Marblestone Mansion, Book 7 Page 7

  “Aye, ‘twas a backfire.”

  “A backfire? I saw nothing about a backfire in the advertisements.” Claymore let Hannish help him take off his coat, pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on his brow.

  “Nor did I. Where did you get the petro?” Hannish asked.

  “A new shipment came in last night. I suspected I had just enough left to make it to the drugstore and I was right. I nearly ran out.” He allowed himself a deep breath and put his kerchief away. “I dare not take Abigail for a ride if the confounded thing is prone to backfire. She’ll likely make me send it back.”

  Not but a moment after Claymore calmed himself, the door opened and in walked Sally Dane with a full pot of tea. She was so enamored when the duke stood up to greet her, she quickly set the pot down on his desk and curtsied. Slowly, she raised her eyes. “Did I do it well enough?”

  “No finer curtsey have I ever seen,” Cameron answered. He found her grin delightful. “Truly, ‘tis not necessary to curtsey.”

  “Do not say that, I’ve practiced for a week.” She picked up the pot of tea, and went to the table to fill three cups.

  “Our dear Mrs. Dane brings us a pot of tea three times a day,” Claymore explained, “which is much appreciated. Her husband is on strike in Colorado City, so she stays in town with her sister where it is safe.”

  “I see,” said Cameron. He took the cup of tea she handed him and returned to his seat. “How goes the strike?”

  “Not well,” Sally answered. “Every day is another day without work and the men grow more excitable. One good thing, though. Most all of the prosti…I mean, the ladies of the evening, have moved on now that the men cannot pay. My Mr. Dane says the unmarried union men have mostly gone too, while non-union workers take their jobs. Those in the union that own houses are forced to stay, I suppose.”

  “Your husband owns a house?” Claymore asked.

  “He does. I mean, we do. It took all of three years of waiting, but he would not marry me until he could give me a home to live in. Now, it is doubtful we can fully make the payments.” She lowered her voice as if it was a secret. “If I did not work delivering tea and sodas, we would be eight months behind in our mortgage. As it is, we are still three months behind.” She turned to explain to Cameron. “It was Mr. Whitfield’s idea for me to earn money delivering drinks from the drugstore, and I am ever so grateful for the suggestion, only…”

  “Only what?” Cameron asked.

  “Only Mr. Dane finds it humiliating for his wife to work while he cannot. I see his meaning, but what else can we do? We cannot lose the house.”

  “I see his meanin’ too,” Cameron admitted.

  She set the teapot down, and handed the last cup to Claymore. “It is tomfoolery, really.”

  “What is?” Hannish asked.

  She sat down in the only other empty chair. “All this for a dollar more a day? I am not so good with mathematics, but even I know it would take a lot of dollars to pay eight months behind on the mortgage, not to mention the new one that comes round every month. I’m guessin’ it will take a year or two for others to catch up, that is, if the banks do not foreclose. What good is higher pay if one must spend it all on back payments?”

  “It does not seem right, does it,” Claymore agreed.

  “In the beginning, they said the strike would only last a week before the owners would give in, but here we are.” She lowered her gaze, sighed and then stood up, which made all the men stand up again. “Will the owners ever settle, do you suppose, Mr. Whitfield?”

  “I know not,” Claymore answered, setting his cup of tea down on Cameron’s desk, “but the strike cannot last too much longer.”

  “I hope not, I want to go home.” She turned to address Cameron again. “Forgive me, I did not mean to burden you with my troubles, Mr. Duke…Duke MacGreagor…” bewildered, she asked, “what are you called?”

  “Your Grace,” Hannish answered.

  “Is that so?” Her eyes brightened. “I sort of like it, Your Grace.” She smiled, practiced her curtsey again, paused while Claymore opened the door, and then went out.

  Claymore waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps on the stairs, before he said, “Now there’s the pity of it all – the women and children suffer most. She is right, you know, they’ll have a devil of a time catching up with the mortgage payments.”

  “Perhaps ‘tis a good thing we dinna sell many houses before the strike,” Hannish said, as they all sat down again. “Foreclosures are unbearable for everyone.”

  “Do you truly expect the owners to settle, now that they have held out this long?” Cameron asked.

  “I do.” Claymore answered. “When the men do not work, the owners do not make money. They shall settle, and soon, but then, I said that last week and the week before.” He disgustedly shook his head. “I cannot imagine what they are thinking.”

  “Do the banks not extend the loans?” Cameron asked.

  “It depends on the banker and if the bank can afford it. Oh, the unions put pressure on the banks not to foreclose, but this strike has lasted too long already.”

  “I see no answer to strikes, save gettin’ rid of the unions,” Hannish said.

  “Nor do I,” Claymore agreed. “However, there is one thing the unions do very well. They improve working conditions, which the states could do instead, if they had a mind to.”

  “And should the states set the wages as well?” Cameron asked.

  “The fair market system works well enough in other industries. If a man can make more money in one mine than in another, he is free to move on,” Claymore answered. “Training new men is an expense the owners cannot abide, so they would be forced to offer comparable wages.”

  Hannish frowned. “If the unions have their way, all the hard rocker miners will be paid the same in every mine.”

  “Precisely. Therefore, the owners have no need, nor any incentive to raise the wages until the union threatens to strike again. The fair market system is the only reasonable way.” Claymore shook his head again. “If only the unions could see that.”

  *

  That same afternoon, Mr. Lester walked into a Colorado Springs’ bank, approached the teller window, and waited to be noticed.

  When Mr. Goodwin finally looked up, he grinned. “Here to pay off your horse, Mr. Lester.”

  “I am indeed.” He would have liked a room full of people when he announced it, but there was only one other person in the bank. He smiled, tipped his hat to her, and then took it off. “Miss Elaine.”

  “Mr. Lester,” she replied. Unimpressed, she stood at a tall table and went back to counting the money she had just withdrawn from her account.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” said banker Goodwin. He pulled a paper out of his drawer, wrote the word paid on it, and then exchanged it for the last four dollar and fifty cent payment. “If only all my patrons could pay on time.”

  “Things will get better soon, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “I hope so.” The banker took off his new spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “A bank in Denver was robbed this morning.”

  “Was it?” Mr. Lester folded the bank loan paper, put it in his pocket and winked at the banker. “You do not happen to know where Miss Elaine was at the time, do you?” As he hoped, she turned around and glared at him.

  “Mr. Lester, first you accuse me of stealing bells and now of robbing banks? I’ll have you know, I was hard at work this morning scrubbing the floor in the kitchen.”

  “And a mighty fine kitchen floor it is, too,” Mr. Lester teased. “I hear only those who are being chastised have to scrub the kitchen floor at Marblestone.”

  “I heard that too,” the banker played along. “What did you do, Miss Elaine?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” She turned away and started counting her money all over again.

  “You must have done something. Go on, tell us what it was,” Adam Lester said.

  “I merely asked a
question, and Miss Millie got all riled up.”

  “What question?” Mr. Lester asked. “Perhaps I know the answer.”

  At the prospect, her demeanor quickly changed and she turned to face him. “I asked what happened to Miss Gretchen’s sister.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Lester said.

  “Well, do you know or not?”

  Mr. Lester frowned. “I do, but if they will not tell you at Marblestone, perhaps I should not either.”

  She sulked, “I do not see what all the fuss is about. Why am I not allowed to know?”

  Banker Goodwin lifted the table leaf that separated him from his customers and walked to the opposite side of the tall table. “Miss Elaine, there are things in this world that cause great pain when spoken of. What happened to Gretchen’s sister is one of those things.”

  “She died, you mean? I already know that.”

  “She did die, and under the worst possible circumstances,” Mr. Goodwin answered.

  Elaine’s eyes widened. “Murdered?”

  Mr. Goodwin bowed his head. “You see, it is best not to talk of such things where Miss Gretchen might hear. Reminding her would be thoughtless and cruel. Do you agree?”

  “I…I do. I have no wish to hurt Gretchen.”

  “Good, then you shall not wonder aloud about the details either?” he could see by the look in her eyes that she longed to know, but she finally nodded.

  “Off to spend your money, Miss Elaine?” Mr. Lester asked, hoping to change the subject. “Might I escort you to the store?”

  Instantly perturbed again, she dropped the money in her modest cloth purse. “Mr. Lester, I am not in need of an escort. I am perfectly safe on the streets of Colorado Springs.”

  Mr. Lester raised both eyebrows. “Perhaps it is Colorado Springs that is in danger.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why must you always pester me?”

  Mr. Lester couldn’t help but smile. “Because you are so easily pestered, Miss Elaine.”

  Further incensed, she stomped to the door, yanked it open and walked out.

  Banker Goodwin went back to his teller booth and put the table leaf back down. “Is she the one?”

  “Indeed she is, and no higher-spirited woman have I ever seen.”

  “Perhaps you bring out the worst in her?”

  “Perhaps I do, but I always thought a man should know the worst in a woman before he marries her.”

  “If you continue to annoy her, you might have a devil of a time softening her up later.”

  Mr. Lester put his hat back on and walked to the door. “I best give that some thought, then.”

  *

  Patience was not one of the duchess’ virtues. In fact, she abhorred waiting for anything or anyone, and was always in a bad mood when forced to. Bernie had not called, nor did he come to fetch his dreadful book, which further annoyed her. At the same time, she found it puzzling. Why did he not want to see her? Perhaps he was waiting to be seen with her, until she had more suitable clothing. That must be it, she decided. She passed the next few days sitting in parks where the shade trees relieved her of the oppressive heat, although it did little for the humidity.

  At last, the day came.

  Yet, to arrive at Shirley Lenard’s Gowns before her appointed time was unthinkable, which meant another morning of waiting. The hours painfully dragged on until she could finally board a cable car. Just as she planned, she pulled the bell and disembarked a block early, so Mrs. Lenard would not guess her embarrassing means of transportation. Keeping up the same pretenses, she casually strolled past the shop front, pretended to realize she had passed it, went back and opened the door.

  “Ah, you must be Mrs. Dell. We’ve been expecting you,” said the impeccably dressed woman. “If you will kindly be seated and wait, someone will be with you shortly.”

  Wait? She inwardly gasped. When she was a duchess, she was never told to wait. Oh, how she longed to tell this impertinent woman precisely whom she was talking to, but then, she wasn’t a duchess anymore and for that, she blamed Hannish MacGreagor.

  She seated herself and watched as every other patron in the place was fitted with skirts, coats and gowns. In time, she found herself quite enjoying it. She especially drooled over a deep gold taffeta gown, scrumptious enough to be worn to a London ball. She sighed at the futility of it all, for the woman wearing the gown was considerably less than beautiful. It would look splendid on her, the duchess knew. Disappointment overtook her once more as she realized she would likely never see a London ball again…unless she could find a way to ingratiate herself into London society once more. To do that, she would have to marry a duke, and the only duke she knew who was gullible enough to fall for her wiles was Hannish MacGreagor. Unfortunately, he was no longer a susceptible young man, nor was he a duke. His brother was the duke of Glenartair now, but there was no point in considering marriage to him, even if he wasn’t already married to a simpleton. The duchess knew full well Cameron MacGreagor hated the very sight of her.

  “Mrs. Dell?” the dressmaker asked.

  It took a moment and a blank stare before the duchess remembered she was Nora Dell. She smiled and stood up.

  “Right this way.” Instead of taking her to a fitting room, the woman led the duchess to a small office where another woman sat behind a desk.

  “I am Shirley Lenard,” the woman said, motioning for her to sit in the chair opposite. “Bernie and I have been friends forever and he said I might be bold enough to ask for your assistance.”

  “My assistance?”

  “Indeed. You see, a most shameful woman…I dare not call her a lady, not after what she has done. At any rate, she ordered several garments, which we diligently made specifically for her, and then did not return to claim them. We are without payment, you see.”

  “That is most shameful,” the duchess agreed, not once considering that she had done exactly the same thing in London not so long ago.

  “I hoped you might understand. The woman in question is…I mean to say, you appear to be just her size, and I was wondering if you might be gracious enough to try them on. If you find them to your satisfaction, Bernie will happily absorb the cost. He is quite wealthy, you know. Has he taken you to see his home on 5th Avenue yet?

  “Not yet?” the very idea that he lived on 5th Avenue thrilled the duchess.

  “He is a friendly, hardworking man, who is as honest as the day is long. Why he has not yet married again is beyond me. He has a weakness for beautiful women, which is why I am not surprised to see how becoming you are. Perhaps you are the one he has been waiting for.”

  The duchess was truly at a loss for words. She was caught between hinting that was exactly what she was hoping for, to being coy regarding the matter. Thankfully, the dressmaker spared no time for her to comment.

  “He is such a kind and generous man, and feels dreadful for ruining your dress.” She stood up and led the way out of the office to the fitting room. “I suggest first, a new corset and a ready-made petticoat.”

  It was too good to be true, but why look a gift horse too closely in the mouth? If the duchess had to bear the expense, a new corset would set her back an entire dollar, and she had never owned a ready-made petticoat. She hurried to undress behind a curtain, let the dressmaker help with the new corset, and then stepped into the petticoat. Both were perfect…a little too perfect, but she dare not examine Bernie’s motives too closely at a time like this.

  Shirley Lenard returned with two silk blouses, one was white and one a light blue. While the duchess was slipping into the blue one, Mrs. Lenard produced a black taffeta dimi-trained skirt. “A lady can never have too many black taffeta skirts.”

  “Certainly not,” the duchess agreed. The skirt was just a bit too large, but a tuck here and there would solve that problem. Next, she was helped into a scarlet velveteen skirt that needed but the barest of adjustments. She admired her image in the mirror, smoothed the front and checked the back before she said, “Mr. Hathaway is generous i
ndeed.”

  “He is; he truly is.”

  “What does he do? He neglected to say and I would never be so bold as to ask.”

  “Of course not. I am not quite certain myself. It has something to do with antiques.” She excused herself for a moment, and then came back with two dresses for the duchess to try on.

  “Is there much money in antiques?”

  “Apparently so,” Mrs. Lenard answered. “I doubt Bernie has missed a meal in his whole life.”

  The duchess softly giggled. The dresses were more than she could have hoped for and she found both delightful. “I have just the hat to wear with this one,” she said of the soft blue floral.

  “I am happy to hear it.” The dressmaker let the duchess keep the new undergarments and put the old ones in a bag inscribed on the outside with the name of her shop. “Come back on Wednesday. We should have everything done by then. And do give Bernie my best when you see him.”

  “I shall.” The duchess closed the door behind her and started down the street. It felt good to carry a bag that implied she could afford to shop at the best places, and with new clothing on the near horizon, her luck had finally changed. It was not until she was on the cable car again that she started to wonder if something was slightly amiss. Of course, it was possible everything Shirley Lenard said was true, but for all of the clothing to be just the right size was…on the other hand, how could Bernie possible know her size? He could be good at guessing, she supposed, but she had never known a man to accurately guess a woman’s measurements.

  Then there was that perplexing ring he wore. She tried to think if it belonged to one of her husbands, but she could not place it, even on Lord Bayington’s finger. It was not Hannish MacGreagors, and if her Irish husband had it, she would have stolen it. It wasn’t the king’s, that much she was sure of…but whose was it? The duchess was so deep in thought, she completely missed her stop. Furious with herself, she stomped down the cable car steps and marched all the way back to the hotel.