What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  Angel looked up.

  “No more potions and pills, eh? Trust me, they do more harm than help.” He started out the door, then stopped and turned to Inez once more. “Will you still have your Saturday night gatherings, now that you have returned? I do hope so.”

  “I plan to. Mr. Stannert and I, we have come to an arrangement. I will continue to host the regular Saturday poker games. Mark will hold a ‘Friday night special,’ open to visitors and others who have expressed interest. We shall see how it goes.”

  Doc beamed. “Delightful! If I’m not called away,” he shot a glance at Angel,“I shall drop by this evening, give my regards to Mr. Stannert, enjoy the proceedings and my customary tot of brandy.” He leaned in on his cane. “I don’t mean to be a busybody or interfere…but I must say, I am glad to see the two of you seemed to have worked out your differences and are now in accord.”

  In accord?

  Inez lifted her eyebrows. “Let’s just say we’ve come to an agreement.” Her mouth tightened—a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Chapter Six

  Agreement.

  It hardly seemed the proper word for the legal horse-trading and fancy verbal footwork that had transpired between them the last week of their stay in the shadow of Pikes Peak.

  Drawn up while they were in the Springs at Inez’s insistence, as a condition for presenting a front of “marital accord,” the agreement outlined how they would handle different nights at the saloon. With the saloon open six days a week and closed on Sunday, she wanted to be assured of not crossing his path every night and bumping into him behind the bar.

  Inez knew, from her decade-plus years with Mark, that, even when she was raging at him, his charm and the passage of time had a way of damping the fire of her anger.

  Furthermore, and most important from her point of view, their “truce” stipulated Mark would not interfere with the comings and goings of her personal life, nor would she with his. She did not want him trailing her about through any daily—or nightly—assignations and appointments she might make, and she certainly didn’t want to know about what he was doing when he was not in the saloon.

  Originally, they had thought of drawing up the agreement with Abe as witness, but after further thought, Inez proposed that they use a local Colorado Springs lawyer, someone unknown to them, someone bound by law to be circumspect. Abe, she argued, would soon be a father, with additional responsibilities and concerns. It wasn’t fair to drag him into the middle of their private affairs. Too, deep down, Inez didn’t want to force Abe to have to “choose” between her and Mark. The two men had met toward the Civil War’s end in a Union prison, where Mark was a prisoner and Abe a guard. Against steep odds, they identified a mutual inclination for serious, no-holds-barred gambling and teamed up after Appomattox with the common aim of making a fortune along the war-weary Eastern seaboard.

  At least that had been their plan until, quite by chance, Mark had sauntered into her life—the distant cousin of the nephew twice removed of a business associate of her father’s or some such convoluted connection. A New York debutante, chafing at the restrictions, conditions, and plans for her future as dictated by her industrialist father and her conniving Aunt Agnes, Inez was more than willing to surrender to Mark’s considerable charms and didn’t hesitate to display a few of her own. They wooed in a whirlwind and then eloped. The twist to their story, Inez often reflected, was that, upon hearing of their exchange of vows, her wealthy father had disinherited her on the spot. “If you were counting on marrying a rich heiress, you gambled wrong,” Inez told Mark on more than one occasion. This remark was always followed by an embrace and something along the line of “Darlin’, when I met you, the only thing I counted on was makin’ you mine for life.”

  During their tentative reconciliation in the Springs, Mark had as much as said that he hoped she would abandon the divorce proceedings she had put into motion earlier that summer. In fact, one aspect of their agreement, hammered out in the Colorado Springs law offices of Wingfield and Schmidt, Esqs., was that Inez would suspend divorce proceedings for a year. After that, if she still wanted to proceed, Mark would not fight it. “You will agree to plead guilty of adultery, desertion, whatever charges my lawyer decides will be best,” Inez had said.

  Inez could still remember how Oliver Wingfield sat back in his chair at that, raising both bushy eyebrows nearly to his hairline. He’d stared from one to the other for a moment, then, without comment, had leaned forward, re-dipped his pen in the inkwell, and asked them to repeat the conditions.

  However, Mark had his own agenda, and made no secret about it when he enumerated his stipulations for Wingfield’s busy pen. “Mrs. Stannert and I are to spend one evening a week in each other’s company.” He’d turned to her adding, “Just the two of us. No ghosts of dance hall girls or men of God hoverin’ over our shoulders or whisperin’ in our ears. Once a week, we go over the accounts together, talk about the business. Afterwards, we go out to dinner, or the theater. Sit and talk, play cards, like old times. It’s only fair, darlin’.”

  Fair.

  Mark, Inez knew, only played “fair” when he either didn’t care whether he won or lost or when he had weighed the odds and calculated that “fair” would get him what he wanted. In this case, Mark had made it clear: he didn’t want a divorce. Not now, nor later. Inez suspected that, deep down, he felt he was gambling for stakes higher than any combination of coins on the table. As such, he was betting that after she had spent a year in his company, settling into a routine that embraced them both along with everything they shared—the saloon, their business, their mutual past and their son—the walls she had erected so fiercely would come down, and that she would surrender. She had to admit, if only to herself, that there had been moments in the Springs, some evenings, a few nights, when the past year and a half and all that had happened during that time had seemed a dream…

  “Your son. He is well now?” Angel’s soft voice, throaty with disuse, broke through her thoughts.

  Inez took the cardboard-mounted image from her. “Yes, completely. He is a happy, healthy two-year-old under my sister’s tender loving care.” She looked into Angel’s deep brown eyes. “You will be a wonderful mother. Listen to what Doc says. He helped me through William’s birthing. He will do the same for you and your child.” She changed the subject. “Who was the woman that Doc was so angry at?”

  “Oh, her. She is…” Angel seemed to search for a word, then shrugged. “The girls turn to her for love potions, spells for luck, health.” Angel sounded dismissive. She sank back on the pillow, resting hands on her belly. “I just wish the baby to come so I can sleep.”

  Inez decided this was not a good time to mention that sleep would continue to be elusive after the baby’s arrival, unless Abe engaged a wet nurse.

  A knock on the door sent Inez hurrying to open it.

  She fully expected to see the promised woman from Chicken Hill. Instead, she was confronted with two women: one tall and holding a basket; the other, small and bird-like, peering around with a slightly terrified expression. The basket-holder, looking exceedingly out of place for State Street, was dressed in the deepest of blacks—a jet-beaded silk mourning mantle with full sleeves and black silk fringes above a narrow black silk skirt. The veil of her small hat was raised, revealing a pale face haunted by eyes of palest blue. Light, almost white-blonde hair was smoothed and sleeked back to the point of invisibility.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her soft, well-bred voice evincing an odd uncertainty in the utterance of those two words. The woman held out the basket covered by a striped napkin. “These are for Mrs. Jackson, from the church.”

  “The church?” Inez took the basket gingerly.

  “The church. Reverend Sands?” she prompted.

  Cognizant of Doc’s parting dictum—No potions! No pills!— Inez lifted a corner of the napkin and spotted a small clutc
h of eggs, a cluster of graham gems, a hunk of aromatic cheese, and a small jar. Inez lifted the jar out to view its contents.

  “It’s confiture de myrtilles, blueberry jam?” the visitor said.

  The French rolled out so naturally that Inez was immediately convinced that she stood before a native speaker, which might, she thought, account for the hesitancy with the English words.

  Inez nodded and stepped aside to let the two women in. “Thank you, I’m certain this will be much appreciated. I am Mrs. Stannert, a friend of the family.”

  The woman entered and brushed her skirt with the back of a black-silk-gloved hand. “How do you do? I am Mrs. Alexander. My husband runs Alexander’s Undertaking. On Harrison?”

  “Ah,” said Inez, a little bemused.

  “Yes. And this is Madame Drina Gizzi.”

  At this introduction, Mrs. Gizzi, who had lingered uncertainly at the threshold, stepped inside, pulling her paisley shawl tighter around her shoulders, lifting her chin, standing a little straighter. Even with her ramrod straight posture, she did not top five feet, and looked almost a child next to her companion. The long black braid that wound over one shoulder only accentuated her childlike appearance. In other ways as well, she painted a contrasting picture to the somber but expensively clad Mrs. Alexander.

  Shoes that had seen better days peeked out beneath a plain maroon wool skirt that looked as if it might need a good cleaning. The rust-brown suede gloves clutching the good-quality shawl were mended with thread that didn’t quite match. All this ran counterpoint to a considerable number of bangles that lined both wrists and a gaily striped yellow-and-maroon satin bodice just visible beneath the point where the shawl was clutched above her breast. Her hands moved nervously and the shawl fell away a little, revealing a striking gold-threaded sash about her waist, glinting with a hint of riches from better days. It was a strange combination, almost as if she expected to be viewed only from the waist up.

  She put Inez in mind of a nervous twitchy bird, perhaps a finch. Her gaze darted around the room, and Inez could have sworn that Mrs. Gizzi was noting and accounting for each and every escape route. For the briefest of seconds, her examination settled on Inez. Inez noted, with an odd shock, that one of her eyes was a deep brown, the other a light blue-green. I’ve seen that combination before, only more subtle. That newsie, Tony Deuce.

  “This is Mrs. Jackson, yes?” said Mrs. Alexander, looking past Inez’s shoulder.

  Inez turned around. Angel had managed to achieve a standing position unaided and had approached in silent, slipper-shod feet behind Inez.

  “Yes, indeed. Mrs. Jackson, this is Mrs. Alexander and Mrs. Gizzi,” Inez smiled encouragingly at Angel, and stepped to the side so she could approach her visitors. “They have brought you some victuals that even Dr. Cramer would approve of.”

  Inez turned to place the basket on the table. She turned back to see Mrs. Alexander staring at Angel’s belly in a disconcertingly direct manner. “You are so blessed,” she said. “I wish you well. The very best for you and your baby. That is why I volunteered to bring the basket and also why I bring Madame Gizzi.”

  She made it sound as if Mrs. Gizzi was being offered up as a gift, something to sit on the mantelpiece or to display on an occasional table in the corner. Inez said politely, “How do you do, Mrs. Gizzi. Are you from the church as well?”

  Mrs. Gizzi started, then looked down at her gloves and began to remove them, as if just seeing them for the first time and abashed of their condition. “Ah. No. No church. But I know Reverend Sands. He is a good man. Always trying to help those in need. One of the saints.”

  “Indeed, he is a good man, an excellent man,” interrupted Mrs. Alexander. “But that is not the reason she is here. She is my idea, and mine alone. Madame Gizzi is gifted.”

  “Gifted?” Inez began to feel like the situation was sliding rapidly away from blueberry jam and eggs.

  “She has helped me see my girl, my child, my darling, my only daughter,” said Mrs. Alexander. “And she will help you see yours, Mrs. Jackson. If I may.”

  Without preamble she seized Mrs. Gizzi’s bare hand and placed it, palm down, on Angel’s swollen abdomen.

  Sudden apprehension coursing through her veins, Inez demanded, “What are you doing?” and started forward.

  For a second, Angel stared uncomprehending at Mrs. Alexander, as if frozen by the odd turn of events, and then at Mrs. Gizzi. Her face filled with fear and loathing, and she hissed, knocking Mrs. Gizzi’s hand away, before pulling the edges of the rumpled wrapper closed around her. Inez was grateful that Angel did not have a knife close at hand.

  Mrs. Gizzi was staring at her hand as if it was on fire. Mrs. Alexander seized her shoulders and shook her gently. “What did you see, Drina? What did you see?”

  “Mrs. Alexander, I demand to know, what is going on!” Inez started toward Mrs. Alexander, then became aware that Angel had backed away, across the room. Her normally warm-toned skin had drained to ash. One hand gripped a nearby high-backed chair, the other rested where Mrs. Gizzi had touched her. Her face was now twisted in panic.

  “The baby, she, she will not know her father. I, I have seen it,” stuttered Mrs. Gizzi. She had an unfocused aspect to her countenance, seemed unaware of the commotion further inside the room. “Beautiful, like her mother, but so much sorrow, much hardship and sorrow. And to have no father.”

  “Who’s got no father?” Abe stepped in through the still yawning doorway, his face like thunder. “What the good god-damn is going on here?”

  Chapter Seven

  “Mr. Jackson!” A woman who apparently been following in Abe’s wake, stepped around his scowling presence. In a startled instant before this newcomer turned to face Abe, Inez glimpsed the ebony equivalent of Bridgette—a woman of indeterminate middle age, sturdy and round, no-nonsense steel-rimmed spectacles perched precariously at the end of a determined nose. A tiny hat perched atop iron-colored hair wound into a tight bun. Her mouth was set with the certainty of someone who knew the right and wrong of the world, and knew that she, if no one else, stood on the side of right. “I will not stay in a home that profanes the Lord,” she announced.

  “Apologies, Mrs. Buford, but it kinda seems that all hell done broke loose here in my home.” Abe glowered around at the assemblage of visitors, until his gaze fell on Angel, who still stood frozen in place, gripping the chair, wild-eyed as a feral cat clamped in a trap.

  “Damn. Angel.” Those two words, spoken softly, were shot through with concern. He started toward her only to be beaten to the draw by Mrs. Buford, who had been on the move before that second “damn” had hit the air.

  “Now honey, Mrs. Jackson, you remember me, don’t you? I’m Mrs. Eugenia Buford, from Chicken Hill. I remember y’all, back when you and Mr. Jackson jumped the broom. Now don’t you worry about a thing,” she cooed, putting an arm about Angel’s shoulders.

  “Let’s get you settled and Mr. Jackson will shoo these nice folks away so’s you can rest.” Mrs. Buford tipped her head toward Abe and slid her gaze pointedly from the three women to the still-open door.

  While Angel was being comforted and coddled, Abe turned his attention to Inez, the woman in black, and her companion. Mrs. Gizzi appeared to have shaken off her trance and was now shifting uneasily from foot to foot, eyes cast down, twisting the ends of her shawl in both hands. He stepped toward them. “Someone better tell me what’s goin’ on here, and that someone better do it on the double.” He said this to Inez, but by the end of the sentence, he was looking hard at Mrs. Gizzi.

  Mrs. Gizzi uttered a squeak and stepped backward. She hastily burrowed her hands beneath the shawl, as if trying to hide them, ducked her head, and glanced toward the open door. Not looking at him, she whispered, “No harm. I meant no harm.”

  Mrs. Alexander stepped forward. Head held high. “Mr. Jackson, this is Mrs. Gizzi and I’m Mrs. Alexander, fro
m the church.”

  “I don’t hold with no church,” interrupted Abe. “That’s Mrs. Jackson’s doin’s.”

  “Yes, well, we brought,” Mrs. Alexander gestured toward the basket on the nearby table, “just a small gift to wish you both the greatest happiness. A baby,” her voice faltered, “the greatest blessing from the Lord to man and wife.”

  “That be the truth of it,” said Mrs. Buford from the couch, where she was settling Angel, tucking pillows all around her as if she was a fragile piece of china. “Children’s a blessing, sometimes a trial, but that’s the way of the Lord.”

  “Didn’t sound to me like no blessin’ was goin’ on just now.” Abe turned pointedly to where Mrs. Gizzi had been hovering.

  She had vanished.

  Inez rushed to the door and scanned State Street for a flash of maroon. It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air, the most insubstantial of apparitions.

  Inez turned to Abe and shook her head.

  Abe frowned at her, arms crossed, then swiveled his head toward Mrs. Alexander.

  Without further encouragement, Mrs. Alexander said hastily, “My apologies if our visit has upset you and your wife, Mr. Jackson. Madame Gizzi foretells that you will have a beautiful daughter, may she always be a source of joy and pride to you. As for the rest, I do not know what to say. But seeing the future, by scrying, cards, or laying on of hands, is difficult and imperfect. We see and hear, but often do not understand.”

  A deep sorrow and pain seared through her last words. She looked down at her gloves, straightened one seam, and then said softly, “Please do not take what was said at face value. The truth only comes from the spirits themselves.” She began moving toward the door, pausing before Abe and Inez briefly. Inez caught the glimmer of tears barely held in check. “Once again, as Madame Gizzi said, we meant no harm.”

  Head bowed, she exited, the hem of her black skirts whispering softly as it brushed over the raised threshold.