3
HENRY HAWKINS tipped his hat to each clerk as he passed by on the way to his office. Clerical desks took up one row to his left, while tellers’ cages lined the wall to the right. At the opposite end and closest to his office stood the massive bank vault, built with no expense spared by the best manufacturer in the country and delivered all the way from Cincinnati. Thirteen by eighteen feet, with walls three feet thick, a two-and-a-half-ton outer door, and a fifteen-hundred-pound inner door. Safe from explosives, burglary, fire, or mobs. Safe even from young and foolish masked men with rifles.
Henry’s pride assured him that such a vault wouldn’t fail to inspire a sense of security in anyone who banked with him. He even employed an armed guard twenty-four hours a day, something other banks thought a needless expense for an impregnable safe.
Henry slipped wordlessly past his personal clerk, Mr. Sprott. Like Henry’s home, the office in the corner of the bank was well furnished yet not ostentatious. The quality and size of his mahogany desk spoke of importance, confidence, success, and longevity, without appearing excessive. Other than the hook upon which he hung his hat—and in winter his coat and scarf as well—there was no sign of personal belongings. He discouraged that throughout his bank. This was a place of business, where personal lives were not to be seen.
He sat behind his desk in the light from an arched window, placed high for safety, the panes crossed with iron bars. Because it was an outside wall and farthest from either of the two huge furnaces that heated the radiators, the room tended to be chilly in winter. But Henry didn’t mind; if his office was too comfortable, visitors might linger too long.
As usual when Henry arrived midmorning, Mr. Sprott had left the mail in the center of his desk. The desktop was neat and clear of clutter, offering only a pen and inkwell, blotting paper, a silver-handled ivory letter opener, and an olive-wood string dispenser. Anything confidential or of value to the bank was secured each night: seals and pending letters, account ledgers, and bank stationery.
After unlocking his desk, Henry took a cursory glance at the mail. He found the usual correspondence from his directors, reference inquiries regarding former or prospective employees from cashiers to clerks, a letter he expected from the state outlining banking regulations. Near the bottom of the stack was an invitation from Lionel to a charity event that Henry had no intention of attending.
As he tossed one envelope aside, a smaller note that must have been stuck beneath fell to the floor. Thinking the size identified it as yet another social invitation, Henry picked it up with the intention of discarding it. He made it a practice never to attend social functions, not even for charity. Because he was universal in his refusals, no one could feel slighted. And because he was one of the richest men in the city, everyone on his guest list attended his semiannual gatherings despite not having him attend theirs in return.
A single slip of onionskin fell out of the envelope—the kind of paper Henry forbade his employees to use since it invited the accompanying use of carbonated paper and risk of forgery. Besides, such paper was too thin for easy use, especially for his bold pen stroke, and so delicate that even water could destroy it.
The writing was simple, almost childlike in its printing. He read it once with profound confusion, but even before the words took meaning his pulse began to speed.
There are no secrets from God.
Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.
The note itself was neither directed to him nor signed. He looked again at the envelope; it bore his name and the bank’s address, but there was no return, not even a postage mark over the stamp.
Henry sprang to his feet, sticking his head around the door. “Mr. Sprott,” he called. “Come here a moment, will you?”
The young man—who couldn’t be much older than Henry had been when he’d returned from college in Chicago—straightened an already-straight tie, then pulled at the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you leave the mail on my desk this morning?”
“Yes, of course, sir. As usual.”
“And did you go through it first?”
“Yes, sir, and removed anything that wasn’t addressed directly to you.”
Henry returned to the other side of his desk, holding up the unsealed envelope. He had slipped the contents into his pocket. “This one, this small one—was it delivered as usual, or was it brought here personally? It was already opened and you can see the stamp was not canceled.”
Mr. Sprott reached for the envelope but Henry kept it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Yes, I see that now, sir. I opened the envelope as usual, but I hadn’t noticed the stamp wasn’t canceled. Shall I complain to the mailman?”
Henry contained his impatience. “No, Mr. Sprott. I only wondered if you knew who delivered it.”
“The mailman, I suppose. It was with everything else he brought to my desk this morning.”
“Thank you, then. That’s all for now.”
With a request that Mr. Sprott close the door on his way out, Henry sank into the leather chair behind his desk and pulled the note from his pocket once again.
Innocuous enough, but for that reference to secrets. A prank? What sort of prank, and to what end? Was the reference to God meant to spur him to church—with hopes of his bringing a tithe? What sort of evangelizing was this, anyway? Was Henry the only one to receive such a thing?
God knows my secret.
The words repeated themselves in his mind, far louder than the rustle of the sheer paper as he crumpled it. He walked to the corner of the room, to the pitcher and water glasses, then stuffed the paper into one of the glasses, poured water over it, and watched it dissolve.
Dessa marched through the center of the bank, her gaze on the door to Mr. Tobias Ridgeway’s office. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye for fear of seeing rejection there.
Lord, Your will be done.
With barely more than a glance, she asked the clerk between the only two enclosed offices to let Mr. Ridgeway know she had arrived for their meeting.
The door to his office opened before the clerk even stood to knock.
“Miss Caldwell!” He emerged from his office and greeted her warmly, holding out his hand to take one of hers with something more than a handshake. This was just the kind of greeting she’d hoped for . . . and yet she imagined Mr. Ridgeway was the sort of gentleman who might be too kind to issue even a rejection any way but considerately.
“It’s good of you to be so prompt,” he said. “I was just coming out to Mr. Sprott’s desk to see if everything I asked for is in order, and then you can be on your way without delay. I’m sure you’re eager to let the property holder know you’ll be proceeding with your plans.”
Dessa’s head went so light she was afraid she would faint—she who had never swooned in her life. She was close enough to Mr. Sprott’s desk to reach for its corner, a solid object with which to steady herself. “Do you mean to say . . . that is, my loan has been approved?”
With a grin on his round face and a gentle touch to one of her elbows, as if he knew she needed a reminder she wasn’t in a dream, Mr. Ridgeway nodded. “Yes, Miss Caldwell. You’ll soon have what you need to take ownership of the property you have in mind.” He turned to Mr. Sprott and received an envelope the other man held.
“Oh, Mr. Ridgeway!” To her embarrassment, she felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes. Hardly the most professional reaction to a business transaction! She fought them back, grabbing one of Mr. Ridgeway’s hands in a heartier handshake than a moment ago, even as with the other she received the thick envelope, no doubt containing paperwork along with the banknote she needed. “Thank you!”
Mr. Ridgeway waved away her gratitude. “It’s Mr. Henry Hawkins you should thank. Without his consent, this institution would not be contributing to your endeavors.”
Dessa pressed her fingers to her mouth in an attempt to hold back more flowery words of thanksgiving. She cleared her throat, determined to fit the picture of a woman who’d never doubted for a moment that this loan was deserved. “May I extend my gratitude to him, do you suppose? I wouldn’t take more than a minute of his time.”
Mr. Ridgeway’s brows rose approvingly. “I think that’s a fine idea! Come with me, won’t you?” Without delay, Mr. Ridgeway led Dessa past the clerk’s desk and to the adjacent office. He tapped once, then before waiting for an answer, opened the door wide enough for Dessa to see the bank president standing in front of a tea cart holding a crystal glass of water.
“Henry!” Mr. Ridgeway greeted him, leading Dessa inside.
She nearly floated toward Mr. Hawkins, her feet felt so weightless. She held out her hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice the unsteadiness in her breathing or the tremble in her fingers. Though she reminded herself there was nothing personal about this introduction, she couldn’t help but be struck once again by the look of him. Perhaps he wasn’t as young as she’d guessed from across the room the day before. There was a settled look to his features that seemed on the brink of lost youth, though there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen. Nearly as tall as Mr. Ridgeway, Mr. Hawkins was half the other’s width. Still, his shoulders were broad and his chin well carved, giving him the look of slender strength.
As he accepted her hand in his and she looked into his face—into the darkest eyes to match the darkest hair—she was hard-pressed to summon a coherent thought about her mission, her calling, or her vision to help others. In that moment she was simply a woman meeting a man—not a servant meeting a godsend—for the very first time.
“Henry, may I present Miss Dessa Caldwell, whom I mentioned to you just yesterday.”
Mr. Hawkins didn’t look as though he heard the introduction, or if he did, the announcement didn’t seem entirely welcome. He issued the most unexpectedly intense—and unfriendly—glare.
“Perhaps I’ve come at the wrong time,” Dessa said, her heart pounding so hard that she wondered if he felt its beat through the tips of her tingling fingers. She withdrew her hand.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “Henry, you can spare a moment, can’t you? Miss Caldwell has come to speak to you.”
“Oh yes,” she said, the warmth of gratitude washing over her once more, leaving no room for uncertainty. “I’m so very grateful for your approval of my loan. In fact, I wish to extend an invitation to you—and Mr. Ridgeway as well—for one week from today. I’m eager to show you the home your generosity will help me to establish.”
Mr. Ridgeway filled the slightest gap of silence created by the lack of response from Mr. Hawkins. “Yes, of course; we’d be delighted. One week from today, you say? Will that be enough time to get yourself settled?”
Her enthusiasm, only slightly dampened by Mr. Hawkins’s steely silence, burst upon her again. He’d approved her loan, hadn’t he? He must believe in what she was doing; she only wanted to fortify his faith in her. “I have so many household donations only awaiting collection! I won’t rest until the doors to Pierson House open.” She shifted her gaze back to Mr. Ridgeway and his welcoming, friendly face, sparing only a glance at Mr. Hawkins before finishing. “Would you care to come at lunchtime? That is, to share luncheon?”
“Delightful!” Mr. Ridgeway said. He placed a hand on her elbow, directing her with his other hand away from the office in which Mr. Hawkins stood.
Dessa moved to retrace the steps they’d taken only moments before, but confusion stopped her. She turned back to Mr. Hawkins and conquered what she suddenly realized had been disappointment, not just at his reception but at the general lack of welcome in his demeanor. She’d taken his approval of her loan far more personally than she realized.
“Mr. Hawkins, if you have any doubts about the loan, or about me, I’d like to assure you your trust is well placed. This home will be a shelter for women in need, a place of refuge not otherwise to be found in our lovely but all-too-human city. If you’ll visit me, I can show you exactly what I mean.”
Another silence followed her words—one that even Mr. Ridgeway dared not fill. Mr. Hawkins’s gaze was neither harsh nor friendly, but she could not fathom what thoughts lay behind that piercing look of his.
“I’ll be there at noon,” he said at last. He started to turn away but stopped to assess her a moment longer. “One week from today.”
Rather than a simple acceptance of an invitation, it seemed almost a challenge.
But Dessa refused to dwell on it. She miraculously held the banknote in her hand. Nothing short of death could pry it away until she gave it to the seller of the home she wanted. Now she had all she needed to finish the transaction for Pierson House, to begin the mission God had placed on Sophie Pierson’s heart—and through her, upon Dessa’s.
Soon—very soon—Mr. Hawkins’s loan would produce all the fruit it was intended to bear.
She let Mr. Ridgeway lead her from the office, closing the door behind them.
“All right, then,” said Dessa, taking in a breath she seemed to have forgotten she needed. She looked from the closed door to Mr. Ridgeway, whose face shifted quickly from concern to an eager and now-familiar smile, and held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ridgeway. I look forward to seeing you and Mr. Hawkins one week from today.”
She clutched her handbag and walked from the bank, conscious that clerks and tellers alike watched every step she took.