26
DESSA WOKE GROGGY the next morning, after a mostly sleepless night. When she had dozed, her dreams were filled with women dancing on a stage before an audience who only pointed fingers of shame at them.
Mr. Hawkins was in her dream too, overlooking it all with grim disapproval, ultimately becoming the first of the audience to turn his finger from the stage to her.
She dressed carefully this morning, making sure her gingham gown was free of soil and wrinkles and that her hair would stay in place in a tight coil. She might not be facing a jury today, but that was what it felt like.
She did thank God for Reverend Sempkins. He’d assured her last night that he believed her about Mr. Foster’s unwelcome advance, and that as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed. He expressed hope that none of the donors had noticed any of the posters plastered about the city, and forewarning them would avert much of the damage. If Mr. Foster was as good as his word about ending any collaboration, he would likely see they were removed as quickly as possible.
Dessa planned to make sure that happened, even if she had to pull down every single poster herself.
It was Mr. Hawkins who invaded most of her thoughts. She told herself it shouldn’t matter what he thought of her personally; it was only his professional opinion that mattered. Perhaps having him believe she was less than the honorable woman she presented herself to be was for the best. After all, she had no hope of romance—and until meeting him, she hadn’t struggled much with that surrendered dream.
But it was still important that he think her qualified to run Pierson House, and if she couldn’t restore herself in his estimation, then she had little hope she could keep the confidence of other donors for long, no matter how willing they’d been originally.
Before going to bed last night, she’d asked Remee and Mr. Dunne if they would attend church services with her and Jane in the morning. Even if their presence wouldn’t help change any minds, having them there might remind her she’d done some little good, at least.
She was relieved to see both of them already at the kitchen table with Jane when she came down. She was late and had no intention of eating anything before they left, but she could see that they had already cooked and seen to the dishes, judging by those left to dry on a towel next to the sink.
“Thank you,” Dessa said to them all.
Then she turned to lead the way outside, where they would have to walk a few blocks in order to catch a hansom cab. Last night she’d asked Reverend Sempkins to stop by the Whites’ to let them know there would be too many leaving from Pierson House for their carriage, and she would arrange other transportation.
“Dessa,” called Remee as she followed her through the dining room.
Dessa stopped, pulling on her gloves.
“Are you sure it’ll help if I come along?”
Dessa raised a surprised gaze to meet the other woman’s. She laid a hand on Remee’s arm. “If nothing else, it’ll help me to have you there. And you’ll be welcomed, Remee. I know the people in this church.”
Remee looked away. “Not from my perspective, you don’t. You can’t.”
That Remee had stayed away from church because of shame astounded Dessa, creating yet another dent in her already-abused confidence. Had she done nothing to restore Remee’s feeling of value? She and Jane might be the only two students in her weekly beauty classes, but she’d hoped the lessons had been more effective than this. Remee still didn’t understand how beautiful God thought her.
Dessa blinked back tears that were too ready to collect. “Oh, Remee, no one should keep you from worshiping God if that’s what you want to do. If they do, it’s their sin, not yours.”
Jane took a step nearer, having been close enough to hear the entire conversation. “It’ll help if you have Miss Dessa on one side and me on the other, won’t it? If anybody frowns your way, we’ll meet them with a smile times three. That’ll be like heaping hot coals of kindness on them, just like in the Bible. Right, Miss Dessa?”
But Mr. Dunne, just opening the door, spoke before Dessa could. “A smile times four, if ya please.”
He winked and ushered them out the door.
Henry sat in his carriage, staring across at the empty seat opposite him. Despite assuring himself this was the right thing to do, he wasn’t at all sure his effort would be accepted.
Suppose Miss Caldwell remained as embarrassed as he was? Suppose she didn’t want his help? Suppose she thought he believed less of her, regardless of how she’d received Foster’s kiss?
When he’d left Pierson House so rashly last night, he’d convinced himself he ought to wash his hands of this whole mess. Dismiss the loan as a lost investment, should it come to that. Not get involved in trying to save the place, and only hope from afar that it survived.
But he knew he couldn’t do it. If today’s struggle was ultimately one of pride, it was a foolish struggle. Perhaps what he felt wasn’t only embarrassed regret over the way he’d broken into her parlor, but fear that his own would-be kiss had been just another of its kind. From what he recalled of the moment in his office—and he recalled it in detail—she’d have accepted his kiss. Had he misread her? Had Foster done the same, in whatever had taken place before he’d kissed her?
The slowing of Henry’s carriage drew his attention from such unpleasant thoughts. He looked out the window, seeing he was still more than a block from Pierson House.
Just as he wondered why Fallo was stopping the carriage, he spotted a foursome walking along the sidewalk. At this hour on a Sunday morning, and on this end of the city, there was little activity to attract attention. He saw immediately that among those four walking were Jane Murphy and Dessa Caldwell.
It seemed as if he would face his embarrassment a few minutes earlier than expected.
“Oh, look! Isn’t that Mr. Hawkins’s carriage?”
Dessa wasn’t sure who had spotted the carriage first, she or Jane. But Jane’s call commanded Remee’s attention as well as Mr. Dunne’s.
Dessa stopped just as the carriage came to a halt before them, but her heart rate picked up as if extra blood flow were needed for a sprint. She’d convinced herself she wouldn’t be seeing him this morning. Not after last night. If he’d meant to come to church today in support of Pierson House, she was sure that had ended the moment he’d burst into her parlor.
She didn’t flatter herself to even think jealousy had been the cause of his reaction. Wounded pride, perhaps, was the most personal motivation she should ascribe to him. She hadn’t forgotten their own near kiss, and there she’d been, fully accepting the kiss of another—or so he obviously thought.
Mr. Hawkins jumped from his carriage, and she knew she had no choice but to face him. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he was here, in her neighborhood. That realization alone brought a faint glimmer of hope.
“Thank you for stopping, Fallo,” Mr. Hawkins called up to his driver. Then he stepped closer to Dessa. If last night had embarrassed him at all, she saw not a trace of it now. “I came to offer my carriage. Although . . .” His voice dwindled somewhat as he took in the four of them. “I’ll sit atop with my driver, so the four of you will easily fit.”
“I haven’t any objection to sittin’ up top, sir,” said Mr. Dunne. “Never been inside such a fancy rig anyway—wouldn’t know how to sit in one.”
“All the more reason you should sit in one now.” Replacing his hat, Mr. Hawkins climbed to the driver’s seat while the driver himself offered assistance to the others.
So he was embarrassed after all. He may have been kind enough to offer transportation today—or perhaps it was his way of assuring that she would face the trouble her errors had created—but he couldn’t bear to sit in the same carriage with her.
At the church, Mr. Hawkins once again sat directly behind Dessa. Although her concentration was somewhat divided, she knew her prayers were answered, particularly when Remee afforded her a smile. No one had so much as lifted a condemning brow in her direction.
Those who were interested in meeting about the future of Pierson House funding were invited to remain in the sanctuary after the service ended. Reverend Sempkins began the discussion with the facts. To one or two gasps, he revealed one of the posters that were even now being taken care of. Mr. Hawkins stood to assure everyone that his Mr. Ridgeway had hired an army of boys to search the city and remove every one of them.
Then Mariadela stood. “If any of you wish to cast blame, I shouldn’t be spared from receiving some. Denver has been my home nearly all my life. I know what goes on at the Verandah. Until Friday, Dessa didn’t.” She lifted her chin ever so slightly. “If I hadn’t been so busy at the store, I’d have prevented this whole mistake. Not that I think it was that, entirely. Mr. Turk Foster likely knew exactly what he was doing.”
As grateful—and humbled—as Dessa was, she could not remain silent while Mariadela made her offer to share the blame.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, standing as well, “please don’t cast blame anywhere but at my own feet. It was foolish of me to risk the good—but new—name of Pierson House. I didn’t realize how foolish until seeing the Verandah for the first time. If I have any excuse, however feeble, it’s to cite the speed with which the plans went forward. Mr. Foster came to Pierson House a little more than a week ago and offered his theater as the venue for a musical revue. That was all I knew. I know ignorance is hardly an excuse, but unfortunately that’s the truth. The arrangements accelerated so fast, all I could think was not to refuse a donation—of any kind. The apostle Paul himself once said so long as the gospel was preached, he was happy. I’m afraid I used that to soften whatever qualms I might have had. If the funds were garnered legally, then I was willing to accept them.”
Mrs. Naracott stood, gloved hands folded tightly in front of her. “That’s just it, Miss Caldwell. Any funds you might receive from a place like the Verandah would be quite illegal. How could you not know that?”
Dessa turned to her in surprise. “But . . . the Verandah operates openly. I realize Mr. Foster calls his business a theater and more goes on there than just musical entertainment, but—”
Mrs. Naracott cut in. “It’s still an illegal gambling den. Illegal, Miss Caldwell.”
Mr. Hawkins, who’d kept his seat behind Dessa, now stood as well. “Everyone knows the ordinances against gambling are ignored. How many residents in Denver are gamblers themselves? Wasn’t your father a silver miner, Mrs. Naracott? What are miners, except gamblers?”
“That doesn’t make the money raised in a place like the Verandah legal.”
“No, of course not, but if Miss Caldwell believed it to be one kind of place, only to learn it was another, she can’t really be blamed, can she?”
Though Mrs. Naracott had looked away when Mr. Hawkins raised the origin of her family’s wealth, she now squared her shoulders and stared directly at Dessa. Dessa had all she could do not to cower, feeling once again like the maid she’d been reared to be. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Naracott’s father hadn’t inherited his wealth; Mrs. Naracott had, and with such an inheritance came audacity that Dessa had seen before.
“With Pierson House’s name and reputation yet to be firmly established, and so thoroughly dependent upon the goodwill of others, you are obligated to keep your motives clear and your efforts free of anything remotely scandalous.” Mrs. Naracott’s gaze fluttered over the small crowd of fifteen or twenty people seated around them. “How do we know something like this won’t happen again?”
“I assure you it won’t,” Dessa said quietly, looking submissively toward the floor, just as she’d been taught when addressing anyone of wealth or status.
But Mr. Hawkins evidently wasn’t finished. “Has anyone considered another fact? Something Mrs. White alluded to? This might not have been a mistake of Miss Caldwell’s as much as a plan of Turk Foster’s. What of his motives? Does anyone find it remotely suspicious that he approached Miss Caldwell such a short time ago and within a few days put an entire musical program together, then plastered advertisements all over the city? Should we ascribe this to altruism, or does his haste speak of something else? A desire to cause the very kind of trouble we’re having right now? Wouldn’t he wish to see a place like Pierson House closed?”
Reverend Sempkins nodded. “I do recall those days when one alderman or another tried to shut down the gambling halls. Mr. Foster was the biggest protestor. I suppose having a haven like Pierson House is a reminder of virtue he’d most like forgotten.”
There was a general murmur of agreement with the suspicion, which Mrs. Naracott likely didn’t miss.
“Well,” she said, “I’m willing to overlook what happened this time. If everyone else is.”
So support remained intact for Pierson House, but the benefit was not to be. Dessa was too relieved over having retained the trust of the donors—however shaken—to mourn the loss of whatever added funds a benefit at the Verandah might have brought in. She’d made the first payment on her loan and somehow, even without the Plumsteads’ help, she would make the second and the third and every payment thereafter until the entire debt was freed.
Soon after the meeting ended, Mr. Hawkins escorted Dessa out of the church. If she wasn’t mistaken about the lack of tension on his face, he was relieved to have it over as well.
“I wish to thank you for all you’ve done, Mr. Hawkins,” she said. “Not only for showing your support here today, but arranging to have the posters removed. I am once again—or should I say more deeply—in your debt.”
“It was Reverend Sempkins who made the most difference, I believe. If you’d lost his support after last night’s disaster, I think today’s meeting might have ended differently.”
She swallowed hard at the reminder.
“Now it’s I who should apologize.”
She spared a quick glance. “Why?”
“For even bringing up last night. An evening best forgotten.”
Dessa nodded. “Yes, I agree. I’m trying to do that myself.”
At his carriage, he stopped short while the others boarded with his driver’s assistance. “I wonder, Miss Caldwell,” he said, so low she was sure only she could hear him, “if we might have a word. Privately.”
“Yes, of course.”
With both hands on his walking stick, he leaned slightly forward but looked to the side rather than directly at her face.
“I’d like to reissue the invitation to my dinner party.” His gaze briefly shot to hers, then eluded her again. “Now that you have that evening free.”
Warmth circled her heart, settling in comfortably. “Yes, I’d like that, Mr. Hawkins.” She turned to the waiting carriage but stopped to face him again. “Thank you for everything you’ve done to help me. Considering . . . everything . . . I’m very appreciative.”
“Everything?”
The heat of a blush rose to her cheeks. “Only that you weren’t initially in favor of Pierson House. Your support now means that much more.”
His gaze lingered on her, and she wondered what he was thinking. He always looked so serious that she was afraid she would never be able to guess at his thoughts. Perhaps, despite his support today, he didn’t really believe in her mission. He did, after all, have a vested interest in keeping the donors happy.
But he only tipped his hat her way without another word for or against her assumption of his sympathies. He offered her assistance into his carriage; then after his driver closed them all inside, both Mr. Hawkins and the driver hopped up top to take them back to Pierson House.