Engaging the Competition

by Melissa Jagears

  “Two hours?” Lydia turned to the clock at the back of the office and her heart sank. Two hours and fifteen minutes to be exact. She rubbed her hand down her face. “You say he isn’t coming back?” If only he’d returned and donated a few dollars toward the quilting project, the moral society might excuse her for missing half their meeting. She didn’t relish telling Sebastian’s mother that she’d not only failed, but had lost herself in a book she wasn’t supposed to be reading as well.

  “Yes, ma’am. On Monday afternoons, he goes to his office at the Mining and Gas Company.”

  All the way down Maple Street—in the opposite direction of the church.

  “I’m afraid we didn’t realize you had other business or he’d have returned.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “No other business. I hadn’t finished my proposal.”

  “I thought I heard him decline.”

  “Without fully knowing what he rejected. He’ll change his mind when he hears the rest of what I have to say.”

  The secretary’s mouth twitched, an apparition of a smile on his thread-thin lips. “Mr. Lowe never changes his mind.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” Lydia picked her embroidered reticule off the floor and swatted at the wood curls clinging to its tassels. “I’ll bid you good day. I’m afraid I’m late.” She inclined her head, swept past him, and raced toward Teaville’s Freewill Church as fast as she could without breaking into an unladylike stride.

  Thankful for uncrowded sidewalks, she rushed across the alleyways as the strong north wind whipped through and spiraled up her cloak. She eyed the bicycle shop window as she clipped along wishing she had enough money for one of those contraptions. But she never would. Unless she married Sebastian. And then she’d have no reason for one. She’d have a personal vehicle.

  She wiggled her slightly cold toes as she waited for traffic to clear and imagined fur blankets and coal heat in a cozy black buggy for the upcoming winter. She crossed the brick street, then raced past the line of hardware stores. Turning north onto Walnut, she kept her focus on Freewill Church’s stone bell tower while strong gusts sent newly fallen leaves pirouetting about her ankles.

  The heavy front doors of the massive sandstone church slammed behind her, and she scurried down to an out-of-the-way room in the dank basement. About a dozen women sat around the room’s large quilting frame. Half of them were the matriarchs of the church, the other half their daughters or young women without children.

  She slipped onto the bench behind the quilting frame next to Evelyn Wisely—the woman closest in age to her—and ignored the pointed stares of the women who’d stopped chatting.

  She took the needle Evelyn handed her. “I’m afraid Mr. Lowe kept me waiting.”

  “You’ve procured a donation, then?” Rebecca Little narrowed her eyes, turning the wrinkles in her brow into deep rivulets.

  This woman could very well be her future mother-in-law. Unfortunately, they’d never gotten along, and not at all since her son, Sebastian, had begun courting her. “No, he didn’t allow me more than a dozen words.”

  Mrs. Little harrumphed and returned to her stitching.

  Bernadette Wisely, the pastor’s wife and Evelyn’s mother, pulled her thread through a blue-sprigged calico quilt block. “Ah well, we didn’t expect anything.”

  “So why bother with him?” Lydia stabbed her needle into her block. “Why, I’ve never once seen the man give an offering.”

  “For shame, Lydia,” Evelyn spoke softly, then dropped her gaze. “We should only answer to the Lord for our giving.”

  Criticism from gentle Evelyn bit. Lydia swallowed to wet her dry throat. “But that’s just it. I’ve never seen him give.”

  Evelyn pulled a loose thread from a frayed block. “At one time or another, I’m sure all of us have done something that everyone in this room would denounce if we opened ourselves up to criticism.”

  If Evelyn had done anything worse than swat a fly, she’d be surprised.

  “Like watching who puts what in the bag, perhaps?” Mrs. Little snapped her thread, her dark eyes intense.

  Lydia glanced around the room at the handful of ladies who’d found other places to look, all except Charlotte Gray—Charlie. She looked ready to hogtie their group leader—and if not for her mother sitting beside her—she likely would have. Dressed as Charlie was, in a man’s Stetson, split skirt, and thick boots, it wouldn’t have been surprising if she had a rope hidden amidst the folds of her skirt.

  Lydia shook her head slightly so Charlie wouldn’t come to her defense. “I just meant I don’t think it matters who talks to him—Mr. Lowe won’t give.” Lydia dropped her gaze to her stitches. “Why not have me petition someone else? Mr. Johansen, the police officers, perhaps the men at—”

  “I gave you one person with whom to prove yourself.” Mrs. Little shook her head. “Do you give up that easily?”

  Lydia forced herself not to sink lower in her chair.

  “I’ve spent months convincing people to give to my husband’s and son’s campaigns.” Mrs. Little’s face grew sterner. “Raising funds is necessary if we want politicians in power who’ll eradicate the red-light districts blighting Kansas, flaunting state law.”

  Ladies’ murmuring in assent hummed around the room.

  Lydia stared at the swirls in the fabric pattern. If she didn’t succeed in obtaining at least a small amount of money from the wealthiest man in the county, Mrs. Little might convince her son she wasn’t qualified to be his wife. As a state representative, he’d want a wife who’d collect votes and funding by the handfuls—like his mother did.

  Charlie’s foot stomped. “I could hogtie Lowe till his fingers fell asleep. That way he couldn’t pinch pennies anymore.”

  “Exactly why we’re not sending you, Charlotte Gray.” Mrs. Little glared.

  Charlie’s mother elbowed her, and with a huff, her feisty friend surrendered to her mother’s silent plea. Charlie found her needle again, the one she’d been trying to thread since Lydia’s arrival.

  Poor Charlie. If she hated anything more than sewing, Lydia had no idea what it could be.

  Lydia didn’t particularly enjoy coming to this quilting group either, with the way Mrs. Little ran things. But how else could she help others? Her family was poor. All she had to give was time and sewing skills.

  “Dearest . . . ” Bernadette gripped Lydia’s shoulder and sneaked a glance at Mrs. Little. “Perhaps you should try again.”

  “I have faith in you.” Evelyn flashed her an overly encouraging smile, but its brightness paled under the encompassing shadow of Mrs. Little’s scowl.

  Well, she had about as much faith in herself as Mrs. Little, so it was time to trust God. Surely He’d blessed her with tenacity and Mr. Lowe with a huge bank account so people poorer than herself could get what they needed for the winter.

  She’d darken Mr. Lowe’s door as often as it took to get warm quilts into every drafty shack, whether the miser liked it or not.

  Chapter 2

  “You have such beautiful hair. It’s a shame to put it up.” Mama glided into Lydia’s bedroom like a ghost, though the scent of her homemade rose soap proved she still lived. Sarah King’s slow smile transformed her haggard face a tiny bit—but not enough. She took Lydia’s comb and a handful of her daughter’s hair and threaded her fingers into the dark waves. “So like mine used to be.”

  Lydia’s gaze drifted from Mama’s pallid features to her thinning hair. She’d rather imagine Mama as she once had been, but Lydia only had a few more years, maybe only a handful of months to look into those eyes, pale blue like her own. Hopefully she’d make it to her twenty-third birthday, for twenty-two years with her mother was simply not enough.

  Lydia took the comb back before Mama could turn her wavy locks into a massive cloud.

  “Did you have a restful nap?” Lydia warmed some hair gloss in her palms to weigh down her subtle spirals and pushed her hair forward, making a pleasant puff above her
forehead.

  Mama didn’t answer. Her eyes were duller than usual.

  Lydia stopped pinning up her curls. “Mama, what is it?”

  “Did Papa tell you Dr. Lindon came today?”

  “Again?” Lydia’s breath caught. “Why?”

  She wouldn’t meet her daughter’s eyes. “Have you seen your father since you’ve been home?”

  “No, but I thought nothing of it. It’s payday.”

  Mama’s shoulders slumped, and Lydia squeezed her canister of hair gloss but refrained from crushing it. Why couldn’t she keep from speaking ill of Papa when it only upset her mother? He was a ne’er-do-well, and nothing would change that. Mama knew it, she knew it, the whole town knew it. Venting her frustration over him gambling when medical bills needed to be paid wouldn’t make her mother feel better.

  Mama grabbed hold of the bed’s steel-pipe footboard and lowered herself onto the mattress. “Dr. Lindon believes my time to leave this Earth may be sooner than later.”

  Lydia’s throat clogged. Moisture pressed against her eyes, hot and thick. “How long?” Her raspy voice tattled on her threatening tears.

  “Now remember, according to his prediction last year, I should’ve been frolicking with our Maker eight months ago.”

  Lydia moved over to the mattress and snatched up her mother’s hand.

  “I’d rather not voice his newest prophecy.”

  “Oh, Mama.”

  She squeezed Lydia’s hand pitifully.

  “Does Papa know?”

  “Yes, he was here.”

  A stab of guilt pervaded her chest. She’d so quickly jumped to the usual conclusion of his whereabouts. For all his ill-fated business schemes and lackluster fathering skills, he did love Mama. Well, as much as he could love anything that didn’t involve a wager.

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, my dear.”

  How could she not? If he didn’t constantly put them in a lurch, her mother wouldn’t need to excuse his behavior. Lydia nodded but didn’t look Mama in the eye. “I should stay in tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “No, you should go, now more than ever.”

  “But—”

  “I can’t have you hovering over me for the rest of my life.” She looked away. “I won’t tether you to a sickroom.”

  “But a watched pot never boils. If I stare at you all day, every day, I might get to keep you forever.”

  A tiny smile perked Mama’s grayish lips. “You look lovely. Sebastian will be enchanted with how you’ve done your hair.”

  Tears pricked her eyes again at the change of subject. If it wasn’t for Mama’s wish for her to marry, she wouldn’t bother going. “Let us hope.”

  If she could marry before Mama took to her deathbed, perhaps her mother’s last days would be easier. She rose and kissed her mother’s temple. “Wish me luck. I’m stopping by Mr. Lowe’s gas company before dinner. Mrs. Little thinks procuring a donation for our project will prove whether or not I’m capable of raising campaign finances and garnering votes.” Could she really win Sebastian’s admiration by proving she could raise funds? But what else did she have besides a pretty face and a petite figure to entice him into a commitment? “Though I’m certain I’d have an easier time convincing a turkey to crawl up on our table and stuff itself for Thanksgiving than getting Mr. Lowe to hand me a penny.”

  Mama laughed, but her chuckles turned into deep, throaty coughs. Lydia exchanged Mama’s blood-spotted handkerchief for a fresh one. She shouldn’t have made her laugh. She put her arm around Mama’s frail, trembling body, seized with spasms so hard she feared her mother’s bones would crack.

  After the coughing fit ended, Lydia brewed the doctor’s special tea, thankful the fit had subsided enough she felt comfortable leaving.

  “Go, and have a merry time, Lydia dear. After you pluck Mr. Lowe’s feathers, of course.” She smiled wanly as she pulled the sewing basket closer and pulled out the dress the neighbor’s wife had ordered. “I shall be fine.”

  “I’ll return home the moment dinner is over.” She frowned at the garment her mother would insist on working on instead of resting like she ought. “Though I expect you to be in bed long before then.”

  “Of course, my dear. Do not fret.”

  Then why did God give her so many trials? The Almighty seemed bent on testing her lately. She retrieved her secondhand evening coat and leaned over to plant another kiss on Mama’s moist forehead. “I shall try.”

  As she stepped out of doors, a buggy clattered past on the brick street of her run-down little neighborhood, and the autumn wind played in her unruly hair. She hugged herself against the cool breeze, but the second she descended the first stair, her father appeared from behind the bushes separating their dismal yard from the road, his gaze pinned to his feet. Then he about-faced and stomped the other way.

  “What are you doing, Papa?”

  He glanced at her, then returned to pacing.

  She wanted to huff and walk past, but what if he was worried about Mama? If so, how short a time had the doctor given her? She looked over her shoulder. Should she leave the house if any minute could be her mother’s last? She gripped the porch balustrade. “Papa?”

  “What, Lydia?” His unkempt eyebrows twitched above his glassy eyes.

  “Is Mama all right?”

  “She won’t be when she gets wind of what I’ve done.” He moaned, not with sadness but deprecation.

  Worried about himself, not Mama.

  Lydia gripped the railing to keep from lunging at him and flailing her fists like she had as a little girl whenever he’d made Mama cry.

  He paced in a short, choppy path twice more before stopping in front of her and pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. “How much money do you have?”

  Of course. She’d been a fool to believe he’d have done anything else on payday besides creep into an illegal saloon and gamble. She turned her head away, trying to find a way to answer without lying. “How much did you lose?”

  “All of it.”

  What did he mean all of it?

  Lydia wrung her hands. What if Sebastian broke things off because of her utter poverty rather than her inability to campaign and influence? She might be able to do something about the latter, but her gambling father held the trump in regards to the former. “You can’t have lost everything.”

  “I was only trying to pay the doctor’s exorbitant fee.” He raised his fist and shook it at the sky. “God surely should have blessed my hand.”

  He dropped onto the bottom step, tucked his elbows between his knees, and slumped. “Doctor Lindon won’t wait.”

  Unable to sit next to him on the tiny stairwell, she slid past him onto the sidewalk. “Of course, he’ll wait. Just like all the others.” What other choice did the doctor have?

  Papa looked up at her—then down, and slowly back up.

  She swallowed, his eyes too assessing.

  “You seeing Sebastian tonight?”

  “He’s invited me to dinner with his parents again.”

  Papa stood and tucked an errant curl behind her left ear. She worked to keep herself still and her eyes on the ground.

  He lifted her chin. “Do you have any rouge? Coal? You could pretty yourself up more.”

  She pressed her lips together. The fact that she’d pinched her cheeks and bit her lips a few dozen times made her wish she hadn’t even done that. “I’ll not paint myself like some lady of the evening.”

  “Keeping his interest is crucial.” His eyes suddenly lit and he let out a relieved laugh. “Why, things aren’t as bad as I thought. By Jove, you’re good for something!” A stupid grin brightened his face, and he chucked her chin. “You make certain Roger’s son is happy, and we’ve no worries.”

  What was he talking about? She licked her lips. “How’s that?”

  “Nothing to worry your pretty head over.” He turned her around, and with a hand to the small of her back, pushed her out of the yard. “You save your Papa b
y charming that windbag’s son before he changes his mind.”

  She wrapped her arms about herself and nodded. Marrying Sebastian would make both her parents happy. If that wasn’t a direct sign from God to ignore her misgivings, she didn’t know what was.

  Chapter 3

  To squeeze away the chill her father sent her away with, Lydia tucked her arms under her cloak and dropped her gaze to the sidewalk whenever men passed her on her way to Lowe’s gas company office. How many of them sneaked over to The Line at night like Papa and threw away the money their families needed on watered-down moonshine and a fling with the queen of spades?

  Mrs. Little shouldn’t worry about her dedication to raising funds for Sebastian’s campaigns. If Lydia married her son, she’d gladly join their family’s crusade to close down the dens of iniquity that robbed so many wives of their husbands’ attention and little girls of their fathers’ promises.

  But how did Papa expect Sebastian to save her family from ruin? Sebastian would take care of her if they wed, but what did Papa expect to get out of the deal? Would he constantly beg her for money after she married?

  She rubbed the callus on her finger. How much loathsome mending had she been forced to take on to pay off Papa’s accumulating debts? She’d once dreamed of attending college, but now all she hoped to afford was fabric for a wedding-worthy dress and a headstone for Mama.

  The tink of a bell pulled her gaze off her feet. Mr. Lowe—tall, muscular, and disturbingly handsome—backed out of his office a half a block away, turned over a placard, and pocketed his key.

  With a huff, she blew away the fine hair tickling her forehead and raced down the storefront-lined road to catch Mr. Lowe, but her ladylike pace was no match for his purposeful stride. She sped up so she wouldn’t have to call out for him to stop.

  He tipped his hat as he passed people on the sidewalk and to someone down the alley next to Minnie’s Hotel.

  Lydia glanced down the narrow street.

  An old lady in a torn black dress stood in the shadows shaking slop from a clay pot. The woman looked up and scowled.