24
“YOU THERE!”
Henry stepped down from his carriage, eager to return to work after his brief absence for lunch. Hearing his uncle calling after a youth—who was now running away from Tobias at full speed—caught his attention.
“Did you see that scalawag?” Tobias demanded of Henry as he approached.
“Only the haste of his escape. What’s happened?”
“I stopped to look at that new poster—something I think the boy was working on, if I can judge by that paste bucket and brush I saw him with. I wanted to ask him about it, but he rushed off before I could speak to him.” Tobias turned back in the other direction and extended his palm toward the corner. “You need to see this, Henry.”
From the pucker of Tobias’s brow, Henry guessed whatever it was couldn’t be good news.
He followed Tobias a few steps down the block, toward the corner where a telephone pole held up the lines along the street. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find out who sponsored the poster if you wanted more information,” Henry suggested as they walked.
Tobias was already glaring at the newest advertisement affixed to the pole.
Henry saw the image of a woman drawn along the edge of a generously sized poster. It reminded him to petition the city council once again to establish an ordinance to restrict such advertisements. Some were undoubtedly in poor taste, although this one didn’t seem to be. Worse, when the paste dried or the wind got hold of a loose corner, they tore and inevitably littered the street. Besides that—
“Pierson House?” The words jumped out at him, and he gripped his walking stick as he closed in on the pole. “A benefit . . . at the Verandah? For Pierson House? How can this be?”
He was blathering like an idiot, but at the moment that was what he felt himself to be. Other than a brothel, he simply could not comprehend a less likely establishment to be connected to Pierson House.
“And look at the date, Henry.”
The conflict only compounded Henry’s speeding pulse and quickened breath.
“This is outrageous. It’s madness. It’s—”
His own carriage had pulled from the curb, but another was now pulling into the vacant spot in front of the bank. Henry’s quick glance lengthened when he recognized the long-maned pair of horses.
Turk Foster. Speak of the devil.
Henry tore the poster from its spot, and it came easily—wetly—away. He held it clear of his jacket and shoes and advanced upon the carriage just as the driver jumped down to hold open the door and lower the stair.
Standing stiffly, walking stick in one hand and poster dangling from the tips of his fingers in the other, Henry had no clue as to why Turk Foster might be in this neighborhood. But he wouldn’t be leaving before hearing an earful.
The skirt annoyed him first. Foster must not be alone.
Then he saw her.
Dessa Caldwell allowed the driver to assist her, then took the spot before Henry on the street with a broad—albeit slightly abashed—smile upon her lovely face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawkins. You’re just the person I was looking for.”
Swallowing a lump of embarrassment over having been seen in Mr. Foster’s carriage—something she might not have felt so acutely had she not just learned all she had about the Verandah—Dessa intentionally widened her smile. But when she caught sight of the familiar poster hanging disdainfully from Mr. Hawkins’s fingertips, her embarrassment multiplied to something more closely resembling alarm.
Mr. Hawkins offered only a glare in return for her dwindling smile—amid a warning she couldn’t help but catch. Even Mr. Ridgeway glowered, making her heart sink under such obvious censure. So she had been an utter fool to link herself to the Verandah—and they weren’t about to overlook that foolishness.
Squaring her shoulders, clutching her handbag, she glanced again at Mr. Hawkins. “I wonder if I might have a word with you?” How brave she sounded, how sure of herself. How positively righteous, when she was, in fact, utterly wrong. And he obviously knew it.
Mr. Hawkins stepped aside, though his visage did not soften in the least. “A word, Miss Caldwell, is exactly what I was about to request of you. Shall we?”
She led the way into the bank, past all the desks and teller cages, sure each and every bank employee knew she marched toward some kind of punishment. Abject fear quickened her breathing.
Mr. Sprott popped from his seat in time to open the office door for her. Once the three were inside—Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Ridgeway, and herself—Mr. Sprott pulled the door shut without having to be told.
Somehow, having Mr. Ridgeway present brought some comfort. Small though that comfort was, because he, too, looked so utterly disappointed.
Mr. Hawkins dropped the now-curling poster into the waste bin beside his desk. “I see that you’ve disregarded my advice about Turk Foster,” he said as he rounded his desk. He remained standing, though Dessa nearly fell into one of the chairs before his desk. Perhaps she should have remained standing as well, the way he towered over her. But her limbs refused to hold her.
“If I might explain—”
“There is no possible explanation you could offer that would justify a partnership between Pierson House and the likes of Foster’s Verandah.”
“Let’s all sit, shall we?” asked Mr. Ridgeway. Though his tone was serious, Dessa found further comfort anyway. Perhaps she was too eager for it, but she hoped he wouldn’t let her down. “How about a glass of water? Anyone?”
Neither Dessa nor Mr. Hawkins accepted the offer, but a moment later, after Mr. Ridgeway was seated, Mr. Hawkins sat as well. That helped, though minimally.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Mr. Hawkins asked. “Have you no sense at all? How do you expect to keep donations coming in from the kind of people you’re currently depending upon in society if you partner with the dregs of it?”
“I only thought—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t tell me you’ve thought for a moment about what you’ve done. You can’t have, or you wouldn’t have done it. I warned you against Foster, Miss Caldwell, and yet before I know it, you allow his name to be linked to your cause. A cause that is so contrary to his that it would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetic.”
“Now, Henry, we can’t blame it all on Miss Caldwell, can we? It was likely a scheme of Foster’s all along. He’s the one who would benefit by having Pierson House fail.”
Mr. Hawkins smirked. “Oh yes, why don’t we blame the spider entirely for the fly’s demise, when the fly flew directly into the web.” He made no attempt to hide his disgust.
That was enough to strike a defensive chord in Dessa, even if she did build that defense on a foundation of her own folly.
She stood, enough of her energy restored to hold herself erect. “Mr. Hawkins, I admit I should have investigated the business that’s carried on at a place like the Verandah. Until this very day I thought it a theater, not a thinly disguised—if not outright—gambling hall. But when Mr. Foster offered to donate the entire proceeds of one designated day to benefit Pierson House, what was I to say? Was I to refuse such generosity? He’s promised that the venue for the day will be respectable. What reason had I to doubt him? What reason, even now, do I have to doubt his word?”
Mr. Hawkins stood as well, leaning over his desk with a scowl. “He’s not likely to welcome any reform to that end of town, not when he has a hand in so many of the profits. What could be better than to see you fail? Especially when you so easily cooperate.”
“I know Pierson House won’t end what goes on down there. Everyone knows that! I only want to offer a place of refuge, to help those who might want to get away, to be a stepping-stone. Even those who live in the neighborhood should want to support such a place, shouldn’t they? Instead of watching another woman die at her own hand or in an opium bed? Why wouldn’t Mr. Foster allow it—even support it—as he claims he wants to do?”
“We’d like to think he’s been honest with you, wouldn’t we, Henry?” asked Mr. Ridgeway, who took to his feet now too. But he shook his head sadly. “It’s just that it’s unlikely, Miss Caldwell. I’m afraid I must agree with Henry. I’d say Foster would rather see you closed than help you. Have you thought about what the regular donors will do when they see you’re involved with the Verandah? That’s probably what Foster has in mind: to ruin you with your regular donors.”
She sank back to the chair, all strength abandoning her, and aimed a glare at Mr. Hawkins. “What harm could a little concert bring? That’s all it’s to be.”
“In a gambling hall, in a place that regularly welcomes the kind of women you most want to help.”
“Oh no, Mr. Hawkins!” She stiffened her spine. “The Verandah’s not a brothel!”
“No, it’s not a brothel—but if he welcomes such women to arrange business there, then it’s little different.”
His derision was barely tolerable. If he was right, she’d been more a fool than she realized.
Dessa stood again, not daring to look at either one of them. “I came because I realized the date conflicted with the date of your dinner party, Mr. Hawkins. And now I’m afraid, under the circumstances, I would not be attending, even were I free.”
Henry watched Miss Caldwell retreat to the door, knowing he hadn’t spoken a single untrue word. Yet he felt as defeated as she must be at that moment.
He saw Tobias turn to him, a panicked look on his face as he silently motioned to Henry.
Stop her. Go after her. Don’t let her go.
All of which Henry should have ignored.
Or at least he should have thought of it himself first.
“Wait.”
The single word echoed before Miss Caldwell reached the door. Henry looked briefly at Tobias. “Leave us for a moment, won’t you, Uncle Tobias?”
He probably shouldn’t have broken his rule about referring to Tobias in such a way—a rule most staunchly adhered to under the bank’s roof—but it was done and there was no changing it.
Tobias seemed only too pleased to comply and made no reference to the lapse in how he’d been addressed.
Thankfully, perhaps a bit surprisingly, Miss Caldwell complied too. She stood steady, her back still facing him, still rigid. She was looking at the floor rather than watching Tobias leave as he closed the door behind him.
Henry left his desk, approaching her silently.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Caldwell.” He spoke to her back. “I had no right to be so abrasive with you.”
She said nothing, her unyielding posture revealing only resistance.
“You must realize the source of my concern,” he added softly. If only he could tell her his concern had nothing to do with business, his or hers. He’d bungled this whole confrontation, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to take back the words.
“I know that you’re concerned about the repayment of my loan. I don’t blame you for that.”
Money being the furthest thing from his mind might have surprised him a few weeks ago. He stood not three feet from her, wishing he could close the gap altogether. How easily he could take her into his arms, if she would let him.
“No, Miss Caldwell. My concern is not about the loan.”
There, a subtle crack in the armor she’d donned the moment he’d confronted her on the street. The line of her shoulders softened ever so slightly, though she did not turn to him. He stepped even closer. Two feet from her.
“I want you to succeed, actually,” he whispered. “I hope you believe that.”
She turned at last, her movement causing them nearly to touch. How he wanted to kiss her then—and she was so close, close enough to follow through on his wish. His gaze traveled her face, the face that visited so many of his thoughts, both awake and asleep.
Henry couldn’t help himself. He moved his lips toward hers. For a moment she stood still, even lifting her face to his. Could it be? Would she accept such a kiss?
But then, before contact was made, he pulled back. He still had his secrets and wasn’t at all sure he was ready to share them. He knew the vulnerability a kiss produced. Among so many things, it brought with it the need for honesty.
Belatedly, Dessa knew she should have been the first to resist this very real confirmation of Mr. Hawkins’s feelings. She had her secrets, after all, and if he knew her past he would likely not offer to kiss her at all. Not when a kiss could mean so much—if indeed it would mean more to him than it had to the man who’d kissed her first so long ago.
Yet if he hadn’t pulled away, there was no denying that she would have willingly—delightedly—received his kiss. More than received it, she would have fully and happily participated. Even now, having been denied that kiss, a keen sense of disappointment tugged at her heart. How could this be, when she’d resolved to follow Sophie’s path?
Common sense accused her of not being rational; a moment ago he’d had every right to take her to task. Perhaps the memory had kept him from following through on the kiss. Perhaps he had reason to regret letting her suspect he harbored interest in her at all.
She turned away once again, offering him only her profile. “I accept your apology, Mr. Hawkins. I hope that you’ll accept mine as well. I shouldn’t have spoken in anger, because you’re the one in the right. Not me.”
Then she fled from his office.