Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  The neatly painted portal swung wide. “My dear!” Luella Spivey clucked upon seeing Amelia. “Come in! We’ve all gathered to see our poor Narcissa.” Mrs. Spivey practically snagged Amelia’s sleeve and reeled her in through the front door before slamming it closed.

  Once inside the spacious foyer, Amelia was bustled into the sitting room through the lavish French-striped portieres that swagged either side of the double-door opening.

  “Our Amelia is here,” Luella announced.

  Amelia looked around the room decorated in grayish blue with sage accents and Nottingham lace curtains covering the windows. She took in all those who were in attendance: Mrs. Dorothea Beamguard, Mrs. Esther Parks, Mrs. Viola Reed, and Mrs. Altana Applegate.

  Mrs. Parks sat on the ottoman, her ample bosom straining the bodice fabric of her dress. She balanced a teacup and saucer on her lap while she discreetly adjusted the front of her brown puff-bang wig. The most nosy and interfering of the group, she spoke first. “My dear Amelia, we’re so glad you could come and see Narcissa. We’ve all been beside ourselves with worry. She won’t tell us a thing.”

  “It’s awful not knowing,” chimed Mrs. Reed. She chose a cucumber sandwich from a plate on the side table. “But you did know she was in poor health. You were with her at the doctor’s office.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Parks said, resuming her tea. “Do tell. What is the matter with Narcissa? She’s being so vague.”

  The plump Mrs. Beamguard helped herself to a chocolate cream arranged on a candy dish. “Narcissa is upstairs and won’t say what’s wrong. Simply put, she insists she’s merely tired. I don’t believe her. I say it’s her gall bladder.”

  “My guess is gout,” Mrs. Spivey put in, strolling into the sitting room. She plopped her wide bottom onto an overstuffed chair and pursed her pink lips—a jarring contrast to her frizzy orange hair. “I think Narcissa has too much free time on her hands. That’s the problem. She doesn’t exercise enough. You know what Dr. Pierce says in The People’s Common Sense Medical Advisor. Exercise sends sluggish blood through the veins and arteries to keep one fit.”

  “I disagree with your diagnosis.” Mrs. Reed nibbled on the crustless edge of her bread. “If she had gout, we’d all know it. But I do agree she doesn’t take in as much fresh air as she ought. I’m not talking about garden or home exercise, either. Our children put the bloom of color on our faces. In order to keep after them, we must take in air. She doesn’t have children like the rest of us, so she—”

  Mrs. Parks was waving her hand to silence the woman, her wig shifting. “My dear,” the ticket agent’s wife whispered, “aren’t you forgetting our Amelia doesn’t have children either?” Then added on a flip note, “Or a husband, for that matter.”

  Viola Reed glanced at Amelia who stood in the doorway, hat in place, gloves on, and still clutching her parasol. Amelia didn’t feel the sting of the gossip because she knew the women for who they were. Mostly well intended, but with little care as to the other’s feelings when curiosity abounded. The lot of them—except, perhaps, Altana, who generally remained neutral and quiet—had come to feast on Narcissa’s ailment and make of it what they would. And should they not be able to guess the extent of what was making Narcissa ill, they would invent something just to fuel their conversation.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Amelia said at length. “It’s no secret I’m not married, and it’s certainly out of the question that I would have a child.” She didn’t bother to enter the room entirely. “But I think you would all do well to remember our Narcissa isn’t feeling well, and any comments made in haste would upset her.” Glancing around at the faces, Amelia couldn’t help adding, “I’m glad Narcissa isn’t amongst you to hear your prattle. I’m going up to see her.”

  The women stood in unison, eagerness in their expressions. “We’ll go with you,” the five of them replied together.

  “By myself, if you please,” Amelia stated, and turned on her heels to take the stairs. Lightly touching the railing, she ascended to the second floor. She went past several doors, then came to the third on her left. It was ajar, but Amelia raised her hand and knocked.

  “Who is it?” Narcissa asked, her voice sounding weak.

  “It’s Amelia.”

  “Come in.”

  Amelia went inside the light and airy bedchamber and found Narcissa at her writing desk, having changed into a white sateen wrapper. Her hair was unplaited and fell loosely about her hips.

  “Thank goodness it’s you.” Narcissa set her pen in the inkwell. “I was afraid one of them had come back to see if I’d eaten the tray they left. Why is it when women come together, they have to bring food?”

  “Because,” Amelia replied, setting her basket down on the desk, “we want you to keep your strength.”

  “Not you, too?”

  “Yes, me, too.” Amelia lifted the red gingham cloth. “I brought you biscuits and honey. I heard the doctor say you must keep up your meals to regain your strength.”

  “Biscuits and honey are one of my favorites.”

  “I knew that.”

  Narcissa rubbed her temple. “Dr. White said it would be another month before the sickness comes to pass. I feel . . . well, not at all what I thought I would feel like to be carrying a child. I thought I would be full of energy and full of life. I’d heard stories of sickness, and here I am suffering from an upset stomach. But you know, it’s not at all bothersome. I’m just so glad . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “So glad I have the chance to throw up. Do you know what I mean?”

  Amelia wished she could offer a counter opinion, a different point of view on the subject. But she could not. Unfortunately, the ladies downstairs were far more experienced with pregnancy than Amelia ever would be.

  “You’ll be feeling better soon, I’m sure,” was all Amelia could advise.

  “Dr. White says in another month I should feel more like myself.” Narcissa sipped a glass of water, then stood. “I was writing down words of inspiration for Cincinatus. He hovered over and pampered me after seeing me home. I couldn’t stand it. I sent him back to his office to work on his Fourth of July speech, but I’m certain he isn’t worth a whit. He kept jabbering and carrying on, so when he left, I gave him the bottle of smelling salts Dr. White gave me before we left his office.”

  Amelia smiled.

  Narcissa glanced out the window and said vaguely, “Can you imagine . . . my yard will have my child playing in it one day. I won’t have other women’s children to mess up my planters, or play in my tree, or spill dirt on the porch. It will be my son or daughter, and I won’t be angry because I’ll love them so much.”

  Amelia swallowed the heaviness in her throat. She couldn’t imagine. Blinking rapidly, she tried not to let Narcissa see her hurt.

  Narcissa turned from the curtained window. “Amelia . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean . . . oh . . . how careless of me!”

  “It’s all right. I’m happy for you, Narcissa. I truly am.”

  Narcissa embraced her, and it was all Amelia could do not to cry. Narcissa, on the other hand, had no trouble letting the waterworks flow. Easing back, she dabbed her eyes with the corner of a lacy handkerchief she’d produced from the pocket of her wrapper. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m happy and sad all at once. I can’t seem to control my tears, and at the same time, I’m laughing.”

  The ring of the doorbell echoed through the house, and Amelia sighed. “Who else could be calling?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Narcissa sniffed and ran her fingertips under her eyes. “Widow Thurman hasn’t been by.” Then, as if remembering something, she gasped, “But do you know who came to call? Emmaline Shelby.”

  The name sort of sliced through Amelia. She suspected the laundress had a severe case of infatuation for Frank Brody. Just like everyone else in petticoats. “Whatever did she say?”

  “Nothing much about me. She wanted to know about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.
She wanted to know what your relationship with Mr. Brody is.”

  Amelia’s heart tripped in her ribs. “My relationship with Mr. Brody is purely business.”

  Narcissa furrowed her brows. “From her tone, I would guess she thinks otherwise. She kept asking me—in a roundabout way—what you do in his saloon.”

  “All I’ve done is practice on my piano.” Amelia held fast to the handle of her sun shade. “The piano,” she rephrased. “He insists it’s his, and I’ve grown weary of arguing with him. But I know it’s mine—even though he won’t admit it.”

  Growing thoughtful a minute, Narcissa said, “I wasn’t going to mention this to you, dear, as well you know I voted against the piano going to that saloon. But I did hear why the women voted in favor of the upright being moved to the Moon Rock.”

  “Why?” Amelia countered with interest.

  “Because, Esther Parks confided in me, they want to see for themselves if Mr. Brody really can slide a beer mug along the bar and make the glass stop wherever he wants.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “I’m sorry to say I’m not.”

  “I suspected there was more to their change of hearts about the lessons, but I didn’t want to accept they’d do it just to be able to see the interior of that saloon,” Amelia said. “I was here in Weeping Angel when they did everything in their power to shut down Charley Revis’s shebang and were very close to succeeding when . . . well, you know what happened.” Amelia put her fingers on her forehead. “Oh, I knew they were enthralled by Mr. Brody’s showplace, but I never thought things would go this far. Besides, who’s to say he’ll perform that little trick for them—if indeed he can?”

  “Dorothea Beamguard can be very persuasive when she sets her mind to it. She’s a shrewd businesswoman. You know it’s really her that runs that mercantile. She has Oscar on puppet strings.”

  Amelia took in a long breath. “I’m appalled. Pure and simple. Why if I didn’t need the—” She stopped herself short. Even her best friend didn’t know she needed money. Narcissa would insist she take a loan if she knew. Amelia was better off not telling a soul.

  “Need what, dear?”

  “Need the diversion,” she offhandedly rephrased. “I would call a stop to the entire thing. I wouldn’t give lessons. Then where would they be? Certainly not inside that saloon.”

  Narcissa didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “Forgive me for asking . . . oh, blame it on my condition if you must . . . but what exactly does it look like in his saloon? Are there naked ladies on the walls?”

  “Not a one.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Perhaps a little.” She sighed. “I wanted to find fault with his establishment. Actually, the interior is tasteful—for a saloon. Not that I’ve been in any others.”

  Narcissa went to the window again and pressed her palm on the glass. “Whoever came hasn’t left yet. It must be Widow Thurman, and the ladies are giving her an earful. I suppose I’ll tell them all tomorrow and be done with it. Today I want to keep the news to myself—and those dearest to me.”

  “Well,” Amelia said, “I’ll leave you to your rest and see whoever it is out the door. Would you like me to clear the house?”

  “No. I’ll leave that to Cincinatus.” Narcissa turned to face Amelia. “He gets great pleasure in ousting them from the parlor with a stern voice that fairly shakes the rafters and leaves their feathers flying.”

  Amelia laughed. “I’ll come back for the basket tomorrow.”

  “Do.”

  “Good-bye, Narcissa. And, I am happy for you. Truly.”

  Narcissa smiled and Amelia took her leave. She went down the hallway feeling exhausted and angry all at the same time.

  So, now she knew for certain.

  The ladies voted against her because of their fixation on Frank Brody and his high-class parlor. If only Frank had been a mangy old coot . . . that upright would have been in her parlor this very moment. Amelia wasn’t sure Dorothea Beamguard even liked the man. Dorothea may have thought he was a handsome devil, but the woman still had a low tolerance for drinking halls. That conviction sure hadn’t stopped her from wanting to peek into one, and the piano had given her the perfect excuse!

  As Amelia reached the landing, she was building a fine speech on the bonds of female loyalty, but all words fled her mind when she heard Frank’s laugh coming from the sitting room. She took the stairs swiftly, paused in the foyer, and peeked around the edge of the thick portieres.

  Frank sat in the center of the silk damask sofa, tiny plates of food balanced on each knee—a mound of sandwiches on his left, and a pile of confections on his right—while holding a cup of tea and saucer. His fingers seemed too large to keep the English china handle steady, but he was managing. He took a sip, then before he could figure out where to put the cup, Luella Spivey whisked it from him to set on the service cart.

  “Mr. Brody,” Viola Reed chirped, “you haven’t taken a bite of the watercress. I made them.”

  “And I made the cucumber,” piped Dorothea Beamguard, her lips thin and eyes a vivid blue.

  Frank selected one of the small squares of bread on the top and ate it in one bite.

  Luella Spivey sat forward from her place in a wing chair. “Try mine. It’s that one.” She pointed, and Frank obliged by picking it up while still chewing on the first.

  Amelia watched for long minutes. Watched as Frank cleaned the entire plate of sandwiches, ate every last chocolate and molasses brittle, and washed it down with two cups of tea that had to be room temperature.

  He was grabbing the crisp serviette off his thighs when Esther Parks called out, “Amelia, dear, is that you lurking in the portieres?”

  Amelia stiffened, feeling like a mouse caught in a corner by half a dozen cats. Backing away from the curtain’s edge, she took a small step forward. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Whatever are you doing hiding?” Luella asked, but didn’t give Amelia the opportunity to reply. “Look who’s come to pay his respects to our Narcissa.”

  “I can see.”

  Frank gazed at her, and Amelia refused to meet his eyes. What was he doing here—besides feasting on loaves of finger sandwiches and boxes of candy? The last she’d seen of him was when she’d gone back to the Moon Rock to collect her music bag. He’d been sitting at one of the tables doodling in a ledger book and hadn’t paid her any mind accept to say good-bye.

  “Mr. Brody brought Mrs. Dodge cattails,” Altana Applegate said in her naturally soft-spoken voice. She was thin and tall, with prematurely gray hair matching the color of her eyes, but she was still pretty, and Amelia liked her.

  “How nice.” Amelia glanced at the jardiniere stand and the cupid vase full of furry brown cattails with long flat leaves. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Brody. Socializing. I would have thought you would be socializing in your saloon.”

  “Pap’s tending the bar while I’m gone.” Frank leaned back, soaking in the attention with his long legs stretched out before him. He overpowered the room, making everything inside seem dwarflike. “I would have left right away, but the ladies insisted I eat a few sandwiches. They were real good.”

  They tittered—all accept Altana. And Dorothea Beamguard who kept her skeptical facade up, but Amelia knew better. Dorothea may not have approved of Frank’s occupation, but she knew an opportunity when one presented itself. Her petite sandwiches were her pride and joy and had gained her entrance to many a parlor. She was probably on the verge of asking Mr. Brody about the beer mug stunt, stuffing him with food so he’d do as she asked.

  Agitation worked through Amelia. Why, of all the two-faced, dirty tricks! The ladies were consorting with the enemy, conversing around him, feeding him, and giving him flirtatious glances despite not wholly approving of his establishment. These were the same ladies who’d shunned any saloon in town, other than Lloyd’s, and had forbidden their men to set one foot through the doors of the Moon Rock until all the fancy furni
shings began arriving. Each day as lavish and expensive decor had passed through those cut glass doors, their curiosity had mounted. And now because of the piano, they’d apparently found exactly what they’d been searching for—a respectable excuse to view a disrespectable saloon.

  “I thought bachelors preferred their independence,” Amelia commented. “To live by self-sustenance.”

  “Who ever said that?” Frank meshed his fingers together. “A man who can’t cook worth a damn appreciates the flavors that come from a woman’s seasoned kitchen. Take Mrs. Beamguard’s cucumber sandwiches.”

  Dorothea sat straighter, her chin high. “What about them?”

  “They were my favorite.”

  Dorothea shrugged, but couldn’t contain a blush. “There’s nothing to them, really. Just sliced cucumber—from my garden, of course—a dash of salt and pepper with mayonnaise sauce. No trouble at all.”

  “Just my point.” Frank crossed his leg, putting his foot on his knee. The polished black of his boots shone, the leather looking comfortable and supple. “I wouldn’t go to the trouble of slicing cucumbers. I’d be more inclined to open a can of beans.” He regarded the women in the room carefully, omitting Amelia from his perusal. “You know, that’s one reason a man gets married. So he can have someone cook for him.”

  Altana stood with haste, her fingers covering the gasp on her lips. “My goodness! I should have been home to start supper an hour ago.”

  “What time is it?” Mrs. Parks asked.

  Viola Reed exclaimed, “Half past four!”

  “We must be off!” Luella rose.

  “Ladies, you’re too late.” Frank’s voice made them freeze. “I saw your husbands heading over to the Chuckwagon for something to eat.”

  “What?” they cried.

  “Yeah,” Frank replied without inflection. “One-Eye Otis’s special tonight is cowboy beans and red bean pie.”

  “Egad!” Luella cried. “I’ll have to give Saybrook peptonic bitters for certain. Beans in moderation are good for the digestive system, but anything in quantity begets dyspepsia.”

  “Grenville’s stomach can’t withstand the Chuckwagon. I’ve lectured him not to eat the food there.”