What Gold Buys

by Ann Parker

  They went inside. She led him to the parlor and lit two small hand lamps waiting on an end table. “Will you set a fire going?” she asked. “There should be some embers still in the stove.”

  He nodded and shed his outer coat.

  She took one of the lamps and carried it upstairs. There was a bedroom, already heaped with quilts, with its own small stove.

  She prepared the fire in the room and returned to the parlor.

  Reverend Sands was walking around the room, hands clasped behind his back. She noticed, with an ache that reached deep inside, how he moved with an easy, physical, almost animal grace, with an assuredness that seemed to command the room and all within it.

  Handy for a preacher pounding the pulpit.

  Handy for a killer who wouldn’t hesitate to draw first.

  Handy for a man who aims to seduce a woman and walk away.

  Inez shook her head to silence the murmurs. Months ago, she had laid to rest her suspicions about Sands and his past and finally come to accept and trust him. Now, with him preparing to leave, all those old suspicions and doubts were rising to taunt her.

  He turned, saw her, and smiled, with a smile tinged with regret that sent a pain scorching through her even as it warmed from within. She held out her hands. He walked forward, took her hands, and gently drew her to him.

  This time, there was no savage despair in their embrace, not like the fierce clutches and kisses in Stillborn Alley. The moment of deep peace and yearning between them ended too soon. She pulled back, without letting him go, and asked, “Would you like me to play something for you? One last time?”

  The fire in his eyes softened. “Not for the last time, Inez. Never that. Until the next time, yes. I will hold your music and your image with me, no matter where I am. Always.”

  She nodded, a lump in her throat, then moved to the piano, her green satin and velvet skirts whispering as she pulled off her gloves and flexed her fingers. She laid the gloves on the piano top and opened the keyboard cover. “Do you remember the first time?”

  He pulled one of the overstuffed chairs around so he could sit to her side. “Of course, Inez.” Every word was a caress. “Mendelssohn. No words.”

  Lieder ohne Worte.

  It was a piece she had learned by heart as a child, and her heart would help her play it now. She positioned herself properly, arms relaxed from the shoulders, wrists level with the piano, palm of the hand curved, bridge of the hand round, fingertips lightly touching the keys. Her mother’s words from long ago echoing in her mind: “Power comes from behind the fingers…not from the fingers.” That patient, beloved voice—one she had not heard for over a decade—sounded so real and immediate that Inez almost turned around to see if she were there and if she approved. She held the silence for three beats, then released the liquid music. Peace enveloped her, and an unexpected sense of gratitude. Gratitude for having music to guide her life, gratitude for having found a love that allowed her to be who she was, without censure, with complete acceptance, gratitude for having the strength and power to help her friends and those in need.

  As with all that she wanted to hold onto, the simple piece ended too soon, the shimmer of notes fading into silence. Inez closed her eyes, waiting. The warmth of his hand upon her neck made her sigh with pleasure and anticipation. She tipped her head back until his lips came down and met hers with a passion that promised to never let her go.

  Then, for a while, time stood still, as they retreated from the world into a private place.

  But only for a while.

  Afterwards, buried under quilts, her cheek upon his chest, and his arm looped warm and safe around her, holding her close, she willed the clocks to stop ticking and the moon to stay its course. Neither happened.

  After listening to the play of snow and wind upon the pane of the bedroom upstairs, she stirred. He slowly pulled his arm from under her, his words rising in the dark. “I can’t stay.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed her, first on the forehead, then again, more lingering, on the mouth, and extracted himself from the piles of quilts and the flannel sheets. She watched him dress, a silhouette in the gloom, then sat up and pulled one of the smaller quilts around her shoulders.

  “Where will you be going?”

  His head turned toward her. “I’ve decided to stay, Inez. To help you with what’s ahead and be here for you. At this morning’s service, I’ll announce I am leaving the ministry, but remaining in town. Once your divorce is final, I’ll see about returning to the Lord’s work.”

  “No!” She tried to soften her alarm, to explain. “I cannot do that to you. And also, there is this.” She took a deep breath. “If you stay, I very much fear either you or Mark will end up dead.”

  “I assure you, it won’t be me.” His voice darkened, shaded with anger and a promise of violence.

  After a moment’s silence, she saw him shake his head, rueful.

  “You see?” she said gently. “That is why you need to leave. Your remaining in Leadville puts everything at risk. Mark will be looking for anything, anyone he can exploit to derail the dissolution. He will not succeed, I promise you, but I can only guarantee this if you are not here. You must leave. For my sake and for yours. So, tell me, where are you going?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her cheek. “Wyoming, first. After that, wherever they send me.”

  “How can I reach you?”

  He reached for a boot. “Will you be staying in Leadville afterwards?”

  “Probably not. I will go away, for a time.”

  He paused, boot in hand. “Where should I send letters? Correspondence?”

  Inez bit her lip. Not to general mail, that would not do. Any more than sending to the saloon directly. Finally she said, “Send letters to me in care of Susan. I’ll be sure she knows where I am.”

  She almost expected him to press her further on her plans. Instead he nodded again, pulled on his boots and reached for the waistcoat that was slung over a post on the bedstead. “All you need to do is send word you need me. A letter, a telegram. I’ll come, no matter where I am or what I’m doing.”

  “I know you will, Justice.” She watched him with a lump in her throat.

  He stood, shrugged into his waistcoat. The black frockcoat turned him into a shadow. He gathered his pocket watch, his keys, his hat. She slipped out of bed and wrapped the quilt tighter around herself, trailing it after her as she followed him down the stairs.

  As he reached for the door, she grabbed his hand. “Say you’ll wait for me!” The desperation in her voice was clear, even to her, and she shrank inside. She had sworn to herself she would not do this. Not be the kind of woman, who, hanging onto her lover as he prepared to leave, begged him for promises that, when broken, would break her heart.

  Rather than shake her off or make light of her words, he turned to her, eyes wide with surprise. He released the doorknob, gathered her to him, and said, his warm voice wrapping her in a blanket more soft and secure than any quilt could be, “There is no question I will wait for you, Inez. I’ve waited for you all my life, without knowing it. To wait from this point will almost be easier, because now I know you exist.” He kissed her again, and said, “We’ll be together, I promise. Your courage and will, our love, God’s grace and redemption, will see us through.”

  “We will get through,” she whispered back.

  With that, she took one last kiss, one she tried to burn into her mind and all her senses so that, later on, when the hard times came, when circumstances felt nigh impossible to overcome, she would be able to call up his touch, his scent, his voice, his love.

  Then, she let him go.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Inez planned her walk so that she would arrive early, but not too early, to the Sunday service. The snow had stopped sometime around dawn. When she stepped off the p
orch of the blue house, her boots scuffed up a fluff of white snow crystals. Any footprints Reverend Sands had made in his leaving were filled in, vanished without a trace, as if she’d only dreamt their time together.

  As she walked to the little white church, its steeple standing out sharp like a needle against a clear winter-blue sky, she wondered how many of those coming to hear Reverend Sands preach knew what he planned to announce that morning.

  She dreaded to hear it said in public, but knew, given the rumors that swirled around her and Reverend Sands, she couldn’t not come to church. It was important, for his sake and hers, to put in an appearance and keep a calm demeanor when he talked about his leaving. Heads would swivel in her direction, and she had to be ready for the stares and the speculation. She had armored herself for the service, dressing in her good, no-nonsense Sunday gray and adding an ivory lace jabot to provide a touch of feminine softness.

  As she had brushed her dark hair, taming it for a chignon, she realized that strands of silver shot through the near black. When did that happen? Her hair now reached far below her shoulders. Was it really just last December she had cut it all off? Was it all so long ago, now?

  Twist, hairpins, haircombs made her hair prim and proper. Add a small dark gray hat, gloves, cloak, and she was ready. She looked around at the tumbled bed, the gaping carpetbag, her dark green dress from the night before laid out on a nearby chair, and remembered Justice Sands’ warm touch as he had slowly, patiently worked her out of the dress’s many fastenings.

  Pulling herself back from the memory, Inez mounted the steps to the church doors and entered, taking her customary seat. She surveyed the church as it filled. There was Doc, looking glum, sitting at the right end of a back pew, ready to slip out unobtrusively if a medical emergency required his attention elsewhere. Mrs. Alexander, head held high, dressed all in black, walked in and took a seat at the other end of Doc’s pew.

  Shortly after that, there was a tiny murmur and stir as Mark slid into Inez’s pew and sat on her left. She turned to him. “What are you doing here?” she said with a harsh whisper.

  He glanced at her, face bland, impassive, but she caught a slight tightening of his mouth under the mustache. “Just here for a little religion, Mrs. Stannert. It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to partake, what with us bein’ down south and all.”

  She wanted to hiss at him to go away, but Susan Carothers appeared and slid in to Inez’s right. “Good morning,” she said, pulling her prayer book from her reticule. “I wonder what the sermon will be today?”

  Inez shifted so she could scrutinize Susan. Could it be she didn’t know about Sands’ imminent departure? Inez detected nothing but a small tremor in Susan’s hands as she bent studiously over the prayer book. “I think I heard something…” she murmured.

  Inez held her breath. She didn’t know what would be worse, that her dearest friend in Leadville was ignorant of what was coming or that she knew and hadn’t shared that information with Inez.

  “…Something about today’s topic. Grace? Grace and mercy?”

  She couldn’t stand that Susan might not know. She leaned toward her, saying, “Susan, have you heard—”

  “Good morning.”

  Reverend Sands stood behind the pulpit. Somehow, he had made the journey without Inez seeing him pass by.

  He studied the congregation as the murmurs settled on an uprising note of anticipation. His eyes locked onto hers, for the briefest of moments. An odd sense of peace and comfort settled over her, completely at odds with what she has expected to feel at this time. His last words to her reflected through that fleeting visual touch. We will get through this.

  Mark stirred at her side, and Reverend Sands’ gaze moved on.

  “We shall dispense with the opening hymn today as I have much I want to cover.”

  Another anticipatory murmur. Many of the congregants leaned forward in their seats.

  “To open,” he continued, “I would like to offer you a restatement of a portion of our covenant, as set forth by another minister of our faith: we should set the bond of human brotherhood high above that of creed or church.”

  He paused. Silence filled the church, interrupted only by the ticking of water dripping from the outside eaves.

  “I had a different sermon planned,” said Sands, “but under the circumstances, I believe our gathering is best served by asking you to meditate upon those words and their meaning.”

  From that point, Reverend Sands without admonishment nor heavy handedness took his congregation to task for paying lip service to “service” for those most needful and for turning a blind eye on the straits of the poor, the indigent, the lost and anonymous souls of Leadville, instead demanding more, more, more, for themselves.

  Knowing what she did of the misery that lurked in the mud behind State Street and Chestnut Avenue, Inez felt his broad castigation was well deserved. She, in turn, felt chastened by her obsession with her own woes and troubles. After all, it was the powerless and vulnerable who had real cause to despair. She had options, plans for the future, which could be eased by her relative wealth and her power, limited though it was, to maneuver circumstances.

  The Drinas, Tonys, and Aces of the world did not.

  Even the self-centered, competitive, need-to-break-the-story-first-obsessed newspaper man Jed Elliston, was doing more to “help and service” the abandoned of Leadville by sheltering and feeding his newsies than she was.

  At the end of the sermon, or religious rebuke, Reverend Sands closed his bible with finality and said, “I have one announcement to make.”

  Then he made it.

  Susan gasped and turned to Inez, eyes round.

  He concluded, “I look forward to hearing of great things from this congregation from your next minister, who will be arriving later this week. I know you will all step forward to make him feel welcome, as you did for me when I first came as your interim minister. Leadville is a city of great promise, and her religious community is strong and wealthy. May that strength and wealth be used to further the Lord’s work, with His grace and mercy. Please turn and greet your neighbor.”

  Susan seized Inez’s hand. “I, I didn’t know,” she stammered.

  Mark smiled slightly. “I think you spend a little too much time with your darkroom and your cameras, Miss Carothers.”

  Susan released her grasp. “This is awful. I hardly know what to say.”

  The congregation stood, and the low murmur rose to a loud buzz. Reverend Sands came down from the pulpit and was swarmed by churchgoers.

  Susan rose, saying, “I must go talk to him, if I can make my way through all the others. Are you coming to say your goodbyes?” This last was addressed to both Stannerts, although Inez suspected it was mostly meant for her.

  Mr. Stannert said, “Well, now, I do believe Mrs. Stannert has already had opportunity to wish him well with his future endeavors.” There was no innuendo in his tone, but Inez didn’t let that fool her.

  She said, “Mr. Stannert, why don’t you say our formal goodbyes for us both? I need to talk to someone.” Turning to Susan, she added, “May I walk to your studio with you when you are ready to go? I know Mr. Stannert has much he needs to do, and a stroll will give us time to catch up.”

  “Of course.” Susan seemed confused, but taking Inez’s cue, she didn’t inquire further, and instead moved off to join the line patiently waiting to wish Reverend Sands adieu.

  “And just what are all these to-dos that require my immediate attention on the Lord’s day of rest?” inquired Mark.

  She looked at the waiting line for the reverend. Mrs. Alexander, obvious in her funeral black, was talking with Sands. He clasped her hands in both of his, nodded encouragingly, then released her. Head bowed, she began to move away, heading toward the door and on target to pass Inez.

  “Oh, you’ll think of something, I’m su
re,” said Inez. “Excuse me.”

  She moved to the end of the pew and fell in step beside the tall pale woman, who was holding a black-hemmed handkerchief to her mouth, apparently deep in thought. “Mrs. Alexander, may I walk with you a bit?”

  She looked up startled, then said, “Mrs. Stannert, of course.” She shook her head. “So unexpected, his leaving. I found his counsel a comfort, true to the heart. I cannot believe this.”

  “Yes, it is a shock to us all,” said Inez.

  Mrs. Alexander drew Inez’s arm into hers, as if they were the best of friends. “It has been difficult times for me in Leadville. I found comfort from this church, although my husband is a nonbeliever, a rationalist.” She faltered.

  “Yes, Reverend Sands has an openness toward those who are seeking understanding through beliefs and means not universally accepted,” said Inez, looking for an entry that might lead to a discussion of Drina Gizzi, “such as Spiritualism,” she added in hopes that her gambit for connection would not be too obvious a ploy.

  Mrs. Alexander’s face lightened. “Exactement! He listened. Even if not a believer, there was room in his thinking for acceptance. I have found acceptance is not so with others,” she finished bitterly, nodding her thanks as a gentleman opened the door for them.

  Encouraged by her openness, Inez slowed her pace on the steps. “Others such as your husband, perhaps?”

  “Oh him, certainly.” She brought her handkerchief back up to her mouth. “I know he loves me. But perhaps he loves me too much. He cannot bear my pain, and wishes to erase it, and all the beloved memories that I hold so dear. Spiritualism gives me hope that death in this world is but birth and awakening into the spirit world. It helps me rise above sorrow, this belief. No. I was referring to Dr. Gregorvich. Do you know him?”

  Inez halted in astonishment. “Why, yes, I do.”