All in Good Time (18 page)

19

A LOUD BANGING
roused Dessa from a deep sleep. She sat up with the sense that before she’d even awakened, her heart rate had quickened. The pace only multiplied when she heard Jane’s frightened voice.

“Miss Dessa?”

Dessa jumped from her bed and opened her bedroom door, ushering in the girl.

“Did you hear that banging? There! Someone’s trying to come in. And it’s not even sunrise yet!”

Dessa looked at the watch she kept by her bedside, lit by moonlight streaming in from the open window. It was just before four in the morning, and the sun was nowhere in sight.

“Stay up here, Jane. I’ll see who it is.”

“But, Miss Dessa!” Jane grabbed her hand. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Yes,
she wanted to say. But she shook her head, though she was sure it did little to convince the girl. At the top of the stairs she met Miss Remee, who’d taken residency in the third bedroom.

“Has this ever happened before?” Remee asked, pulling closed a robe provided from the donation box. She’d left behind all of her fancy gowns and nightclothes as payment for what she owed Miss Leola, bringing with her only one small satchel of belongings.

Fortified by Miss Remee’s presence—even in the few days
since she’d joined them, Dessa had learned she was as tough as mutton—she answered with a voice far more brave than she’d felt a moment ago. “Only once. A drunkard. Perhaps it’s him again.”

Downstairs, Dessa approached the door while Remee went to the window to peek out. “Do you see anything?” Dessa whispered.

Remee shook her head.

“Who is it?” Dessa shouted through the door.

“It’s me, Miss Molly Malone. Fergal. Fergal Dunne. I have your note.”

“My note?”

“The one from the carriage house, don’t ya know?”

Miss Remee joined Dessa at the door. “That’s Fergal Dunne, all right. I’d know his voice anywhere. Let him in. He’s harmless.”

Dessa shook her head, having recognized the Irishman’s voice too. “And drunk, no doubt. I can’t let a man in here. Donors would stop their support the minute they found out.” Thankfully the Plumsteads had sent the donation she’d feared would not come, and she’d been able to make her first bank payment. But that didn’t mean such a thing would continue if the reputation of Pierson House were compromised. The Naracott donations were every bit as vital, and Dessa still worried their support could easily waver.

Remee reached past Dessa to pull open the door. “Then they won’t find out.”

A moment later the same drunken man who’d shown up shortly after she’d moved in was once again tottering into Dessa’s parlor.

“Why, Miss Remee!” He swayed before the other woman, his eyes blinking as if to clear his vision. “I heard a rumor ya might have come down here. And here ya be!”

“Yes, it’s true. But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Miss Anabel’s?”

“Got sacked.” Fergal Dunne wandered unsteadily to the chair
nearby and plunked himself down. “Ah, ’tis a sad day when a man canna hold a job.” He looked up at them, swiping a sleeve over his mouth. “’Tis the drink, you know. It’s me ruin; it has an evil grip.”

Dessa stepped closer. “So you’re the one who’s been living in the carriage house, Mr. Dunne?”

He pulled off his hat and attempted to bow while still seated. “Only between—” he burped—“jobs.”

“And what is it you do?”

“He’s a bouncer,” Remee said. “Only no one keeps him on because he drinks all the whiskey meant for the girls and patrons. And when he promises to stop, the moment he has any money he goes out to buy his own. What kind of bouncer can barely keep on his feet, Fergal? It’s no wonder you can’t hold a job.”

He placed his hat over his heart and closed his eyes. A week’s worth of stubble lined his chubby chin, and his hat was every bit as crumpled as it had been the first time he’d visited.

“Too true, all.” Then he opened his eyes, took a moment to focus as his drunken gaze sought Dessa. “Which is why I shall be needin’ the use of the carriage house, if ya please. I’ve noplace else to go. Perhaps I might be the bouncer here, since ya have a few girls with ya now?”

Just as he asked the question, Jane peered around the wall separating the parlor from the staircase—wide-eyed but without the fear she’d exhibited earlier.

“I’ll work for meals,” Mr. Dunne offered. “Meals and a roof . . . such as it is in the carriage house, with more than a wee bit of a hole up there.”

Now Remee and Jane both looked at Dessa, as if wondering whether she could turn out someone in such obvious need.

She folded her arms against the chill. “Only until you find other employment, Mr. Dunne. And only as long as you stay
sober. Do you understand? You’ll find no strong drink here, and I want none of it in that carriage house.”

He wobbled to his feet. “Ah, bless ya, bless ya indeed. ’Tis a true saint’s heart ya have beatin’ in there, Miss Molly Malone.”

“Miss Caldwell,” she corrected him but doubted he’d heard or would care, at least not until he was sober.

“And no cigars, either, Mr. Dunne,” she said as she steadied him on his way to the back door.

“So that’s how ya found me out,” he said over his shoulder. “Cigars and whiskey. Never was there such an evil pair. . . .”

Dessa shook her head, wondering all the way to the carriage house if taking him in was what Sophie Pierson would have done.

Somehow, she doubted it.

Henry sat at his desk, having arrived earlier than usual since rain had gotten in the way of his morning walk. He stared at the paperwork before him but saw not a bit of it. Too many thoughts were in the way. Wasted thoughts, useless ones. All centered around one person.

To his surprise and Tobias’s delight, Miss Caldwell had delivered her first payment in person. Henry had missed the momentous occasion, having been in an investment meeting, but Tobias had told him about it with a gleam of pride in his faded-blue eyes.

Irritated with himself for wasting a full five minutes simply staring rather than working, Henry leaned over his desk once again. But nothing could make him concentrate, not even his irritated impatience.

Such preoccupation was what came of being dragged back into society. He’d been happy enough on his own before this, hadn’t he? Well, perhaps
happy
wasn’t the right word. Certainly content. At least he hadn’t been
un
happy living withdrawn from the world,
detached and dispassionate. It was a life he’d been resigned to ever since the day he left Chicago. It was there he’d realized the choices he’d made before had allowed business success but destroyed any hope of success in personal matters.

When Tobias rapped on the door as he opened it, Henry was relieved at the interruption.

For the first ten minutes as Tobias went over various reports he’d brought with him, Henry kept his mind where it ought to have been all morning. No more visions of Dessa Caldwell—or worse, Turk Foster calling on Dessa Caldwell. Perhaps he would have a productive day after all.

When Tobias rose from his chair to leave, he shifted his paperwork from both hands to one, then put his free hand into his pocket.

“Henry,” he said, as if unsure of his next words. He pulled something from that pocket—a familiar handkerchief, although it was an odd shade for anyone’s taste, a lackluster beige. Henry had seen that particular slip of material before, when Tobias had stuffed it into one of the drawers of his desk. An odd handkerchief, indeed, that he seemed strangely protective of. “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”

Henry looked up at him, not annoyed but not interested, either. “I thought that was what we’ve been doing?”

Tobias shook his head. “No, this is rather more personal than business. It’s just . . . I’m not sure how to approach the subject, or if it’s my place to do so.”

Henry folded his arms over his chest. “Neither of us has time to stutter and stumble through some awkward uncle-to-nephew conversation. Why don’t you go back to your own office, and once you’ve figured out what you want to say—and if you still want to say it—come back and have done with it.”

Tobias opened his mouth, once again tugged on the material
from his pocket, only to return it to where it had been. Then he shook his head, turned, and walked to the door. “No.”

“No?”

He turned back at the door. “I haven’t any peace about it just yet. Perhaps the subject is unnecessary, after all. Good day, Henry.”

Henry glanced at the clock on his wall. “Good day? Are you leaving, Tobias? The day’s barely begun.”

But Tobias didn’t answer; he walked from the office, not bothering to close the door on his way out.

Henry watched his uncle as long as he could, but Tobias disappeared once he rounded Mr. Sprott’s desk.

Henry scowled as he tried shifting his attention back to his work. He knew exactly what Tobias wanted to talk to him about. They may have settled into a bank-president-and-manager relationship over the years, but the fact remained that Tobias was the only relative Henry still had any contact with. As Henry’s uncle, perhaps he felt it his duty to speak up about Henry’s choice to live the life of a social recluse. Heaven knew he’d tried many times to draw Henry out. Those dinner parties he held to impress investors hadn’t been Henry’s idea.

And now Tobias probably suspected Henry’s growing, unwieldy infatuation with Dessa Caldwell. Tobias had already tried nurturing it, and he’d no doubt push them right down the aisle if he could. Why not? Wasn’t his nephew like every other healthy young man, wanting home, hearth, and family?

And Henry did. Oh, how he did. He wasn’t foolish enough to forget the fact that he was getting older. If he didn’t marry soon, obtaining a wife and having children would become more a burden to them than a blessing. What wife wanted an old husband? Worse, what child wanted a father who more resembled a grandfather? Henry knew what it was like to lose a father; it wasn’t something he wished upon his own children.

There was only one question that trumped all of those. What wife, what child, wanted a man who might very well be destined for financial and social ruin?

Unfortunately for Henry, even the most somber answer did not keep him from devising possible reasons to see Miss Caldwell—even without Uncle Tobias’s interference.

20

DESSA HAD WORRIED
that having a man sit at their breakfast, lunch, and dinner table would invade the privacy and female camaraderie she was trying so hard to build between herself and her two new boarders. But Fergal Dunne was more like an eccentric old uncle than an interloper—and he never ate breakfast, leaving at least one meal each day just for the ladies. Plus, through the first week, Fergal had stayed sober.

It was a week of hope and laughter under the Pierson House roof. Over various sewing projects Dessa had designed, they got to know each other. Jane had set a tone of chatty openness earlier in the week, revealing more about her growing-up years in Nebraska, where all her happy memories had been left behind. Since coming to Colorado, she’d found nothing but heartache, at least before she’d come to Pierson House.

Why her father had suddenly left his stable job as a clerk in an Omaha warehouse she would never know. He’d always been so reliable back home . . . not unlike Mr. Hawkins, she’d added. That was how she preferred to remember her father. As a clerk, not as a gold-seeking dreamer, a dejected miner, or a frustrated smelter who’d died far too young.

Miss Remee was slower to reveal her past, at first saying only that she’d left family behind in Indiana. But today, just after lunch when they’d enjoyed a companionable silence for a while, she started talking without even being asked.

She told them her father had never forgiven her when the man she was supposed to marry broke off their engagement because of rumors he’d heard about her. Rumors that were mostly true, about disappearing from a party for several hours with the dashing cousin of her best friend, a young man from New York who dazzled everyone he met. Including and most especially Remee—although it had broken her heart to learn he hadn’t thought her worthy of marriage, not even when the rumors about them spread like dust on the wind.

It hadn’t taken long for her misplaced trust to destroy her reputation as well as her future. So she’d left home to find an independent life in the West, leaving her past far behind her. But like Jane, she’d found the respectable jobs didn’t pay enough to live on. At first she’d supplemented her income only now and then, arranging to meet certain men for a certain price. Eventually, though, full-time prostitution had provided the best financial security she could find.

“I thought I was lucky to get into Miss Leola’s,” Remee finished. “I had my regulars and most of them weren’t too bad.” She lifted her gaze to stare straight ahead, but Dessa could tell from the hardness on the other woman’s face that the memories were anything except pleasant. “But some of them wanted more than what they paid for. I don’t know what was worse: suffering a slap now and then or some pitiful soul begging me to pretend I loved him. They were just renting my body. What right did that give any of them to think they should have something more from me?”

Dessa listened, as did Jane, as Remee talked on. She told of women who had been abandoned by their husbands and forced into the sporting world to take care of the children they sent to boarding schools. About women who ran off from homes where they were ill-used, only to suffer another kind of ill use by society.
Women with no trade other than their bodies, foolish young girls who’d been tricked into believing a sporting life was easy and profitable, women who turned to alcohol or opium to lessen the burden that came not only with social ostracism and contempt, but with the deep-down knowledge that they sold something most people believed was never meant to be used in such a way.

“You want this place to attract women like me, Miss Caldwell? You get them here with the promise of making money.” Remee looked at the embroidered pillowcase in her hands. “Not the pittance we can make with things like this. You find a way for a gal to support herself without selling her body, and you’ll see a line of women eager to get in. And when you figure that out, you ought to say something about earning money in those flyers you pass around.”

When a knock at the door sounded, Dessa rose to answer it, sorry that the interruption had cut Remee short. She was no doubt right about the financial needs of women in her situation. But how could Pierson House promise anything but living off the generosity of sympathetic donors?

Opening the front door, she found Rye with a bouquet of flowers so wide he had to hold it with both of his scrawny hands.

“For you, Miss Caldwell. From Mr. Foster.”

Dessa had been about to receive them when the name stopped her short. She should have guessed. This was the third time he’d sent her flowers, along with a note asking once again to escort her to the Tabor Opera House. Would the man never give up?

It also meant she would probably be seeing him sometime soon; the last time he’d sent flowers, just a few days ago, they had served as a prelude to his arrival.

“Come inside, Rye,” she said, not entirely pleased by the pretty bouquet or the note accompanying it. “We have scones on the kitchen table.”

“Yeah?” he said, passing her for a quick jaunt to the kitchen.

At the dining room table, Dessa addressed Jane. “Perhaps you might pour him some milk to go with the scones?”

Jane nodded, but her gaze was on the flowers. “Mr. Foster again?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t know what Foster is up to,” Remee said, looking at the delivery with raised brows. “From what I hear of him, he’s not the marrying kind. But if you ask me, you’re lucky to have caught his attention.”

“Was he a regular visitor to Miss Leola’s?” Jane asked from the kitchen door. Dessa was glad the girl had stayed long enough to ask, because she wanted to know too. “Is that how you know him?”

“No, I never once saw him there. Let’s just say lots of girls would’ve been happy to give him their services for free. As if he were a mac.”

“A mac?” Jane repeated.

Remee smiled. “I don’t think Miss Dessa would approve of educating you on sporting terms, Jane.” She slid a glance Dessa’s way, then continued despite her words. “Maquereaux like to call themselves ‘one lover to many ladies,’ but they’re nothing but salesmen sampling the wares they sell. And what they sell are the women they’ve likely seduced into the trade.”

“Oh, you mean a pimp?”

“Jane!” Dessa said, surprised the girl knew the term and hoping Rye hadn’t heard from the other side of the door. He might not be much younger than Jane, and he no doubt knew a lot from living on the streets, but Dessa had no desire to add to his education.

The girl’s cheeks pinkened, but she raised her brows in indignation all the same. “I worked in a factory, Miss Dessa. You don’t work in one long before you learn a
few
things.”

Dessa looked again at Remee once Jane closed the kitchen door
behind her. “Do you think Mr. Foster is invested in prostitution?” That was just what Dessa needed, to be inadvertently involved with a man who kept the very business going that she wanted most to fight! “Is there anything I should know, considering Mr. Foster has been here under our roof?”

“I never made it a point to get too involved in anyone’s business but my own, so I don’t know much about Mr. Foster. Except that he’s popular with the ladies on or
off
the Line.” Remee cocked her head to one side. “Any gal would brag if she’d been to Foster’s place. Lots of deep pockets on the patrons there! If Foster had let us, we’d have attended there every night in the hope of finding rich lovers.”

“He says his place is all perfectly respectable.”

Remee laughed. “It’s a theater, but it’s mostly women who sing and dance on his stage. Everybody stops whatever game they’re playing to watch the shows because they’re so good.”

“But it’s respectable?”

Any trace of a smile on Remee’s face disappeared with Dessa’s persistence. “Look, Foster’s Verandah is as respectable as it gets. It’s not a brothel, if that’s what you want to know.”

Dessa looked again at the flowers and the note. “It’s just that I heard he’s . . . well, I guess you’d call him of the snake variety. Not taking no for an answer suggests he might just be a snake after all. A polite person would stop asking after a time or two.”

“If he
is
a snake—and I don’t think he is—then he’s a rattler.” She winked. “That’s a gentleman kind of snake. Warns its victim first, you know?”

Later that afternoon, Dessa stopped by Mariadela’s for a variety of plants divided from those in the Whites’ garden. But the lovely greens couldn’t lift her spirits once Mariadela told Dessa her news.

“The Plumsteads are leaving Denver?”

“I’m afraid it’s worse than it sounds, Dessa. They’re going back East to live with family. The donation they made a few days ago will be their last.”

They were on the porch overlooking Mariadela’s yard, where the plants had been neatly tucked in a burlap sack, awaiting Dessa’s pickup. Thankfully there was a set of wicker chairs nearby, because Dessa needed one to sink into.

“Couldn’t they wire their donations here? Or . . . leave something behind, a fund of some kind? Perhaps Mr. Hawkins’s bank could arrange—”

Mariadela was already shaking her head and joined Dessa on an open chair. “I’m afraid they’re leaving because they’ve lost their income. I don’t know the details, but apparently the mine Mr. Plumstead invested in has gone dry. I’m so sorry, Dessa, but we can’t count on them for further donations. Mr. Plumstead even came by this morning to see William. I heard him hint that he hoped to get back the funds he gave us.”

“You told him that’s impossible, I hope! I’ve already handed it over to the bank.”

“I heard William say that very thing. Mr. Plumstead was likely too proud to come directly to you, but he’s known for some time that things were going bad. The truth is they haven’t a penny to spare, especially now.”

Dessa’s chest felt so weighted she could barely breathe. “But what are
we
to do?” The moment she heard her own words she wished them back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for them. Yet . . . it puts Pierson House at risk.”

Tears heated the rims of her eyes, but she refused to cave in to them. She stood, taking up the burlap bag. There was no sense sitting here wallowing in her worries.

“I know you’ll be praying with me,” Dessa said over her shoulder. “Don’t stop until we have the answer.”

Dessa should have taken a hansom cab but knew sitting still was impossible. She needed to move, to spend some of her nervous energy. Once she reached Pierson House, she didn’t go inside.

She wasn’t yet ready to face Jane or Remee. Leaving the burlap bag in front of the house, she went round to the porch for a garden hat, gloves, and small shovel. She’d never stored such things in the carriage house, not with its faulty door, and since Mr. Dunne had taken up residence in there she was glad not to have any need to go in.

Mr. Dunne. He would have to leave too if they couldn’t afford Pierson House anymore. Her leaden heart sank even lower.

But she refused to give in to the desire to sit down and cry.

It was well into summer, and these plants needed planting. Certainly they would make Pierson House all the more appealing with a garden of its own to greet every visitor. She swallowed the lingering lump in her throat. She’d actually looked forward to this task, but now it came with a sense of desperation. She must make this place at least
look
like it would succeed!

Oh, Lord, please open some funds from somewhere to help us!

There wasn’t much room between the house and the street, but Dessa meant to make the most of what soil she had to work with. She should have been tired after the long walk from Mariadela’s, but she still had plenty of energy. She dug into the ground without mercy.

The first cuttings went in easily, but she had little sense of satisfaction. Money, she decided, was more trouble than it was worth. Why must she always worry about it? If only the value of a service, not its popularity, determined revenue.

“Good afternoon, Miss Caldwell!”

Dessa turned from her task, the effort to rid her face of a scowl nearly more than she could handle.

Dismounting from horseback was Turk Foster. Apprehension
flared in place of her temporarily squashed worries. Setting aside the hand shovel, she removed her dirty gloves and watched him tether his fine, shiny black horse to the hitching post near the curb. The animal—one from the pair he’d used to pull his carriage—possessed an incredibly long mane that, at least for a moment, calmed her senses with a vision of God’s artistry.

“How do you do, Mr. Foster?” she asked as she accepted his extended hand—a gesture he drew out to simply hold her hand. “Your horse is certainly lovely.”

Still not letting go, he looked over his shoulder at the mount. “Yes, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Then, both hands covering hers now, he added, “I’m a great admirer of beauty, which automatically makes me a great admirer of yours.”

Pulling her hand from his gentle captivity, she murmured her thanks, glad when he turned his attention to her work behind them.

“And what have you embarked upon today?”

“It doesn’t look very appealing yet, I admit, but before many days have gone by, I’m hoping this will be the brightest spot on the street.”

Mr. Foster returned his gaze to hers and tipped his hat. “I’m sure it’s that already, Miss Caldwell.” He winked. “Quite sure, in fact.”

She offered a smile before looking away again. Perhaps he wasn’t a rattler, after all. More like one of those snakes a charmer used, that stared before striking. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t neglect my work. I really ought to get back to it.”

He looked toward the house. “Are you all alone? No more boarders?”

“Oh no! Jane is still here, of course, and I don’t believe you’ve met my newest guest.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “Actually we have two new boarders. One of them is in the carriage house.”

“The carriage house? Your rooms are full already?”

“We have room for several more ladies, particularly if we put more than one to a room. So if you know of anyone, please tell them about us.” Surely her tone hadn’t matched the desperation in her heart. It wasn’t too late to fill up the rooms, and in so doing attract new donors.