Katie Rose (21 page)

“How does it look?”

Emily stood back to survey her work. The parlor was aglow from her scrubbing, and candles lent their soft gleam to the hardwood floors. Crepe paper twirled between the chandelier and the fireplace, making the room look festive and inviting, and doilies added a lacy touch beneath the serving dishes.

Darrel stood by the table, his cocklebur hair plastered into place with Rowland’s macassar oil. He was dressed in a white shirt and his Sunday-best dark trousers, and at a distance, could pass muster for a very short waiter. He appeared proud of his position, and practiced hoisting a silver tray on one arm, balancing the brimming Champagne glasses. Emily held her breath as they tottered precariously, but so far none of them had been broken.

The large parlor table had been transformed into
a buffet, and Emily looked over the result with satisfaction. She’d been able to scrape up enough money for a ham, thinly sliced, cold potato salad, snap beans, fruit, cheese, and peach ice cream. She even found some tongue as an appetizer, and a meringue pie, which provided a touch of elegance to the rustic spread. Lastly, she’d managed to entice the wine merchant into parting with a bottle of Champagne for a pittance. The golden liquid bubbled merrily in the glasses, announcing to everyone that a party was about to happen.

It would work. Emily smiled, pleased with herself. She glanced down at her dress, a simple gown of beige trimmed with fur. Although Rosie thought it boring, Emily had to explain that it was considered elegant, and most proper. The house was bawdy enough, and Emily felt strongly that she must appear as sophisticated as possible to make the women feel at home. Smoothing a wrinkle from the gown, she heard Rosie’s laughter.

“You look grand, honey, stop worrying! And I really do like that dress, although one of mine would have been just as nice. Everything looks right pretty.”

“You think so?” Emily asked and saw Darrel glance up in confusion. Frowning, she remembered that he couldn’t hear Rosie. “I just said I think everything looks all right,” she told him.

“Oh.” Darrel nodded, though he plainly thought Emily a little daft.

“Yes, it looks wonderful. Those ladies will be piling in at any moment! You’ll be a spectacular success!”

Emily stood beside the fireplace. Deciding that she looked too eager there, she moved to the bookcase and pretended to be looking through her volumes. Thinking that might look too scholarly, she perched on the edge of Rosie’s settee with a glass of Champagne. Watson mewed and sat under the table, eyeing the food, while Darrel stood at attention.

No one came.

The clock struck half past eight, and Emily began to pace the floor. The Champagne fizzed less exuberantly, the ham began to get shiny and the tapers dripped onto the tablecloth. The player piano tinkled out a song, while Darrel removed all but one glass from the tray, his arms obviously aching.

Still no one came.

By nine o’clock, the potato salad had begun to congeal, the ice cream was now a bowl of milk and peaches, and the Champagne had lost all of its pretense to fizz. The piano continued to play, but the music came out in tired strains. Dismissing Darrel, Emily collapsed into a chair and was forced to face the truth.

No one was coming.

Tears, hot and stinging, came to her eyes, and to her intense shame, she began to sob out loud. Never could she remember having been so blatantly rejected before. The room swam in firelight and colors as she looked through her tears at the bawdy ceiling, the crimson chairs, the hats and the books. She was a failure. She’d extended a hand toward the women of town, and that hand had been firmly slapped.

“Oh, don’t cry honey, I’m sure something went
wrong. Maybe no one saw your posters.” Rosie’s voice came from nowhere and the scent of roses filled the room.

“I’m not crying,” Emily sobbed. “It’s no use, Rosie. They don’t understand me. And they certainly don’t like me.”

“It’s not that bad,” Rosie assured her, though she too seemed completely at a loss. “Maybe they need to get to know you. You know, at church functions or something.”

“My money won’t hold out much longer.” Emily cried like a disconsolate little girl. “I don’t have time to go to church and court the women! I have to get the business off the ground, but if they won’t come …”

The rest was too difficult to finish. If they didn’t come, Emily would be forced to pack up, go home, and quit the case. There would be no investigation, no excitement, no chasing after clues and untangling the mystery. She would never know who’d murdered her father, and there would be no Thomas, either. Emily was amazed at the jolt of pain that followed that thought. She would have to return to Boston, to her quiet existence, where years of spinsterhood and books lay before her, doomed forever to imagine “what if.”

Watson sprang up into her lap and Emily hugged the cat, grateful for his warmth. The disappointment she suffered was keen. Nothing would fill the emptiness inside of her, nothing except …

A knock at the door. Watson leaped from her arms, and Emily brushed frantically at the dampness
staining her cheeks. Rising to her feet, she smoothed her dress, while Rosie whispered encouragement.

“That’s them! They’ve decided to come! Now pinch your cheeks, honey, you look right peaked.”

Emily obeyed, then walked smoothly to the door as if nothing could possibly be wrong. She opened the portal and forced a smile, her heart in her throat. She would be the most charming hostess ever, even if only one person showed up. In the darkness, she saw a lone figure standing on the porch and for a moment she thought everything would work out after all.

And then she realized it was Thomas.

“Hello, Emily, I just thought I’d stop by and see how the reception’s going.…” His voice trailed off as he looked behind her and saw the table laden with food, and no one to eat it.

Emily straightened, trying to appear as dignified as possible. She looked him in the eye and tried desperately to keep the pathetic quiver from her voice. “Thomas, you were right. They didn’t come.”

The preacher looked at her for a long moment, put his hat aside, then took her in his arms. Emily melted into the comforting warmth, the acceptance, the understanding in his embrace. The sobs came fast and furious now, and he held her more tightly, smoothing her hair, quietly caressing her.

“Shh. Go ahead and cry if it makes you feel better. Emily, I’m so sorry. You can’t honestly think I’d be happy about this, can you?”

She looked up at him and shook her head. “No. I don’t suppose that would be Christian. But you were
right, Thomas. They don’t like me and won’t accept me. I’ve failed.”

“Stop that.” Thomas practically carried her to the sofa, holding her as if she were made of precious china. “They don’t know you, Emily. All they know is what they’ve heard. Think about it. You come into town, masquerade as a saloon girl, scare the bejesus out of the townspeople with your science of deduction, and then invite them to a whorehouse for tea and cakes. Don’t you think it appears a little odd?”

She pulled away from him and nodded, suddenly unable to argue with the logic of his words. “But I just thought—”

“I know what you thought, and it wasn’t a bad idea. The women just have to get to know you, then they’ll understand.”

“It’s no use.” Emily looked up at him, her eyes swollen from crying. Self-consciously, she tried to smooth back her hair, but she knew she looked a fright no matter what she did. “I need the money, Thomas. That’s why I had the reception—to get my business off the ground. Now I’ll have to go home. I know that’s what you’ve been encouraging me to do, but I can’t stand the thought! Oh, God, Thomas, I don’t know how I can do it!”

Her sobs welled up anew and she struggled valiantly not to cry again. Thomas stared into her face for a long moment. Then he sighed as if coming to a difficult conclusion.

“All right. This goes against everything I believe in, for I do think you’re safer in Boston. But I can’t stand to see you like this. There’s a shop in town that
would be perfect for your millinery business. I spoke to the owner this morning, and he said you could have it for five dollars a week. It’s located just outside the dry goods store and the bank, so you’ll have plenty of traffic. All you need to do is hang out your shingle.”

“You don’t understand,” Emily said forlornly. Her hands folded in her lap, and when she looked up, he could see how hard the next words were for her. “I don’t have five dollars. It might as well be five million.”

“I see.” Thomas frowned, then his gaze fell on the discarded paintings stacked in the corner.

“I’ve got it, Emily. Why don’t you sell off the paintings?”

Emily heard Rosie’s gasp, and her head came up quickly. She glanced at the empty spaces where the portraits had hung, and the blush deepened on her cheeks. “You mean, the nudes?”

“Yes.” Thomas chuckled at her expression. “I know some of the men in town would pay a fortune for one of those. And the Silverdust would certainly be interested. What do you think?”

Emily nodded, her heart lightening. “I think that’s a grand idea. Do you think it will work?”

Thomas nodded. “I’ll take care of the details. I don’t think you hawking paintings of nude women will add much to your reputation. And as a preacher, I’ll have to get an intermediary to help sell them. But I can make the arrangements tomorrow, then we’ll go see the shopkeeper. Is that a deal?”

Giggling, Emily threw herself into his arms. “It’s a
deal. Thank you, Thomas. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Gently he disengaged himself from her embrace. Emily looked up, puzzled, but Thomas looked decidedly uncomfortable. She couldn’t hide her disappointment, especially since those delicious sensations she always felt in his arms had started to stir up inside her, hot and thick. He got stiffly to his feet, and distracted her by pointing to the table.

“I haven’t had supper, so a plate of that ham would be welcome,” he said hoarsely. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.” She practically skipped to her feet to fetch him the meal. She made him a heaping platter, gathering a smaller portion for herself at the same time. Even Watson got his share, for he had been sitting beneath the table patiently all evening.

They drank flat Champagne, ate their fill, and talked. For the first time since she’d met him, Emily felt they really were beginning to be friends. Her heart warmed at the thought, and hope now burned again inside her. He had come to her rescue—again—like the knights of old, pulling her from the depths of despair. Surely now he would tell her the truth about who he really was, and why he was involved in her case.

They had scarcely finished eating when a sharp knock sounded at the door. Emily and Thomas looked at each other in surprise, then Emily got to her feet. She opened the door expecting Darrel, but an elderly woman stood on the porch steps.

“Hello. Are you Miss Potter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you having a party tonight?” The old woman’s voice came in staccato notes.

“Why, yes!” Emily said, delighted.

“Well, then. Can I come in, or are you going to make me stand on the porch all night?”

Stunned, Emily stepped back and held open the door. The woman extended her hand briskly. “I’m Eleanor Hamill. I saw your poster today, and I’ve heard a lot about you. I meant to come much earlier, but I plumb forgot and fell asleep by the fireplace. Am I too late?”

Thomas rose and came to the door, his hat in hand. “I’ll be going, Miss Emily. Wonderful party. I really enjoyed myself.”

The preacher nodded to the woman, then stepped away into the darkness. Emily felt a peculiar lurch in her heart as he left, then turned toward the woman, who looked approvingly after him.

“That’s that new preacher, isn’t it? I told those old biddies in the sewing circle that you were all right, they just weren’t giving you a chance. Wait until I tell them that even the preacher thought enough to stop by. Here, take my cane.”

Emily took the woman’s cane and bonnet from her outstretched hands, trying not to laugh at her peremptory manner. Eleanor fixed herself a plate, not saying a word about the abundance of food and lack of guests. Instead she seated herself beside the fire and ate her meal with obvious relish.

“Interesting surroundings,” the woman remarked
between mouthfuls of food. Her gaze drifted around the room, taking in the crimson-and-gilt chairs, the portrait of Rosie hanging over the fireplace, the bar and the piano. Finally she looked upward at the ceiling with a squint. “Always wanted to see the inside of this place. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but that looks just like the Sistine Chapel. Ever been to Europe?”

“No,” Emily said, choking back her laughter. She studied the woman before her with interest. Eleanor was obviously well-to-do, and had dowager written all over her. She also had a no-nonsense attitude that Emily liked right away. Her gown was of the best quality, tailored almost like a man’s suit, and her gloves were of the finest calfskin. When she removed the gloves Emily could see that her index finger was covered with a rubber hood, and her cuff was smeared with ink. Her small glasses were perched on the edge of her nose so she could look over them, and her sharp blue gaze seemed to see everything at once. Smiling, Emily gestured to her books.

“Since I observe you are a great reader, please feel free to enjoy any of my works.”

The woman chuckled, then put aside her plate. “I am not surprised at your observation, since I’ve heard of your powers. I am a reader of the
Strand
, and love the Sherlock Holmes stories. As soon as I heard what you were able to do, I knew exactly who your mentor was. I, too, mourn his loss.”

“You are a fan?” Emily was astonished anew by this woman.

Eleanor Hamill chuckled. “But of course. My
dear, we have much to discuss.” She raised an arm and Emily gasped at the black armband she wore, just like her own—the official method of mourning Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Thomas walked past the boardinghouse toward the saloon. Although it wasn’t seemly for a preacher to visit such a place—especially not twice—he didn’t care. He needed a drink. He needed a dozen drinks to figure out what the hell he’d just done.