25
“I BLAME MYSELF,” said Mariadela, seated opposite Dessa at the kitchen table. They hadn’t eaten; none of them had. Dessa couldn’t muster the energy or the interest in food, not when her roiling stomach couldn’t possibly accept a bite. There were no complaints from Jane or even Remee—though she wondered how long it would be before Mr. Dunne came inquiring about lunch.
Her friend’s words sparked Dessa’s frustration. “Please, don’t blame yourself! It was my own impatience, my own lack of foresight. And it all went forward so quickly!”
“But if I’d known,” Mariadela said gently, “I’d have told you what kind of place the Verandah is. I expect Jane didn’t know, but why didn’t you say something, Remee?”
Though Mariadela spoke the words without anger or malice, Remee lifted her chin and looked away. “The Verandah is respectable. To me. All kinds of police and politicians go there, factory bosses and owners. A lot of respectable people mix there.”
“Anonymously, yes,” Mariadela claimed.
Remee shook her head. “No. They might go to Miss Leola’s anonymously, under the cover of darkness even, but everybody knows everybody at the Verandah. There aren’t any secrets there.”
“And that’s why they all wear masks to that annual ball?” Mariadela said with a lifted brow of skepticism.
That piqued Dessa’s interest. “Mr. Foster mentioned that ball. It’s a masquerade?”
Both of Mariadela’s brows now lifted in horror. “He didn’t invite you, did he?”
“No, in fact he made it clear I wouldn’t fit in.”
“Well, that might be the only honest thing he’s ever said to you, Dessa. That ball is . . . it’s said to be a night of decadence. Drinking and opium and girls.” Mariadela’s gaze fell on Remee, who averted her eyes and remained silent. “You’ve been to one, haven’t you?”
She only shrugged. “Maybe I have.”
“And that didn’t warn you that a Pierson House benefit wouldn’t be well served there?” Mariadela lifted her hands as if discharging all her own guilt.
“Look here,” Remee said. “I may not have officially run Miss Leola’s place, but I did the books—I know how much it costs. Pierson House is going to need a lot more money than what we can bring in with our sewing. This was a business deal, and would have been a sound one.”
Mariadela’s face gave no hint of understanding. “Once our donors see those posters or hear about this benefit day, they’ll stop sending in money. Pierson House will close, and you’ll go right back to Miss Leola’s.”
Remee glared across the table. “Right back where I belong, do you mean?”
Dessa put a palm over Mariadela’s hand that rested on the empty table before them. She raised a pleading look Remee’s way. “No one thinks that, Remee. Please don’t think that’s what any of us want. And I refuse to believe this is the end of Pierson House.” She folded her arms tightly. “To start with, I’ll speak to Mr. Foster. I’ll tell him that while I appreciate all he’s done, I’ve realized I cannot be involved in this benefit. I won’t attend the event at all, and if he continues with it, I’ll refuse the money he raises.”
Remee scoffed. “Refuse what might be the last bit of money you see for a while? That’s ridiculous.”
“I can’t possibly accept it if it will alienate my consistent donors. I’ll ask Reverend Sempkins to invite the donors to a meeting, and I’ll admit my mistake and beg their forgiveness. That’s what God’s love is all about, isn’t it? Forgiveness? If they can’t find it in their hearts to forgive my foolishness, then perhaps Pierson House wasn’t meant to succeed.” She shook off an urge to cry. “At least not under my direction.”
“Now, Dessa,” said Mariadela, “you needn’t think so drastically. No one has been more dedicated to helping others than you.”
Dessa pressed her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose in the feeble hope of stemming her tears. “I’ve been a fool to think I could take Sophie Pierson’s place. Who am I but a maid, with no education except what was given to me in the service of others?”
“Oh, Miss Dessa!” Jane’s face was wet with her own tears. “If I thought I was no better than my last job, I’d be in jail. You’ve said right along God can use me, no matter what I’ve done or not done. It’s true, isn’t it? For you, too?” She glanced toward Remee. “For all of us?”
Remee leaned forward. “If I didn’t believe you could handle Pierson House, Dessa, I’d have left already. I know I’m to blame for all this. I went along with it from the start and put you at ease about it.”
“No, Remee. I should have at least checked the venue, and I didn’t.”
Mariadela scooted her chair even closer to Dessa’s. “It doesn’t matter anymore who’s to blame. The important thing is that we all believe in what God can do here at Pierson House.”
Dessa had the unexpected urge to laugh through her tears. Wiping away the dampness on her face, she looked at each one of them gratefully. “It’s times like these that Sophie always reminded me of Balaam’s donkey. If God could use an animal like that to speak and spare someone’s life, perhaps He can use me after all.”
Once Dessa had contacted him, Reverend Sempkins told her that he would arrange for the major donors to linger after the church service this coming Sunday. Dessa wasn’t looking forward to the meeting but knew it was unavoidable. Just like tonight’s meeting with Mr. Foster.
She’d sent a note asking him if he would come by on Saturday—after dinner, since hosting a meal seemed far too friendly for what she was about to do.
He was due any moment. Jane and Remee both assured her they would be well out of sight, upstairs in their rooms. In a way, she wished they would stay for support, but she knew this was something that had to be done without their help. And for Mr. Foster’s sake, she thought it best done without an audience.
He was, as usual, both punctual and polite. She’d already set out the tea service, knowing it wouldn’t cool before the appointed time of his arrival. But after she’d divested him of his hat and gloves and poured the tea, she couldn’t help realizing the sharp contrast of this simple parlor visit to how he must usually spend his Saturday evenings.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Foster,” she said. “I assume Saturday is one of your busier days at . . . your place of business.”
“Nothing that can’t take care of itself.” He sipped the tea with a smile.
“I’m afraid the reason for this visit isn’t likely to be one you’ll welcome.” She paused, even though she’d rehearsed exactly what she would say. Somehow, face-to-face, it seemed impossible to tell this man that not only were his efforts to help unwelcome, but as far as Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Ridgeway—and she suspected Mariadela as well—believed, they might be nefarious. Every one of his smiles seemed so sincere.
“I welcome any reason to spend time with you, Miss Caldwell. Haven’t you’ve guessed that by now?”
She set down her teacup with a slight rattle. “I realize I don’t know how to say what I’ve been practicing all day. Quick and short is probably best.”
He set aside his tea as well. “That sounds ominous, combined with the stricken look on your face. Is something wrong?”
She took in a quick, fortifying breath. “Since seeing the venue of your benefit for Pierson House—since seeing the Verandah—I find it’s not in Pierson House’s best interest to be involved after all. I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out completely, with my profound apologies for the trouble and expense you’ve already incurred.”
“What? Bow out? Why?”
She folded her hands, avoiding his intense and obviously confused stare. “Pierson House enjoys the regular support of a number of donors. If they believe there is any connection—friendliness, so to speak—between this place and a place like the Verandah, they’ll likely withdraw their support altogether. And while I’d welcome the help of new funds from your patrons, I can’t afford to lose the support of the community that’s invested in me all along. I’ve worked hard building their trust since coming to Denver.” She looked at him at last. “I hope you understand.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. Not at all. Does it matter where the support comes from, so long as it’s there? Because I assure you, there is money to be found for you through the event at the Verandah.”
“People want to be sure that what I hope to do here doesn’t get muddled. I’m already in closer proximity to the Line than most people want, but I’ve always believed it was important to be right here, close enough for someone in trouble to reach before changing her mind. But because of that, investors are wary. If they think I’m becoming too much a part of the society I want most to change . . .”
“I see.”
Dessa couldn’t miss the disappointment in his voice and expression, perhaps even regret that there was such an impenetrable barrier between his place and hers. For a moment she wanted to thrust aside all doubts she had about his motives, doubts planted by Mr. Hawkins. Surely Mr. Foster truly did want to help her!
“I’m sorry, Mr. Foster.”
And she was.
“I agree it’s an unfortunate time of day to be entering a neighborhood like this,” Reverend Sempkins said to Henry, having dismissed Henry’s suggestion to wait until just before the investors’ meeting tomorrow to speak with Miss Caldwell. “But if she’s to have the best chance in the morning, we’ll need to advise her on what to say. Having your support will be a great help to ease the donors’ minds.”
Henry looked out the window of his carriage. He hoped so, but he doubted his presence would make much of a difference. He wasn’t exactly in the same circle of influence when it came to compassion and generosity.
“If she had a telephone, we could have called ahead,” the reverend went on. “But as it is, she’ll likely welcome our visit regardless of advance notice.”
“I don’t see why you won’t accept the money at least,” Mr. Foster said. “I accept that you may not want to be there for the revue. I should have realized myself everything you’ve just told me. I often forget many of my patrons have two lives—one on each side of the city. I’d hoped they could mix. But the money could still be yours if we proceed.”
Dessa shook her head. “If my donors saw any link, it wouldn’t be welcomed. I’m sorry for my mistake in all of this. It’s best not to carry through with it at all.”
She started to stand, to bring this sadly uncomfortable meeting to an end, but when he reached for her hand from the end of the settee where he sat, she stopped.
“So this is it? You’ll send me on my way, and I’m not to see you again?”
His gaze captured hers, but she managed to nod. “You have no need of me or what I’m trying to do here, Mr. Foster. I should be surprised you wanted to help at all.”
He gave a brief laugh. “I didn’t—at least not at first. What you do is contrary to all the businesses around here. We’re all linked—the taverns, the dens, the gambling halls, and the brothels. We all appeal to that same side of people. The one that wants to keep us all in its grip. Pleasure or profit, so long as we ignore what people like you think of us.”
That he’d lumped her in with a judgmental group of others should have come as an insult, but his tone had been too gentle. And if he knew the truth of her past, he would realize she wasn’t like those who cast stones. Those without such universally inexcusable sins as her own. What she’d done may not be unpardonable by God’s grace, but she knew there were those not so willing to extend the same grace.
“Then you don’t have a reason to help Pierson House, do you?” Had Mr. Hawkins been right after all?
“That’s just it. I want to help you in whatever you do, even if it means a change to my own life.” He raised his hand to caress her face. “I’ve never known a woman like you. Someone so thoroughly good.”
She averted her gaze. “I assure you, Mr. Foster, I’m not so thoroughly good. Any goodness in me is because of God’s help.”
He took both her hands in his and pulled her to her feet along with him. “That’s what I mean. You won’t even take credit for your own fine qualities. That’s astonishing. And irresistibly appealing.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and before she could push him away, his lips were coming down on hers.
“Oh! Heaven help us!”
Henry looked to see the aim of the reverend’s gaze—peering through the window of Henry’s carriage and directly toward the window of the Pierson House parlor. Since the curtains were pulled aside and the lamps fully lit, it was easy to see inside.
Henry’s heart stopped, then skittered in his chest. Dessa—he forgot to call her by anything but the intimacy of her given name, since he felt so intimately violated—was kissing none other than Turk Foster.
He scrambled to the carriage door before the reverend had even reached for the handle.
Dessa pushed at Mr. Foster’s shoulders and pulled her face away, in the process nearly falling back into the chair behind her. “Mr. Foster!” She held one arm out to keep him at bay. “I must ask you to leave. Immediately.”
She wasn’t sure what he’d have done—reached for her again or stepped back—but when someone pounded at the front door, he stood stiff and tall and did nothing to detain her from answering.
Not that she needed to open it herself. Before she’d even taken a step toward the door, it swung wide. To her mortification, Henry Hawkins stood there—and without a doubt he’d seen what had just transpired.
“Is this what goes on here every Saturday night?” he demanded. “Because if it is, I fail to see the difference between Pierson House and any of the brothels you claim you want to empty.”
“It’s no business of yours, Hawkins,” said Mr. Foster. He stepped to the middle of the room, as if inviting confrontation.
Mr. Hawkins seemed more than happy to accept that invitation. He stomped toward Mr. Foster and the two faced off. “More than half the money for this place came from my bank, Foster. I’d say that makes it my business.”
“Perhaps what goes on professionally, but not personally.”
Mr. Hawkins turned to Dessa. “Around here the lines are blurred between personal and professional, and everyone knows it. I demand to know what’s going on.”
“I—I was just telling Mr. Foster that I’m excusing myself from the benefit.”
“That’s not what it looked like when we pulled up.”
Dessa was about to ask about the “we,” but when she heard the voice behind her, her already tormented heart increased its pace even more. Painfully so.
“Mr. Hawkins,” said Reverend Sempkins, “I think you missed an important part of what just happened. You were at the door when Miss Caldwell refused this man’s obvious advance.” He looked from Mr. Hawkins to Dessa. “That’s how it appeared to me, at least. His action was unwelcome?”
She nodded, embarrassed to the core—and made worse when she heard footsteps on the stairs behind the parlor. Now everyone would know; there was no avoiding it. Private behavior made public once again—it was no easier this second time in her life.
Mr. Foster passed Mr. Hawkins, then the reverend. He took his hat from where Dessa had hung it and placed it on his head. His irritation seemed to rival Mr. Hawkins’s, who watched the other man leave with unconcealed contempt.
Mr. Foster ignored everyone but Dessa and aimed a brief bow her way. “I beg your forgiveness, Miss Caldwell. You won’t be troubled by me again.”
Then he left by way of the open door.
Henry sucked in a calming breath. There was no sense denying it, even to himself. He was an idiot. Whether that kiss had been welcomed or not, what right had he to hurl himself in as if he were some kind of knight, there to save the damsel? Or worse, to barge in like a witness to cast ready censure? Is that what she thought? Was that what he’d done?
Now he could barely stand to have her looking at him, although one quick glance in her direction made him doubt she wanted to meet his gaze anyway.
“Reverend,” Henry said as he approached the door, “if you could speak to Miss Caldwell about why we came, I would appreciate it. I’ll wait in the carriage.”
Without even bidding Miss Caldwell good night, he followed in Foster’s wake.