“Surely if she’s only eight, you have time. You needn’t leap into matrimony. It’s a very serious measure.”
He nodded. “I know it. But I want the girls to have time to get to know their new mama. If I bring in somebody when she’s sixteen or so, there’s no way Louise is ever going to listen to her or trust her.”
For the first time, Edith put aside her bias against Mr. Dane. She looked at him, looked deeply. She saw a man who’d loved one woman profoundly. Her death must have beaten him in a way no living person could have done. He’d probably been so confused and hurt that he’d been unable to give his daughters the attention and affection they deserved. Now he was trying to make amends.
Edith also saw a good-looking man. Most likely still under thirty. His hair was bleached from the sun that had tanned his face. The broad shoulders under the new suit were the kind a woman could lean on and find comfort. His voice had a calming note. She thought he must be good with animals. Anything that had been hurt would turn naturally to him, knowing it would find in him the strength to do what must be done and cherishing after.
“I don’t think I can help you,” she said slowly. “I usually only work with letters.”
“You have my letter.”
“Yes, but the ladies haven’t written ... I need both in order to make a match. You see,” she gestured toward the cabinets that filled one corner of the tiny room. “Someone sends me a letter. Perhaps they are ... Well, take the last couple for whom I arranged an introduction.”
Seeing interest on his face, Edith went on, only vaguely noticing that she’d suddenly become very comfortable with Mr. Dane. “He wrote to me, asking for a nicely bred girl, used to farm work. That’s a fairly typical request. But Mr. Hansen wanted her to like cows. Really like them—their characters, their fondness for the people who care for them—not merely tolerate them because they are a useful animal.”
“I have to admit most cows are likeable. You found someone for him?”
“Oh, yes. I’d received a letter some weeks ago from a girl, a regular churchgoer. Miss Fiske asked me to help her find a respectable husband. She was living not far from here but what she really wanted to do was get to the country. She’d lived for a time in Pennsylvania and she said her favorite part of farm life had been working with the dairy cows. She wrote so beautifully about them, I knew she would do for Mr. Hansen.”
“So you work by happenstance.”
“Sometimes I am very lucky.”
It was more than luck, though no one ever believed the truth. Not even Aunt Edith, though at times Edith could have sworn she saw the same strong intuition at work in the older woman. Aunt Edith always claimed to have an extra-good memory, her explanation for the nearly magical way she had of matching two people exactly.
“They were married two weeks ago,” Edith said. “I think they’ll be very happy.”
“For the first two weeks, anyway.”
“Please don’t be cynical. That’s a very bad way to start.”
Her tone was so serious that Jeff had to respect her for it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I believe in marriage. It’s the happiest way to live. People weren’t meant to live alone.”
He glanced once more around the appalling little room. There wasn’t even a carpet on the floor, or a decent picture, nothing like the gew-gaws most women collected. No luxury or ease, only a bird cage hanging from a hook. What must it be like to live in such a bleak emptiness? He hated to think how cold it must be in the winter, for he saw no way of heating it.
“By the way,” he said, “we haven’t talked about your compensation. I realize you probably have a lot of calls on your time, Miss Parker . . .” Jeff hesitated for a moment, then boldly doubled the price he’d meant to pay her. “So what do you say I give you fifty dollars for the week, to make up for the other clients you’ll lose. Oh, and room and board’s included, of course. My dad’s a heck of a fine cook.”
Fifty a week? That would pay her rent in a far better boardinghouse for five months, four if she wanted to eat well. She could get away from Maginn and from being stripped naked by his eyes. At the same time, however, a warning bell sounded in her mind. “If a thing is too good to be true,” her aunt had often said, “it undoubtedly isn’t true.”
Fifty a week was an unheard-of sum. Edith doubted the governor made that much. It was fairy-tale money, a pot of gold, and as likely to vanish with the dawn. A man determined to carry a girl into infamy might hold out such golden promises.
All her suspicions returning, Edith let her common sense override her intuition about his decency. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dane. I cannot help you. You will have to decide by yourself.” Orpheus twittered as if in protest.
Mr. Dane accepted her refusal with an understanding nod. “I guess it was a lame idea, anyway. Nobody could expect a nice lady like you to travel off with a stranger. I didn’t even think about a chaperone . . .” he gestured faintly toward her.
‘Thank you for asking me.” She put out her hand, a proper businesswomen concluding a candid discussion. Mr. Dane’s handshake was firm, his fingers warm through her cotton glove.
Edith tottered when she felt the surge of energy ran up her arm. Nothing in her experience could compare to it. It was like a flash racing through her body, as though lightning had struck her. She tingled down to her toes. The excitement burned brightest in her breasts and beneath her skirts. She jerked her hand free of his engulfing one.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Dane asked.
A slow tide of color came and went in her cheeks, as though she had been swallowed and released by a wave. “Perfectly fine.”
He seemed unchanged, untouched by any strange emotional experience. She watched him go out. In the hall, he stopped and turned back. “Listen, I’m staying at the St. Simeon. If you change your mind, you can get in touch with me there. I hope you will come, Miss Parker. I need somebody on my side.”
“Your side?”
“Everybody else . . . those that know about it ... everybody’s got their favorite horse running in the Dane stakes. I can’t get an honest opinion from anybody, not even Dad. If I got an impartial judge, maybe I could start wooing wholeheartedly.”
“I’m sorry,” she said mechanically. “It’s not possible.”
After he was gone, Edith tried to busy herself with little tasks, sewing on buttons, filing, writing notes of reminder. She knew she would have to go down to the Bulletin and face Mr. Steadman, to confront him on why the advertisement she relied on was missing from this quarter’s edition.
Her heart failed at the very idea of going all the way down to Grand Boulevard instead of dealing with the problem by mail. There wasn’t time to use the mail, though. If Mr. Steadman was fair, he might refund part of what she’d paid. If he wasn’t, she could always sit on his doorstep and waste away.
Edith straightened her hat to a nicety in the crooked mirror. Trying to wear her aunt’s sternest expression, she went down the stairs. Stepping as quietly as a cat, she edged past Mr. Maginn’s open door. The landlord sprawled in a soiled armchair, his head back and mouth open. A few flies hung over him as they would hover over refuse in the street.
A board creaked beneath Edith’s foot. Maginn’s snuffling snore broke and she heard him grunt. As quietly and as quickly as she could, Edith escaped before he awoke from his stupor.
To take the omnibus meant paying the fare. If she walked to the Bulletin’s office she would save two precious nickels, but she’d surely use a quarter’s worth of shoe leather. Her lips tight, Edith chose the cash.
Despite her concentration on surface matters, Edith knew that deep down her mind was busy with something else. What had been that strange connection she’d felt to Mr. Dane? Her hands still felt sparkly, like the Fourth of July. He was in her mind during the entire walk to the business district, more vivid than any champion her imagination had ever created.
Chapter 2
"It’s this new management,” Mr. Steadman said, blowing an
exasperated puff of air through his bushy mustache. “They don’t know what they’re doing yet.”
“I see. Still, Mr. Steadman, that doesn’t . . .”
“Several of our advertisers had complained about it. One feed company had their headline matched up with a recipe for mixed pickles. They became awfully shirty about it.”
“At least some portion of their advertisement ran, sir. Mine, on the other hand, wasn’t even there incorrectly.”
He only shrugged.
“I have paid in advance, Mr. Steadman, for a service which I have not received. Surely you can refund some of what I paid.”
“All I can offer you, Miss Parker, is a free ad next time. I’m sorry, but our cash picture’s pretty bad right now. This new management, like I said. ‘Course, you could take us to court and try to recover damages, but after all, Farmer and Maid and the Bulletin have been working together for twenty-odd years. It’d be a shame to ruin that association over a simple mistake.”
Edith saw the justice of the managing editor’s viewpoint. Not to mention that there was no way she could afford an expensive court case. She stood up from the hard wooden chair he’d offered her when she’d come in. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Steadman. I trust this mistake will not happen again.”
“You be sure and come to me if there’s ever another problem. I had a lot of respect for that aunt of yours.” He transferred his smoldering cigar from his right hand to his left and took her by the elbow. “I’ll show you out.”
To Edith’s burning shame, her stomach growled loudly as they walked into the lobby. Immediately, she began to talk, to cover up any further embarrassing noises. “Your life must be very interesting, Mr. Steadman. I know all my clients look up to the Bulletin and feel it’s an important part of their lives. Tell me, how do you . . .”
Despite her efforts, the rumbling that echoed through the lobby had the effect of thunder. She felt as though every head in the place must be turning in her direction.
“Look at the time,” Mr. Steadman said. “Can’t I make it up to you, Miss Parker, by taking you to lunch? There’s a nice little place around the corner.”
The thought of food was enough to make Edith’s head swim. But to enter a public restaurant with a man she hardly knew smacked of that dishonorable life her aunt had always warned her against. One false step, apparently, was all it took.
“You’re very good, Mr. Steadman. But I have an appointment and am already late. Good day.”
The acoustics in the lobby of the Bulletin’s office must have been especially good, for even though she was some distance away, she clearly heard the editor murmur, “Poor little lady.” Her cheeks were crimson for half her walk home. Had Mr. Steadman seen through her pretense?
Mr. Maginn’s absence from his usual perch by the stairs seemed to indicate that he was supervising his seldom-seen sister in the cooking of the noon meal. Not having paid her rent, Edith was naturally cut off from dining at the communal table. Though the food was mostly thin soups and watery porridge, the dirty, sticky table seemed like an oasis of fine cuisine, forever beyond her reach.
The stairs were impossibly steep. She rested at the third landing, her gloved hand against the wall. Her knees felt weak, and her head went round and round like a calliope. She could almost hear the cheerful, vulgar organ music. Knowing she mustn’t collapse here, she staggered up the last two flights of stairs.
Though she longed just to lie down for a little while, Edith knew she must not take the risk of falling asleep and missing the four o’clock mail. All her hopes were pinned to that delivery. She owed three dollars for rent, but even a single new client would mean she could eat, and eat well.
The dry soda crackers that she shared with Orpheus—his cage open since Mrs. Webb never missed a meal—were a poor substitute for a luncheon. Eating them with pride made them no more palatable.
She wondered what Mr. Dane would be eating. The St. Simeon Hotel was known for the excellence of its table. Or perhaps he was having a business meeting at one of the fine restaurants by the river. Edith suppressed a groan and tried to think of something unconnected with food. But as all roads lead to Rome, all subjects, sooner or later, led her to meals.
After the three crackers, all she dared take from her store, Edith took up some of the letters she had in her files. Men and women wrote to the service in about equal numbers. As things had turned out, Miss Fiske had been the last unmatched client in the files. Otherwise, Mr. Hansen would have had to wait for some lonely girl to write in before finding his mate.
The letters were all the same. The circumstances might vary widely, from orphans to the overlooked child in a large family, from independent persons to those who were forced to rely on the largess of some relative, from the frantically youthful to the ripeness of maturity—which did not necessarily indicate the age of the writer.
All the letters had at their heart the feeling that the world was meant for couples. Whether the letter stated that the writer was looking for a spouse or a parent for children (already gotten or yet unborn) a lover or a housekeeper, each made clear that the loneliness of the writer was increased by the observation that every being on earth went more happily as one of a pair.
The time until three-thirty passed pleasantly enough. She meant to leave in plenty of time, for she would have to walk very slowly to keep from exhausting herself. It was only when Edith tried to stand that she found the weakness in her legs had not passed off. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she felt so weak that she leaned her head on her hand and closed her sore eyes.
In the dungeon beneath the castle, the only light came from smoking torches in the wall. The captive maiden would have been glad to shout defiance to her guards, were they not, like all the inhabitants, feasting in the great hall above. Now that there was no one to see, she could give way to tears. One by one they dripped from between the fingers that hid her eyes.
When Edith looked up, the small wooden clock on the wall told her it was five minutes past four. Distressed, for the post office closed at five o’clock, Edith knew she’d have to hurry. In her haste, she half-fell down the last several stairs, twisting her ankle. She hopped on her other foot for a moment, biting her lips to keep back a cry.
The crash brought out Mr. Maginn, like a malevolent cuckoo from a shabby clock. Edith realized he was at least partially sober and she bit her lip. While he was drunk, she could deal with him fairly well. Sober was another matter.
“Well, well, Miss Edith, you won’t flee so easy this time.”
“Mr. Maginn, you’ll have to pardon me. I’m late and I . . .”
“Mighty hoity-toity, aren’t you—for someone who’s owing back rent? Come on in here, and let’s have a little talk about that . . . and other things.”
“Really, Mr. Maginn, I can’t right now. If you’ll just let me go, I’ll have your rent when I ... at least, I hope I will.”
But he stood in the doorway, staring at her. He beckoned her over by crooking his fat white forefinger. Edith felt she had but two choices—to go to him or to run away. As each step was a shooting pain, she had in fact no choice at all.
Trying not to limp, she walked into the bright, seemingly clean apartment. Despite the fact that each surface was dusted and every pillow plumped, a smell lingered in the room, as though the exhalings of Mr. Maginn never really faded. The smell caught Edith by the throat. She tried to breathe shallowly.
“What am I to do with you?” he asked, coming closer. His tone was a travesty of the paternal.
“I hope to pay you this afternoon, Mr. Maginn. I am on my way to the post office and I feel confident . . .”
He ran his hand down’ her arm, insinuating himself closer. “You’re a lovely thing, me darlin’. All ripe and delicious, like peaches and cream.”
“You’re too kind,” she said, recoiling. One of his teeth must be rotten. His breath would choke a horse. “As I said . . ,”
“Now, it don’t seem right that you should have to
struggle so. I’ve had me eye on you for some little time, sweetness. Things are bad with you. I could be willing to make life that much easier for you.”
His arm was about her waist. Despite her hand firm against his shoulder, his strength was slowly but certainly bringing her closer to his spongy body.
“Say you leave your door unlocked tonight,” he whispered wetly in her ear. “Say you be happy to see me. Then I’d be more than happy to make your dreams come true. It’s not right such a beauty should be sleeping all alone.”
“Please, Mr. Maginn. . . .”
“Oh, yes, my lovely, you’ll say please. And thank you, Ringo, you’ll be saying pretty as you can.”
She was bending away from him as completely as she could, her body stiff and tight. The sound of his tongue churning across his thick lips filled her ears and his moon face was so close to hers she could have counted the pockmarks. Hardly knowing what she did, she clouted him on the side of his head.
With a yowl, he started back. Edith fell, further jarring her bad ankle. As she pushed up painfully from the polished floor, she saw his face go crimson. “I’ll pay you back for that,” he swore, rubbing his ear. “Tonight, I’ll pay you back.”
A timid voice called from the back of the apartment, “Are you all right, Ringo?”
“Mind your own business, Evvie.”
Edith heard the slap of carpet slippers fading along the hall. She brushed off the back of her full skirt and straightened her hat. Looking at her landlord with all the haughtiness she could find, she said, “I have nothing more to say, Mr. Maginn. I shall have your rent this afternoon.”
“It don’t matter now if you pay or don’t,” he panted. “I’ll be outside your door tonight. You better let me in, if you know what’s good for you.”
Summer Lightning Page 2
