sorry.”
Zelda met Leona’s blue gaze and after a moment they giggled.
“It’s exactly what I do myself,” Zelda confessed. “In fact, I do it all the time, saying things to shock people. I think that for once, Jackson was absolutely right. We’re going to get along fine.” She tipped her head to one side and gave Leona a long, assessing look. “You know, I can’t wait to take your photograph. I think it would be quite impossible to take a bad likeness of you. I have some new portrait techniques I’ve been dying to try, and you’d be a perfect subject.”
“Oh, goodie.” Like a child, Leona clapped her hands. “I can’t wait. Could I come tomorrow at ten, or is that too soon? And I have several friends who desperately want their portraits done as well. My friends, the saloon girls. Are you interested, or shall I tell them you’re fully booked?”
“Not at all. I’m sure I can fit them in.” Zelda would happily photograph the women start naked if they desired, although she’d charge them extra for that, of course. She’d just make certain they came while Eli was at school, Virgil was asleep, and Tom was safely at work.
A shiver ran down her back. Lord, it actually sounded as if she might begin earning some money at her craft. The June day suddenly seemed glorious as Zelda went to the door and called the men in for lunch.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Nineteen
In spite of her assurances to Leona, Zelda was distinctly ill at ease the following week when three exotic creatures of the night appeared at her studio door.
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 80
