All in Good Time (10 page)

10

HENRY DIDN’T KNOW
what he was waiting for. He’d chanced to spot Miss Caldwell out at City Park, where he’d taken his brisk constitutional at midafternoon, having been expected at the bank too early to do it before going in. Sitting behind a desk wasn’t to his liking in many ways, a rare negative aspect of the banking career he’d sought nearly all his life. The park suitably answered that need, drawing him as it did many who were more comfortable away from the city.

Having seen Miss Caldwell lingering, he’d almost approached her. But the circumstances of the luncheon still sat heavily, so he’d walked in the opposite direction and circled back to his carriage. Then he’d waited, reading through an entire issue of the
Denver Sentinel
while he did so. Obviously this was no pleasure visit to the park for her, no taking in the air or simple enjoyment of the mountain view just beyond the plain. She was waiting for someone. Another drunkard?

But she never met anyone.

Despite his better judgment he’d instructed Fallo, his carriage driver, to follow her hired cab. As expected, it took her back to Pierson House. Why he waited any longer he did not know, except for a niggling suspicion he wished to banish. He wanted to be sure the business for which she’d borrowed money was indeed everything she’d described. That meant women going in and out of this establishment—and
no
men.

It wasn’t long before his patience was rewarded. The front door opened, but instead of Miss Caldwell, another woman emerged. Someone he’d not seen before. Henry leaned back in the carriage, out of view from the window, and waited until she’d traveled some distance before deciding to follow.

He watched the woman walk—strut—down the street, away from Pierson House. From the cut of her gown to the sway of her hips, she was no doubt headed back toward the Line: that row of bordellos along Market Street.

He bumped his cane on the roof of the carriage and his driver pulled forward, according to Henry’s signal. He would see where this woman went.

Not since his youthful days before college had Henry been so beset with foolishness. He knew his suspicions were groundless. Miss Caldwell was an innocent. An idealistic do-gooder. But the thought of her dealing alone with that drunkard—and in the middle of the night, no less—had alternately annoyed and impressed him. Annoyed him for all the obvious reasons. If a lamb ventured into the slaughterhouse, it had no one but itself to blame for its demise. On the other hand, Miss Caldwell had not only chosen to reside within the narrow radius of the state’s most notoriously sin-packed district; she also apparently believed this was exactly where she belonged.

Evidently this woman of ill virtue was exactly the kind of person Miss Caldwell sought. Why did she seek them? Did her faith blind her to all sensible reasoning?

When the woman slowed her pace just down the street, Henry leaned forward. Though she did not stop, she paused before a neat, sturdy brick structure. Henry needed only glance at the two finely dressed women lounging on the wide front porch, a little white poodle on each lap, to guess it was a parlor house. Those poodles they paraded with them throughout the city came with
such an obvious label that no respectable woman in town dared own one.

He looked again at the building. It was no doubt a more expensive place of prostitution but offered the same services nonetheless.

Despite a wave from the women and a friendly yap from one of the dogs, the woman Henry followed kept walking. At last she turned at the second corner, and he tapped the carriage ceiling again—three quick raps for a right. It mildly surprised him that this woman went right rather than left. Her clothing, from what he could tell, was more likely to grace the halls of a two-bit joint than something in the nicer neighborhood she headed into now.

Two blocks later, she crossed in front of the carriage and Henry gave a quick knock instructing the driver to stop altogether. Then, moving from one side of the carriage to the other, he watched her walk down the lightly traveled street. It was late afternoon, an hour when gambling dens and dance halls were still tightly closed. These streets wouldn’t come alive again until after the sun set, and then they’d be abuzz with activity until nearly dawn.

There was one place on this street Henry hoped she would pass, but something in his gut told him that was exactly where she headed.

To the Verandah. Turk Foster’s dance hall, named for its wide balcony spanning the entire facade on the second floor. Neither the name nor the rented rooms upstairs gave a clue that inside was one of the most profitable gambling dens in the city.

Henry guessed this wasn’t the only business Foster owned, though for public record it was the only one he acknowledged. As a dance hall it was technically legitimate, even though it quietly attracted some of the wealthiest gamblers in the city—patrons of the so-called arts. The variety theater kind.

But something about this woman didn’t match. Certainly no one employed at the Verandah would dress in such a humble
fashion, not even on an errand of her own. So what was she doing, marching right inside as if she lived there? Had she sneaked out to investigate a place like Pierson House for herself? Would she leave behind the splendor of Foster’s and dress in the lowest fashion she’d falsely presented just now?

Or had Foster sent her for some reason? It made sense that he wanted to keep an eye on what went on in his little corner of hell, a kingdom he undoubtedly ruled—to the extent the other miscreants and the law allowed. But why take any interest in a place like Miss Caldwell’s? It wasn’t exactly his competition.

Henry shook his head, exasperated as much with himself as with the questions. He rapped on the carriage roof again and the vehicle rolled on, this time in the direction of the city center. He didn’t breathe easily until reaching his own neighborhood, whose residents might visit Turk’s ward from time to time but nearly always refused to admit it.

“So she didn’t stay longer than that?” Mariadela asked. She and Dessa worked in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for a pickled salad they would serve the following day at another meal, this time a dinner party. The gathering was to be held for those who had donated to Pierson House—far more willingly, Dessa knew, than had at least one guest of the luncheon two days before. And although Mr. Ridgeway had been extended an invitation, Mr. Hawkins had not. He likely would not have accepted anyway.

“No. She stayed barely long enough to finish her sandwich. The whole conversation was unsettling.” Dessa paused from chopping the carrots in front of her to look out the window with a sigh. “She made it seem as though the girls will never choose to leave what they know.”

“They’ll come, Dessa. You did the right thing. You told her you weren’t here to judge them, just to offer them refuge.”

Although Dessa had told Mariadela that Belva seemed convinced a bed in Pierson House automatically came with judgment, she hadn’t talked about the rest of the conversation. Some memories were best forgotten, even ones that had been not only pivotal in her willingness to help Sophie with her vision but the reason she’d been chosen to do so in the first place.

“Besides,” Mariadela added, “she wasn’t the woman with the red flower in her hat; you said so yourself. Perhaps that one will show up on your doorstep any moment now.”

“I hope so.” Dessa sighed again. “Being unable to draw women here will jeopardize future donations; it could end them altogether if the rooms upstairs are empty much longer. It was hard enough to garner the amount of money we raised in the first place.”

“Every mission takes time to get established.”

Now Dessa paused over the vegetables to frown. “I worry about the Plumsteads’ not accepting tomorrow’s invitation.”

“Stop worrying! They simply had another engagement, and besides, it gave you the opportunity to invite Reverend Sempkins and his wife instead. They’ve brought in more donors than anyone else we know.”

Dessa didn’t want to worry, but she couldn’t deny how desperately she depended upon the Plumsteads’ support. Without their monthly pledge, she’d be unable to meet her regular payments to the bank. And until proving Pierson House a success, it would be impossible to attract new donors. She must fill those beds!

“Listen, Mariadela.” Dessa’s heart thumped with anticipation to share an idea Belva’s visit had ignited. “What if we expand our expected clientele?”

“What do you mean?”

“Belva reminded me that older women in the brothels aren’t apt to come to a place like this. And I’ve been going through
Sophie’s journal again, where she mentions what she thought were the failures of other missions like this one. Things she wanted to avoid.”

“You’ve already made clear on the applications that Pierson House is a place of refuge for all women in distress, regardless of past or present circumstance.”

Dessa nodded. “But what if we sought the youngest girls? Ones who haven’t yet taken up the sporting life but might be tempted to it because of the money? The ones who are working at a factory for pennies a day, either on their own or with families who can barely afford to live? Or . . . what if we found a way to reach those who’ve been brought to such a life against their will? Sophie interviewed more than one woman who started out by being tricked into such a lifestyle.”

“That’s fine, Dessa,” said Mariadela, although her tone sounded anything but inspired. “But how would we find these girls, except the way you’ve already tried? By distributing the applications to the very spots such a girl would show up—at the back door of every brothel or crib in town.”

“I plan to go to the factories, too, where girls are paid so little.”

Mariadela nodded. “A good idea. I’ll send my boys with you to help.”

“And then there are the Chinese women who’ve been brought here as slaves. We could—”

“Stop right there.” Mariadela set aside the peas she’d started shucking and stared grimly at Dessa. “For one thing, white society doesn’t mix with the Chinese—like it or not, that’s the way it is. The quickest way to stop donations is to interfere in a culture we know nothing about. A culture that, rightly or wrongly, was blamed not all that long ago for taking jobs from whites when they crossed the railroad workers’ picket lines. You weren’t here during the riots with the Chinese. I was.”

“But what do girls who have been brought here as slaves have to do with all that?”

“No, Dessa.” Mariadela’s tone and gaze were stern. “It’s too dangerous. Listen to me on this. You know it’s hard enough to find support for the kind of women you want to help. How much easier it would be to raise funds for anything else—orphans or men still disabled from the war . . . or even abandoned puppies. But Chinese women? You may disagree, but your Mr. Hawkins won’t be the only one wanting foreclosure on this house if we take in women from Hop Alley; I guarantee you that.”

Dessa heaved the deepest sigh yet.
Why, Lord, is life so unfair?

11

HENRY STARED
at the oblong sign Tobias held across his lap on the carriage seat opposite him. Carved from one of the many pines Colorado was known to grow so well and etched with the words
Pierson House
.

“How many people do you suppose will be attending tonight?” Henry asked. He already regretted agreeing to go along. Hopefully there would be enough guests that he could ignore those who would readily ignore him in return.

Tobias shifted in his seat, and the sign nearly fell to the floor of the carriage. “Oh, I don’t know. How many would her table sit? Six? Eight? Perhaps ten at the most.”

Something in his uncle’s demeanor made Henry redirect his gaze from the view beyond the carriage. Was it his imagination, or had the always-honest Tobias Ridgeway done something that made him nervous?

“I’m surprised she wants me anywhere near those who willingly emptied their pockets for such a place.”

Tobias smiled, but his eyes darted away too quickly for Henry to be satisfied. “It’ll be good for you to spend time with people who believe in her.” His voice held all the enthusiasm Henry was accustomed to hearing from him, especially when involved in something with which Henry disagreed. “You may come away tonight with an entirely new perspective.”

That Henry doubted, wondering yet again why he’d chosen to accept this particular invitation when he’d easily refused so many in the past.

“You don’t think William will be late, do you?”

Mariadela’s face didn’t offer very convincing assurance. The mercantile closed early on Tuesday evenings, which was why Dessa had chosen tonight for the donors’ dinner. But having known the Whites for the past two years, she’d seen how many times both of them had been held late with work or seeing to the needs or demands of a lingering customer.

Fortunately Mariadela had brought her oldest two daughters to help with last-minute preparations—though Dessa had been working all day and Mariadela had helped most of yesterday, too. If the girls had waited for their father to bring them, there would be no one to offer the punch before dinner or to serve the meal itself. But the sad fact was, having his best two workers away from the shop meant closing time for William might take that much longer.

“Everything will be fine, Dessa,” Mariadela said at last. The table was set, Mariadela’s daughters were in the kitchen donning crisp aprons straight from the mercantile, and every aspect of the meal—from the vermicelli soup to the braised beef to the apricot soufflé—had turned out to perfection. The new stove was everything Dessa had hoped it would be, allowing cooking and baking to be a pleasure.

“I love what you did with the leftover trim paint,” Mariadela said, looking at the stenciled decoration Dessa had added to both the parlor and the dining room. They couldn’t afford the more fashionable wallpaper, so Dessa had improvised by adding a pineapple pattern to one wall in each of the two rooms. That was all she had time for, but she thought it might be enough.

Dessa wanted to be pleased by the compliment, but her thoughts couldn’t be drawn from the evening ahead. Mrs. Naracott had sent a note earlier in the afternoon saying she and her husband would be bringing an extra man—their sturdiest coachman—with them tonight. Their driver would take the carriage to a safer neighborhood to wait for them, but if Dessa agreed, they would leave the coachman to stand guard on the porch so they could eat in complete comfort inside, knowing they were safe. He wouldn’t, of course, be expected to sit at the table, so Dessa was not to worry about food or a place setting.

Even Reverend and Mrs. Sempkins sent a note inquiring if a luncheon might have been a better choice to introduce Pierson House. Was it safe to come to such a neighborhood after dark?

Dessa had reassured them that she’d deliberately scheduled the meal for six rather than eight so they could feel free to leave before the sun had set.

Mr. Ridgeway was likely to notice the temporary guard lingering on the front porch. Hopefully he wouldn’t think she’d spent money that should go to the bank to hire the man on a permanent basis!

She’d extended tonight’s invitation to Mr. Ridgeway’s wife as well, but quickly received a note back that she was up in Cheyenne with her sister. Though Dessa had been disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to meet the woman tonight, it was probably fortunate that Mrs. Ridgeway wasn’t able to come. At least Dessa’s table would be evenly set. One of the new dangers she faced as an unmarried hostess was juggling the number of guests to accommodate a balanced table.

When a knock sounded—fifteen minutes before the invitation prescribed—Dessa’s heart twittered as she hurried through the dining room to answer the door.

But it wasn’t anyone she expected. Instead, she found a boy holding the largest bouquet of flowers she’d ever seen.

“Delivery for you, miss.” He shoved the flowers toward her.

“How lovely! But where did they come from?”

“Compliments of Mr. Turk Foster. And with a friendly welcome to the neighborhood.”

Then, before she could hope to find a nickel or even a penny to tip him, he ran off.

“What’s this?” asked Mariadela, removing the apron from around her waist.

“A boy just delivered them. He said they were from someone by the name of Turk Foster.”

Mariadela’s brows shot up with such surprise that the delivery might have been a prickly cactus rather than a colorful array of flowers.

“I’m not sure I’ve heard that name yet,” Dessa said as she walked back to the kitchen. The flowers were too tall for the dining room table, but wouldn’t they look nice in the parlor, to brighten up the table in the corner? She could move the oil lamp to the floor. No need of that tonight, with the old house’s gas lighting in fine working order. “But if he’s from the neighborhood, he must be someone I should get to know.”

“As far as I know, he’s one of the richest gamblers in Denver. Why he should send flowers is beyond me.”

“The boy said they were to welcome me to the neighborhood.” As she spoke, Dessa rescued an empty paint can from the porch. She lined it with a towel to keep any paint residue from the stems, then added water from the faucet and returned to the parlor with the attractive arrangement. There was such an array of upright and cascading flowers that they hid the can altogether.

Mariadela huffed behind Dessa. “Pierson House isn’t exactly a rival for Mr. Foster’s dance hall. I don’t understand why he would single you out with flowers. I’m sure he doesn’t welcome other businesses here on any regular basis. Why would he?”

“No matter,” Dessa said lightly. “Perhaps he was used of God and doesn’t even know it. Our dinner party needed something like this to make it special.”

A knock at the door sounded again and there was no time for Dessa to consider the reason behind the delivery. Perhaps God really did have something to do with it! The sentiment inspired exactly enough confidence for her to greet her first guests with a welcoming smile.

The door and windows to the two-story brick home were all open as Henry’s carriage pulled up. From his seat he could see straight into the parlor and spotted a number of people standing and holding beverages.

Dissatisfaction formed in his chest. It seemed an entirely busier place than the way it appeared in the middle of the day. Henry wasn’t at all sure he liked the transformation.

But then, how else was it to look when a party—even a respectable dinner party—was to be held?

Surprisingly, Uncle Tobias let himself out of the carriage first. He seemed in somewhat of a hurry as he nearly bounded up the few stairs, past a man lingering on the small cement porch. A closer look revealed the man on the porch to be a servant of some kind, by the polish of his boots and the bow he offered. Had Miss Caldwell been able to hire protection for the evening? But why, when for the first time she had ample company to keep her safe? Surely she didn’t want to present to her guests the truth about the dangers of this neighborhood.

Nothing made sense when it came to this woman.

Miss Caldwell herself greeted Tobias at the door, a look of pleasure and welcome making an already lovely face that much lovelier. For a moment Henry wished the expression wouldn’t
end when she looked at him, but he prepared himself for the inevitable.

Her frown appeared, as expected. What he didn’t expect was the surprise that accompanied it, tinged slightly by what looked almost like horror. Had his behavior at their luncheon so thoroughly revealed how little he believed in this mission of hers?

If so, he should turn around right now.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Her voice was more welcoming than her initial expression had been, so he had to give her credit for a speedy recovery. “How very nice to see you again.”

Henry tipped his head her way as he removed his hat. A moment later she took the hat from him, along with his walking stick and Tobias’s accessories. Glancing around the room, he saw an older couple he recognized as the Naracotts. They were on his investors’ dinner guest list every year as influential participants in the financial world, and they attended faithfully. The Clarks, who banked with him, were present too. A glance past both of the men to their wives revealed surprise similar to Miss Caldwell’s.

“Well, Hawkins!” said Homer Naracott. “We didn’t think we’d see you here tonight.”

Leland Clark approached as well, offering a raised brow and a laugh. “I’ve often wondered what it would take to get you to accept a social invitation. Evidently the secret is for the request to come from a lovely and available young woman.”

Henry had little patience for their fun. Just as another man approached, someone Henry did not know, he excused himself to follow after Miss Caldwell. Little did he care that such an action only reinforced their banter. He may host two parties every year, but even so he’d never overpracticed social niceties. He wasn’t about to start now.

“What are we going to do?” Dessa fretted to Mariadela, who was seeing to last-minute details of the meal.

Her friend was frowning but hardly appeared as rattled as Dessa felt. Mariadela had the presence of mind to perfectly slice—with a very sharp knife—the bread they would serve with the meal.

“Not to worry, dear,” said Mariadela. “We’ll just add another plate when William arrives, as if he’s the unexpected addition. No one will be the wiser that we didn’t expect Mr. Hawkins.”

“Then I suppose we should start the meal right away,” Dessa said. “Before William arrives. Is everything ready?”

She would have turned to the oven to see for herself, but a shadow at the kitchen threshold caught her attention, the very object of her distress. How long had he been standing there?

“Mr. Hawkins,” she greeted him again, approaching to lead him out of the kitchen. “If you’d like some punch before we sit down to dinner, Mrs. White’s daughters are serving in the—”

He was already shaking his head and appeared in no mind to follow her direction to leave. “You didn’t expect me tonight, did you?”

“Why, we had every hope . . .” The polite lie died on her lips as she saw one of his brows skeptically rise.

Mariadela came between them with a basket of sliced bread in her hands. “Mr. Hawkins, even I know you never attend parties. If that isn’t enough, it was clear from the day you came here that Tobias Ridgeway approved the loan, not you. Can you blame her if she didn’t send you an invitation?”