16
HENRY WALKED BRISKLY through the bank following his early morning constitutional out at City Park. He nearly smiled at Mr. Sprott as he passed the clerk on his way into the office.
So when Tobias called to him, obviously having waited to spot him, Henry turned without a trace of annoyance, although he was still somewhat peeved at the older man. Henry had learned his aunt Etta’s train hadn’t been expected until Saturday, a full day after Tobias had sent Henry on that fool’s mission last week to hang the sign at Miss Caldwell’s. Tobias claimed to have gotten his days mixed up.
“I’ve had a talk with Etta and your Mrs. Giovannini,” Tobias said, “and we’ve all decided your summer dinner event should come a bit later this year. Instead of one month from today, we think it should be held five weeks from Sunday.”
“And why is that?”
“Because we’ve just gotten word the Verandah is having another of those disgusting masquerades, and much as we hate to believe any of our investors would attend such a thing, the truth is they do. Foster’s party would be held on the same night as your dinner, unless we change.”
Whatever good cheer Henry had enjoyed a moment ago dissolved at the news. Foster again. Those masquerades ought to be outlawed now that Denver was so far on its way to becoming one of the nation’s premier cities. But Henry knew that was a useless hope. He’d heard New York City itself had similar parties, or worse. Hosted by no less than brothel madams.
Not that Foster was much of a cut above that.
But why should Henry change his date to accommodate Foster’s party? It would serve any of his nearly two dozen investors right to be suspected of attending a socially unacceptable alternative. Anyone not showing up to Henry’s event would be left open to the worst doubt, which should make attendance to his dinner all the more desirable—at least for the sake of one’s reputation.
Yet as tempted as he was to insist, Henry had little desire to expose anyone else’s sins. He had enough of his own to keep hidden.
“Fine, then,” he said, turning back to his office. Gone was any desire to smile, replaced by the more familiar urge to scowl.
“Oh, and Henry,” Tobias said, following him to his office door. While Henry hung his hat and removed his gloves, Tobias stood at the threshold. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the invitations printed individually with the names of your guests, in anticipation of your agreement. And I’ve added one more name to the list.”
Going to his desk, Henry spared a glance but did not prompt his uncle for a name. He already had a guess of his own.
“I’m eager for Etta to meet Miss Caldwell,” Tobias said, “and what better opportunity than this?”
Suspicion confirmed, Henry sat in his chair to attend to his work. Tobias took his silence as agreement, as he so often did, then left his office.
As Henry studied the ledger in front of him, he couldn’t help but notice that the addition of Miss Caldwell’s name to the guest list had restored his former good mood.
“Where did you learn to do all this, Miss Caldwell?” Jane asked while sitting at the dining-turned-sewing table. “You can cook and sew, and I’ve never seen a neater bed than the one you make.”
“I was a maid from the time I was seven until I started working with Miss Pierson. That’s how I met her, as a maid in her parents’ house.”
“Oh. I thought . . .” She averted her gaze, a crimson tint rising to her cheeks.
Dessa smiled. “Did you think I might be a reformed soiled dove?”
Jane shrugged. “I guess I did wonder why you want to help them so much.”
Dessa hesitated a moment. She mustn’t be so afraid to reveal her past, especially with the clients who might come to reside with her. At least . . . some of that past. “Because, but for the grace of God, I might have become one of them.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “But you just said—”
“I said I wasn’t one, and I wasn’t. Weren’t you tempted, even for a moment, when Miss Leola offered all those gowns and money?”
Jane tended to her sewing again. “Maybe I was. But I don’t think you could’ve been. You’ve told me more than once that everything in this house belongs to God, as if it doesn’t matter whether you own any of it or not.”
Dessa wasn’t sure how much to reveal, particularly to someone as young and inexperienced as Jane. She was used to keeping at least one secret, and with Jane it didn’t seem necessary to talk about all the twists and turns that clouded Dessa’s past. It wasn’t necessary, was it, to explain that Sophie’s own brother had been the catalyst that prompted Sophie to choose Dessa as her partner in the work she’d dedicated herself to?
“I’m not saying you were tempted to the work of a sporting girl, or the money that might come with it,” Dessa said. “But there can be a security of income, even from things God wouldn’t approve. Sometimes we allow ourselves to do desperate things if we don’t trust God to take care of us.”
Suddenly there was a crash at the window—the noise so close Dessa and Jane simultaneously dropped their sewing to lift their arms and protect their faces.
Then silence.
“What in the world?”
A glance at the other end of the dining room revealed the window broken through the center—and a rock the size of Dessa’s palm teetering on the end of the table.
“Stay here, Jane,” Dessa ordered. She ran toward the front door.
Commotion down the street drew her attention. A man had a boy by his tattered collar, not far from a carriage stopped behind the most magnificent pair of black horses Dessa had ever seen. The door was wide open, as if the carriage had been hastily vacated by the man who even now yelled and shook the boy. The captive flailed his arms in a futile attempt to free himself.
When the man caught sight of Dessa, he shoved the boy in her direction, keeping hold of the collar in case the boy had any ideas of fleeing. With his free hand, the tall, slim man managed to tip his hat Dessa’s way. “Is that your home, miss? The one this boy chucked a rock at?”
“Yes!”
Stopping only a few feet in front of her, he gripped the child by both shoulders, forcing him to stand at attention before Dessa.
“Here he is, ma’am. Caught in the act—I saw him myself. I can take him down to the police station if you like. That’s my carriage right there.”
“Oh no, please don’t.” She looked at the youth, who couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. He was only a bit shorter than she, and dirty from head to toe. “Why did you do such a thing, young man?”
“I—I just did, that’s all.” He glared at her. “Go ahead, have him take me to jail. I don’t care.”
“But I don’t want to be responsible for someone so young being sent to such a dire place,” Dessa said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come inside and help me clean up the mess? I’ll give you a cookie. Then the next time you feel like throwing rocks, you might remember the cookie and pick another window to smash. Or maybe you won’t throw any rocks at all. Would that be all right with you?”
He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “What kind of cookie?”
“Shortbread.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll have to come and see. They’re my favorite; that’s why I make them.” She smiled. “I have a feeling you might like them too.”
She thought he might smile back, but he looked away instead. He did, however, nod.
“Are you sure you want to take this urchin inside, miss?” asked the tall stranger, still holding one of the boy’s arms. “He’s probably a thief as well as a vandal.”
“It’s quite all right, sir,” Dessa said. “I haven’t anything worth the trouble of stealing. Won’t you come inside as well? Tea and cookies are the least I can offer to repay you for your help.”
The man and boy exchanged a somewhat bemused glance, which Dessa found oddly amusing. They looked as though kindness wasn’t to be found in this neighborhood, something she was here to prove wrong.
Inside, Jane had already set about sweeping up the broken pieces of the window. The boy, evidently eager to fulfill the duty he’d been assigned, grabbed the dustpan she’d left nearby and held it steady for her to collect the shards.
“Hello there,” Jane said to the boy as she continued the task with his help. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan. But everybody calls me Rye.”
“Rye and Mr. . . .” Dessa turned to the man beside her inquisitively. He was staring at Jane and for the moment seemed to be assessing her in a way that suggested he knew what sort of neighborhood he’d ventured into. She’d have to assure him he wasn’t in the kind of place he either feared or had been looking for.
He was appealing in a rugged sort of way, with a scar splitting one eyebrow. Between the broad expanse of his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw, she thought he might have been the inspiration behind any one of the frontier-tale dime novels she knew girls back East regularly devoured. She’d read more than a few herself when she could afford them and had the time.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know how to introduce you to my friend, or to welcome you to Pierson House. You’re inside a mission to help those in need.”
“Indeed?” he said, the brow with the scar rising curiously. “A mission . . . of what sort?”
“God—and a group of generous donors—have made it possible for Pierson House to open its doors to girls who find themselves in need of a safe place. If you’ve heard of the YWCA, it’s like that.”
“I see.” He held out his hand toward Dessa. “Actually, I did know you were new to the neighborhood, but I wasn’t sure of your purpose. The rumors around town aren’t always reliable. My name is Foster. Turk Foster.”
Dessa pulled back her hand ever so slightly before pushing it forward again. She hoped he hadn’t noticed that her first response to his name was to recoil. How silly! It was a reaction based only upon the input of a stodgy, stingy old banker. Well, not so very old. But most definitely stodgy and stingy.
Mr. Foster accepted her hand, and she shook his warmly. “Oh, Mr. Foster! Thank you so much for the flowers you sent to welcome us to the neighborhood. How did you know they were needed on the very day I hosted a dinner party for some of my most important donors? The flowers brightened up the parlor nicely.”
He smiled, then without letting go of her hand, he pulled it upward to kiss her fingers. “It was my pleasure. And it is again now, to see they brought you a smile.”
Rye stood by with the full dustpan, and Dessa reluctantly pulled her gaze from Mr. Foster’s friendly eyes. She directed Rye to follow Jane to the kitchen.
“Won’t you sit in the parlor, Mr. Foster?” Dessa asked. “I’ll bring in some tea and a plate of cookies—”
“Oh, no, no, Miss Caldwell. Don’t go to the trouble.” He glanced at the window. “I’ll send someone round this afternoon to repair your window before dark—at no charge to you or to your donors.”
“How very generous. How can I thank you?”
He placed his hat back on his head, going to the door. “I’ve an idea. You could accompany me to the opera house on Tuesday night. That’s how you can repay me, if you insist that you need to at all.”
Desire to agree mingled with her inevitable answer. “I—I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Foster. Except to apologize that I couldn’t possibly go. I haven’t proper attire for an opera, for one thing. My lifestyle is far simpler than those who usually go to such places.”
He stared at her a moment, making no attempt to conceal a light of appreciation. His blue eyes were clear and bright and at the moment searing right into her. “The more formal opera season won’t start again until fall, Miss Caldwell. If you accompany me on Tuesday, there will be a light musical revue, one that’s sure to entertain even as it requires no formal attire.”
Instead of being embarrassed by her lack of experience with high society’s seasons, Dessa offered an unabashed laugh. “There, you see? I’ve been inside many lecture halls throughout the country, Mr. Foster, but never once as a patron of the arts. I am a woman of work, not leisure.”
His smile nearly mesmerized her, accompanied by his avidly attentive gaze—as if he were trying to see inside her soul. It made her feel as though she was the only living person who existed for him at that moment.
She broke the gaze, reminding herself she’d seen such a thing before. We’re all attracted to beauty and charm . . . but it shouldn’t blind us to all else.
He wasn’t deterred. “All the more reason for you to taste the theater as it was designed to be. For music and . . . did you say this mission—” he glanced around—“is from God?”
She nodded.
“Then if music is from the gods, you shall hear it as you’ve never heard it before.”
“There is only one God,” she said, embarrassed when her words came out as little more than a whisper. Rather than looking at his eyes, now she couldn’t seem to take her gaze from his mouth.
“Say that you’ll come with me,” he said, and his voice, too, was low. Intimate.
“I . . . I don’t normally—”
“But I assure you,” he said with a smile, “this will be anything but normal. It will be an experience you’ll never forget. Shall I call for you at eight, then?” He let his gaze leave her face, doing so with such eager appraisal she nearly welcomed the sensation as he scanned her from head to toe. “What you’re wearing today is certainly presentable. Any man would be proud to escort you, and I shall count myself honored.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to agree. It would have been so easy. But an image of the sugar-tongued Bennet Pierson rose to an unlikely rescue.
“No, Mr. Foster. I’m afraid I cannot go.” Dessa took hold of the doorknob nearby, grateful that it was cool to the touch. She nearly leaned her forehead against the door itself. “I’m very grateful for your help today, and if you would be so kind as to send someone to repair the window, please tell them I’ll provide a very pleasant meal in return. I haven’t any money to pay for the glass, but I’m a good cook and would count the service as a great favor.”
Mr. Foster turned to the door. “Then I shall accompany my man for the job and share the meal as well.” He winked at her. “One way or another, Miss Caldwell, I intend to enjoy your company.”
He tipped his hat in farewell and saw himself out the door.
Closing it behind him, Dessa leaned against the solid wood and folded her arms against herself. It had been a long time since a man had paid her any attention; she’d nearly forgotten what it was like.
It wasn’t only that she hadn’t allowed the time to get to know any of the men she’d met across the country; she’d been inspired by Sophie.
Sophie had never once let a man turn her head. She’d been far too sensible, and more importantly, entirely dependent upon God and His direction. She’d never expressed a void in her life for not having been loved by a man. She was, instead, loved by the many she helped.
And Dessa meant to be just like Sophie. Charming as Mr. Foster might be, she must never forget that she’d once been so desperate for the admiration of a man that she’d freely given away what the women in this neighborhood sold for a fee.