“It’s an epidemic, that’s what it is,” responded Elmira Crump. “I still blame it on the War for leaving so many women to fend for themselves. Didn’t thousands of wives lose their men on the battlefield?”
Hester Roach clucked her tongue. “The War’s been over for eight years. I don’t see how you can keep blaming it on that. These women must have been of low character to begin with or they wouldn’t have fallen. There’s simply no substitute for good breeding.”
“You are so right, Hester.” Mrs. Gaylord looked up from her sewing and glanced at Charlotte. “Adversity is the true test of a woman’s character. If she falls, then it’s due to some inner deficiency.”
Charlotte dropped another stitch and frowned. Why was Mrs. Gaylord looking at her so strangely? She wasn’t a “fallen woman.” The fact that her father had been convicted of murder shouldn’t impinge on her character or reputation. And she resented Mrs. Gaylord’s suggestion, albeit only by her look, that it was otherwise.
“A woman of real character would never fall,” persisted Mrs. Gaylord.
“Oh, pshaw.” Lucinda Wells rested her knitting on her lap and pursed her lips. “Why do you think there’s been an epidemic of prostitutes since the War ended? Because these war widows can’t find jobs to support themselves, that’s why! And many have children they’re unable to feed so they go into the only business they can. As you well know, there are few opportunities for a woman in most occupations. Not all widows are as fortunate as I. William left me well cared for, God rest his soul.”
Hester shook her head. “There’s enough honest work to be had, even for desperate widows. I say it’s a matter of character. Poor character will always be exposed.”
Mrs. Gaylord nodded. “Yes, and once a woman loses her reputation it can never be regained. I’ll even go further and say it also applies to her family. Find a rotten apple and you’ll discover that the whole bunch is liable to be rotten, too. A bad tree is sure to produce bad fruit.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned under Mrs. Gaylord’s gaze. If she had been unsure about Mrs. Gaylord’s insinuation before, she was no longer. Clearly, Mrs. Gaylord was making a point. But what? That Charlotte was no longer acceptable? That she was a “fallen woman” because of her father, and no longer belonged among their members? Whatever Mrs. Gaylord’s full intent, at the very least she meant to insult. It made Charlotte realize that her unimpeachable source had been right all along, though she still didn’t want to believe it. But it really must be true. It seemed that Mrs. Gaylord had come to view Charlotte as an unacceptable daughter-in-law.
“Yes, hard times will reveal the quality of a tree,” Mrs. Gaylord repeated.
Lucinda Wells chuckled. “Well, let’s hope you ladies never fall on hard times because I’d hate to see what that would expose on your trees. And quite frankly, you are all too old and homely to become prostitutes. All except our dear Charlotte, here.”
At once the conversation ended. And as Charlotte resumed her work, she remembered Kate’s words: “this shame will follow us wherever we go.” For the first time Charlotte clearly felt its weight. And it felt ugly and dirty, and so very very unjust.
Oh how unkind the world could be to those who fall.
Charlotte didn’t know how she ended up here. She had been walking for hours, trying to compose herself, and here she was in front of the Women’s Home. She studied it now: a large three-story Victorian covered in grey stonework and sporting long narrow windows, most of which were shaded by what looked like soiled beige canvas. It had been donated to Pottsville by a wealthy, now deceased, widow expressly for homeless women. Some say it was because the widow’s daughter had run away years ago and was reported to have lived a ruinous life, a life that ended tragically on the streets of a big city.
But whatever the truth, the home had sheltered many women over the past fifteen years, especially after the War.
As Charlotte stared up at the stately structure she wondered what a “fallen woman” looked like. To her knowledge she had never seen one. Did they look like her? Had they once had a happy home before disaster struck? And what of their families? Why didn’t they help? She thought of her family now, her mother and Kate and Virginia. How fortunate she was to have people who loved her, who cared for her. And what a selfish ninny to complain about chores as she was so prone to do!
She took a step closer. Dare she go in? What would she see? Her future? What if Mrs. Gaylord was able to convince Benjamin to break off their engagement? And what if she suddenly lost her family? It could happen. She had heard of such things. Hester Roach was full of these stories. What would she do then? If fate was unkind, she could . . . yes, she could become one of the fallen.
She heard a chilling shriek coming from one of the second floor windows and jerked backward. No. This was foolishness. What was she thinking? She wiped her clammy hands over her skirt. Surely, she was mistaken. Surely, Mrs. Gaylord hadn’t meant anything unkind by her remarks. Whatever her private thoughts concerning Charlotte, Mrs. Gaylord was a genteel woman. Too well mannered to offend deliberately. It was all a mistake. Charlotte was just being overly sensitive. After one last look at the house she turned and headed home, all the while wondering why her heart was still pounding and why she could barely keep from crying.
Virginia sat on her bed holding the empty mahogany box in her hand. Over and over she traced the mother of pearl inlay on the hinged cover. How long had it taken her to fill this box? Two years at least. That’s how long she had been saving for a printing press. Two years, and now nothing to show for it. She had given all fifteen dollars to Kate for the Pinkerton.
She tossed the empty box aside. Oh, what was the use? If all she could save in two years was fifteen dollars it would take thirty years to save the two hundred she needed. That’s how much it would cost to buy that 1842 Stanhope “in need of refurbishing” which she saw advertised in the Pottsville Evening Chronicle, though surely it was gone by now. Bargains like that didn’t last long. But it had shown her it was possible to get a press for a reasonable price and, well, she had hoped that some in the women’s suffrage movement would be induced to bankroll her effort to open a liberal paper here in coal country. Still, she had to have some money of her own to invest. To show those in the movement she was willing to risk her own capital, and not just theirs, in order to further the cause.
With a sigh, Virginia rested her head on the large down pillow that smelled faintly of lavender. She was kidding herself. By the time she earned enough money for a respectable deposit on another press, even one as moderately priced as the Stanhope, she would be an old woman.
So was that it? Was that the end of her dream? She was never one to give up easily, so why was she doing it now? Was it because of Kate’s insistence on hiring that detective and stirring up the past? Virginia had yet to recover from her father’s death, and now Kate was pulling the scab off that wound and making her and Charlotte and Mother relive the nightmare all over again. And what if the investigation led in a direction no one was prepared to go? She supposed there was nothing she could do about that. Whatever the truth, they would have to live with it.
Suddenly, she bolted upright. This wouldn’t do. She couldn’t quit this easily. She had no control over what the Pinkerton would or wouldn’t uncover, but there was something she could do about her own life, about her dreams, her ambition, and it wouldn’t get done lounging on her bed feeling sorry for herself.
She would get a job. It was the only reasonable solution. It was the only way she could refill her box again. But it could only be part-time. She was needed here at the boardinghouse and wouldn’t leave her mother or sisters in a lurch. That meant longer hours. Still, she was young and strong. She could manage. And the time spent on her outside job could be made up at home by getting up earlier or working later. It was possible. Yes. It was definitely possible. She wouldn’t let her dream die. And wasn’t this the best time to
start a newspaper? After all, it was the era of the “Penny Press” when most people read two or more newspapers a day.
Virginia sprang to her feet. Now where did she put the latest addition of the Chronicle? She would look under “New Advertisements” where jobs were sometimes posted. She had seen an advertisement for a part-time female packer at the Pottsville mill. She knew full timers got paid sixty cents a day. For six days work, that meant three dollars and sixty cents a week! A part timer should get half that, which meant she could buy a press before her hair turned gray.
CHAPTER 2
You must exhibit the heart of Christ.
Mother’s familiar admonition replayed like a stubborn tune in Kate’s head.
Remember God loves them, too.
She tightened her grip on the large quilt draped across one arm and tried to pretend she didn’t see Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Baxter leave the planked sidewalk and cross the cobblestone street in order to avoid her; the very sidewalk financed by her father and other wealthy members of the community he had managed to enlist, “so that the ladies wouldn’t soil their dresses.” Had the Baxters forgotten that? She had seen their sneers, seen how they had put their heads together and whispered, then laughed. And she had seen them tilt their head back in a superior manner before leaving the sidewalk.
Remember God loves them, too.
Well maybe God did love them. He could afford to be magnanimous. He didn’t have to live in a small town full of hypocrites; people who were friendly enough when they had wanted favors from her father but now . . . . Kate sighed. She wished she could look beyond the prejudice they had encountered since Father’s death, as Mother was always encouraging her to do. But it was a hard thing to love a hypocrite. It was even harder to live beneath a shadow of shame. One had to put up with so much. Even the contempt of people like the Baxters who, not so long ago, would have given their prize rooster to get an invitation to a Farrell dinner party.
The heels of her black-laced boots clicked against the wooden planks of the sidewalk. For-give, for-give, for-give, they seemed to sound out. She changed her cadence. Forg-ive, forg-ive, forg-ive. This was maddening. She quickened her pace, but when something squished beneath her boot, she stopped. Looking down, she saw she had stepped on the contents of someone’s chamber pot, thrown from one of the upper windows. Like all the shops along this street, owners and their families lived in quarters above their stores.
Serves you right for taking yourself so seriously.
She scrapped her shoe against the edge of a plank, wondering if the town was ever going to hire a water wagon to wash the streets and sidewalks. Then she checked her hem and was relieved to find it unsoiled. This was one of her best day dresses—a pale green delaine with a tiered and ruffled skirt-back supported by a perky bustle. A white satin bow decorated the bustle and a matching white satin ribbon, hanging from her small bonnet, brushed the middle of her back. Kate had carefully chosen her outfit. She knew that the backward sweep of the dress complimented her shapely figure and the color complimented her dark chestnut-colored hair.
Charlotte had praised her lavishly. Mother just shook her head. But was it wrong to not want to be mocked? Or looked down upon? Or shunned as if she had a contagious disease? But there was a practical side, too. It wouldn’t do to appear seedy or threadbare when selling her quilt. Any hint of financial hardship and the implacable Martin Roach would make bargaining more difficult. He was a master at converting the desperation of others into his gain.
She quickly checked her reflection in the four-foot high bay window of the hardware store, and adjusted her bonnet with her free hand before scanning the display of cutlery, tin-ware, toys, and hand tools. Her eyes lingered on a man’s razor and shaving cup before continuing on her way.
She ignored the clicking of her boots as she passed the coppersmith; the large Tavern and Inn; the hatter that sold bonnets and straw hats for women as well as bowlers and derbies for men; the apothecary and bookshop that shared a small building; the new clothing store that was a thorn in Martin Roach’s side since it sold gent’s ready-made clothing as well as ladies’ gloves, hosiery and dress buttons, and “cut into his profits.”
When she reached Martin’s Dry Goods Store she suddenly felt queasy. The quilt had taken months to make with its cream and pink and rust-colored small print fabric sewn into five large star-blocks and four alternating blocks with a pieced border. It was the best quilt she had ever made. She needed to be firm no matter what Martin said. Five dollars. That’s what the quilt was worth and that’s what she wanted.
The money was more important than ever since yesterday she received a telegram from the Pinkerton office in Philadelphia accepting her father’s case and saying that one, Joshua Adams, would be arriving at Pottsville tomorrow and would appreciate being met at the train. So her business needed to be concluded today. If only she could deal with Hester, Martin’s wife. Hester was far more reasonable. Maybe if . . . .
She felt the impact even before she heard his voice; felt herself reel backwards; felt the quilt slip from her arm.
“I’m . . . terribly sorry.”
Kate couldn’t see who spoke. She was sprawled across the planked sidewalk; her bonnet flopped forward covering her eyes. She felt a hand slip under her arm then pull her upward. Once on her feet she pushed her bonnet backward and stared into the smiling eyes of a young man who, Charlotte would have immediately declared, had no fashion sense whatsoever. He carried a bulging scruffy carpetbag and wore a brown, wide-brimmed felt hat that only countrymen or farmers wore. His black, double-breasted frock coat had sloping shoulders and opened to reveal a rumpled, beige waistcoat with notched collar. Around his neck was a black silk cravat, loosely tied. His beige trousers flared at the bottom and only partially covered his boots. Flared trousers had gone out of style years ago; so had sloping shoulders; and a farmer’s hat . . . well, it would have made Charlotte laugh. But Kate wasn’t laughing. She was staring at his mud-caked boots—boots that were now firmly planted on her beautiful star quilt!
She shrieked like an owl then shoved him aside, but too late. Her once beautiful quilt now hosted two large footprints. “Look what you’ve done!” she shouted, not caring that people had turned to stare. “How am I ever going to sell this now?”
The man’s face reddened. “It was clumsy of me. I apologize Miss . . . Miss . . . .”
“Farrell! Kate Farrell!” she snapped, forsaking proper etiquette that frowned upon respectable ladies introducing themselves to strangers. But such formalities seemed unimportant as she tried gathering the quilt before it suffered greater indignities. “If you were any kind of a gentleman, you’d assist me!” she said as her bonnet flopped forward again.
“Did you say Farrell? Your father wasn’t James Farrell, was he?”
Kate let the quilt drop, then shoved her bonnet backward and glared into the sky-blue eyes of the stranger. “Yes, Jim Farrell was his name. What is that to you?”
The man grinned as he pulled a paper from his pocket then waved it in front of her. “Your telegram, Miss Farrell. To Mr. Pinkerton. I’m Joshua Adams, the detective assigned to your case. Surely you got our telegram from the Office Manager telling you I was coming?”
“You were supposed to arrive tomorrow! At Pottsville!”
“Ah, so that’s why no one met me, and why I have all this mud on my boots. Your footpaths are rather primitive. But never mind. Obviously, a clerical error has been made, and once again I must apologize. Please forgive the mix-up.” Joshua Adams put down his bag, then picked up the quilt, folded it and draped it over his right arm. “Please tell me how I can make it up to you.” With his free hand he took up the carpet bag.
Kate stared at the quilt for a minute then at the handsome man whose face seemed all apology and remorse. “I was planning to sell that quilt for five dollars and the money was going toward paying your fee. I will deduct that amount from you
r final bill.”
Joshua chuckled. “I’m impressed. I see I’m dealing with a shrewd woman who will keep me on my toes.”
Kate took the quilt-draped arm Joshua offered, not impressed by him at all, and wondered, as they headed toward her lovely house on the hill, if Mr. Pinkerton hadn’t made a mistake, and rather than sending one of his many legendary operatives, had erroneously sent his office clerk instead.
Virginia tented her fingers as she sat in the parlor studying the man in front of her. Young—early twenties, good looking, animated and eager, perhaps a little nervous, too, judging by the way he kept clearing his throat. Not at all what she expected. Her vision of a Pinkerton agent was of an older man: quiet, reflective, dignified and a bit intimidating. Certainly this operative never served with Alan Pinkerton when he headed the Union Intelligence Service during the Civil War or when he foiled the plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln. Just what experience did he have anyway? Surely this wasn’t his first case?
“I’m sorry your Mother can’t join us.” Joshua Adams cleared his throat yet again. “Her insight is necessary to the investigation, but I can get that another time. So . . . let us begin. I’d like a statement from each of you.”
He removed a note pad and square English pencil from his coat pocket, walked to the corner desk, pulled out the chair, and after turning it to face the room, proceeded to sit down as if he owned the place. But his position made using the desk uncomfortable as it forced him to lean sideways when he wrote, and made Virginia add “foolish” to her mental description of him.
As Joshua Adams scribbled on his pad, Virginia noticed how he kept glancing at Kate as though taking a reading of her attitude. She had seen this before. Kate had that effect. People always seemed to want her approval. Kate, the headstrong one; capable, provincial, solid but sometimes rash, like Father. Perhaps that’s why Father had always been partial to her, though he tried to hide it. So unlike his feelings for Virginia which tended to be ones of anxiety and perplexity, though he tried to hide that, too. But Father had always been a bit unnerved by the daughter whose dreams had been too large for him; the daughter who wanted to push the boundaries of conventional womanly endeavors.
The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 3
