Leaden Skies (12 page)

He was giving the picture a look-see, close up and personal. Meanwhile, he gabbled.

“Miss Thomas! I, I don’t know what to say. I apologize. Profoundly! I would never have allowed you to touch that envelope had I suspected, had I known…I apologize for having your female sensitivities exposed, uh, what I meant to say is, this carte de visite is obviously something that you should not be…Well, perhaps I should finish this job myself so as to protect you from further distress.”

She hastily dropped her hand. “Mr. Elliston. I was raised on a farm. I’m no shrinking violet. I know about life. Here in Leadville, oft times I am forced—”
forced, that’s a good one
—“to walk down State Street, lookin’ for my young brothers, who are drawn to that street of sin like, like, moths to eternal flame.”
Oh! That’s good, too!
“I am shocked, truly, by the sight of that awful picture, but now that it’s out of my sight, I shall recover.”

She looked down at the paper that had held the card and read aloud: “Found in J.Q.A.W.’s personal effects. Dare him to say diff’rent. He is an unrepentant lover and supporter of the Orientals.”

Jed turned the photograph over. “And here on the back, it says—in an illiterate hand, I’ll add—‘To My John. Come Back. See Soon. Love.’”

He snorted. “Love.” He said the word with disgust, then took the cover sheet from Zelda and rewrapped the photograph gingerly as if it were hot to the touch.

He tucked it back in the envelope, set the letters on top, and took in the printer’s form holding the front page, finished except for a space left open for an engraving. “We’ve got to redo this, and fast. Take out the quoin, Miss Thomas—No, not that. The quoin’s the metal wedge, there, that locks up the type in the form. I’ll work out the headline decks and the lead. When you’re done, grab a composing stick, and I’ll give you the first line.” He turned over a piece of scratch paper and began scribbling.

As early evening slid into darkness, the two worked to reset the front page of
The Independent
. With the headline, the article’s lead, and one letter completed and only half of the Clatchworthy note and a brief concluding paragraph to go, Elliston straightened up from his stooped position with a sigh.

He pulled out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and groaned. “The reception for Grant. If I’m going to get there for the reception line, I’ve got to leave now.” He hesitated. His gaze swept over the nearly completed form before coming to rest on Zelda, part doubtful, part hopeful, but with a dash of skepticism.

“I can do it, Mr. Elliston,” she said, before he could ask her or change his mind. “I can finish up. All I got to do is set up the stick with the last few lines of the letter and that little paragraph about the card, isn’t that right? And then lock it up with the,” she pointed at the metal wedge, “I forget what it’s called, but I know what it does.”

Elliston switched his gaze back to the page and the last empty bit of the form. “You’ll need the leads, to put the proper space between the lines.”

“I remember.”

He worried his lower lip with his top teeth, finally looking square at her. “All right, Miss Thomas. I hope my trust isn’t misplaced. I’m counting on you to finish the last few lines. The pressmen’ll be by in the next couple of hours. If you’d wait for them, then put Wesley’s letters and the envelope in the desk drawer over there.” He gestured at the walnut rolltop, nearly hidden under piles of papers and cast off bits of metal and wood print furniture. “Tell the boys to hold off printing the front page for now. I’ll be back by one or two in the morning to check it before they run the whole.”

“You can count on me.”

“I hope so,” he said gruffly. He snapped the pocket watch shut, retrieved a proper swallowtail coat and top hat from the coat tree, and unearthed a notepad and pencil from the desk, causing two piles of papers to avalanche into each other. He stuffed pad and pencil into an inner pocket and returned to Zelda.

Her head was bent over the composing stick as she set up the words “Mama sends her regards.” She could almost feel his silence. Finally she looked up, afraid that he had changed his mind and was going to tell her to go home, that he’d take care of it. Instead, he pulled two dollars from his pocket and said, “You’ve earned this, Miss Thomas. See you tomorrow morning. At nine.” He touched his hat to her, for all the world like she was a real lady, then left, closing the door with a thud that set the bell clanking.

***

Zelda stood back, wiping her sore, ink-stained fingers on a rag and admiring the finished page. It was as perfect as anyone could make it, she was sure.
No widow-words, the lead is all proper, it fits just right.

After removing her bonnet, she ran one hand cautiously over her hair. It was recovering from the application of bear grease and beginning to regain its natural curl. She picked up the two letters from John Quincy Adams Wesley and the cover note and replaced them in the envelope with the photograph.

And she wondered: Who slid them under the door? And why?
These are sure gonna give this John Wesley feller a world of hurt.
This business of Celestials…she and her pa had seen a Chinaman or two working on railroads as they had made their way to Leadville. It was hard for her to understand why everyone hated them so much.
They’re just workin’ t’ keep from starvin’, like everyone else, ain’t they?
But there was no ducking the fact that the Chinamen had no friends in these parts. As for women voting—

She snorted, the explosion of derision sounding loud in the empty building and half scaring herself.

I can’t see the men allowing such a thing to happen, ever.

And the photograph. Now
that
was interesting. Something she’d not seen before. Zelda wondered if she ought to mention it to Miss Flo, suggest it as a way to drum up business, seeing that Miss Flo was always looking for new ways to bring in customers.

The creak of the door and clank of bell announced a visitor. Not one but two shabby-looking fellows paused on the threshold.

“What’s this?” said one.

Zelda grabbed her bonnet off the table, trying to hold the brim with her knuckles so as not to stain it with ink. “You the printers for the paper? Mr. Elliston asked me to stay until you-all arrived.”

They stepped into the room, removing their hats. One, with a beard that looked like the moths had gotten into it and done some damage, came over to look at the front page.

“Mr. Elliston said he’d be back by two in the morning,” added Zelda, squashing the envelope into the pocket of her coat, thinking she should put it in the desk and hightail out of there. She was anxious to find Flo, tell her that she wasn’t going to be working at the house tonight, tomorrow night, nor ever again.

The bearded one looked up at her and said, “Guess J.E.’s gone to see the general, I’ll bet. All the muckety-mucks are there tonight.” His eyes narrowed. “So, who’re you, anyway?”

“I’m the new typesetter,” she said proudly.

“Tarnation. Elliston’s hired a lady setter? Printer’s devil, more like.” He and his partner snickered. Zelda glared, not certain whether “printer’s devil” was an insult or not, but not liking the sound of it.

The bearded fellow brushed past Zelda on his way to the coatrack, remarking, “Well, Missy, we’ll see how long ya last. Be sure t’ get your pay right away. Old J.E., he squeezes two bits so tight you’d think he’s hopin’ they’ll pair up and raise themselves a whole family o’ pennies.” He hung the hat and turned, staring hard at Zelda. “You look kinda familiar, Missy. You been in these parts for a spell? I’d swain I’ve seen your face afore.”

Not liking the direction of the conversation, Zelda started for the door, hastily slinging the bonnet over her hair and tying the ribbons tight beneath her chin. “You-all kin tell Mr. Elliston I’ll be back tomorrow. Bright an’ early, like he asked.”

But right now, I’m gonna go tell Flo: No more workin’ on my back. I’ve got a job that pays for standin’ up and usin’ my hands in better ways.

Chapter Nineteen

Dressed for Grant’s reception, Inez twisted back and forth in her chair in the saloon’s upstairs office, twiddling with her fan. Outside the large mullioned window next to her desk, lights from State Street’s businesses glimmered, subdued by window glass and reflecting on the puddles and mud in the street. Beyond, in the darkness, were the mountains. There, but hidden, like so much in her life.

She twisted away from the street scene to face the wall that held a small collection of Currier and Ives prints. Having plowed much of the saloon’s profits back into the business or savings, she and Abe, by common consent, had given the office only the essentials in furnishings and decoration.

The gaming room boasted handmade rugs from Brussels and paintings in gilt frames. The office, on the other hand, had a braided rag rug, a secondhand loveseat, and inexpensive prints. She focused on two images grouped together. “Trotting Cracks in the Snow” showed horse-drawn sleighs dashing hither and thither. It drove her thoughts to her New York childhood, and to one memory, in particular, of riding in a sleigh with her father at the reins. She was very young. Hard kernels of snow pelted her cheeks; the runners hissed over the snow. She was exhilarated yet frightened by the speed at which they rushed through the freezing air.

Inez shook her head. Seldom were memories of her father good ones. Yet, this one, despite the underlying fear, held echoes of laughter and euphoria.

She fiddled with the tassel on her fan—a concoction of dark wood and lace—as her gaze traveled to the other print. “Prairie Fires of the Great West,” while rich in color, struck her now as foreboding, given the current round of arson in town and the still-at-large firebug. The yellow and orange flames of the print leaned in a high wind, dramatic plumes of purple smoke displacing vast prairie skies. The train steamed away from the fire, headlight piercing the dark. Behind, in the vast distance, miniature bison attempted to outrun the flames. It seemed unlikely the herd would escape.

The image that next jumped to mind was of Flo’s bordello, the back in flames, the bucket brigade, the disheveled and drunk Lizzie. And the mapmaker, who seemed to appear nearly everywhere she turned. There was something unsettling about him, like a clock overwound, spring not broken, but far too tight.

Was he really just looking around the building this morning? Or did he have something to do with Lizzie’s demise? And now, Flo’s in jail. And I’m linked to her, by hook or by crook, through that damned contract I signed.

She turned away from the prints and her dark thoughts, glancing at her desktop, unusually clear of papers, bills, and invoices. A long evening glove lay to one side, its many pearl buttons giving a muted gleam, a rich cache on white silk. A single sheet of paper, ink nearly dry, lay centered on the blotter. She hoped Abe would find time to come to the office before the reverend arrived. She had to talk to him about the paper. The sooner the better.

She had told Abe she needed to talk to him about “business.” He’d promised to be up as soon as Michael was squared away behind the bar. Michael had appeared promptly at seven, blond hair sleeked back, his fair-skinned face red from a scrubbing. He was attentive, polite, quiet, and, even more important from Inez’s point of view, he was the eldest of Bridgette’s five boys and knew how to smooth ruffled feathers and head off confrontations.

Despite Bridgette’s declarations that her Michael had a great future at the smelter, Inez suspected that he’d jump at a chance to learn the bardog’s trade. However, Inez was not certain that she’d want to brave Bridgette’s wrath by offering Michael a permanent position.

A knock at the door. “Inez?”

She twisted in the chair to face the door. “Abe, come in.”

Her business partner eased the door open and came in, loosening his tie. He stopped just inside the door. “Looks like you’re all set for the evenin’. I’d say no man would disavow that you’re the handsomest woman in Leadville, Mrs. Stannert.”

She smiled thinly. “Thank you. But I find that a bit disconcerting. I’m not trying to attract attention. The fact that Reverend Sands and I are going to be parading around, arm in arm, amongst all of Leadville’s populace strikes me as unwise. But how can I demur?”

The calico cat that had been curled up on the loveseat, ignoring Inez, hopped down with a loud
maow
of greeting for Abe. Abe closed the door behind him, scooped up the feline, and sat down on the couch. She settled in on his lap, purring, her claws working on the knees of his worsted trousers. “Well now. I think most of the folks tonight are going to be gawking at Mr. and Mrs. Grant, the governor, and the Tabors. What with all the talk about old Haw Tabor bein’ on the outs with his better half, people are gonna be far more interested in those two than who a man of the cloth is escortin’ around town.”

“I hope you’re right. In any case, I’ll not call attention to myself by dancing on the tabletops, spitting, or swearing.” She smiled half-heartedly.

“There you go.” Abe smiled back, teeth flashing in contrast to his dark skin. “So, what’s on your mind, Inez? This ’bout Michael? Mebbe hirin’ him on? I think he’d be willin’. But Bridgette, now, she’d not be over happy about it. And we can’t afford to lose the best biscuit-maker in Leadville.”

“I have been thinking about Michael, true. But I wanted to talk to you about something else.” She set her fan on the blotter and picked up the paper. “I went to see a lawyer this morning about getting a divorce from Mark.”

A small frown creased his forehead. “Go on.”

“I can almost read your mind, Abe. You think he’s dead. Why should I even bother? But, the truth is, I—
we
—don’t know what has happened to him. And I cannot move forward in my life until I settle this. Settle it so I can feel free to consider the future. Now, part of that has to do with making sure we have an agreement, on paper, as to how we view our partnership in the saloon.”

Abe didn’t respond, but she could have sworn his face had turned from warm living flesh into cold stone.

She continued, determined to have her say. “It simply comes down to this. We wrote nothing down. Nothing. When Mark won the saloon in that poker game, we all shook on it, remember? Three ways, he said. We were all partners, equal, and we’d divide it up equally, just as we did all the other winnings from the past. I’ve learned this is very suspect from a legal point of view. Even if it was written down that Mark deeded me a third of the business, a judge would probably scoff and dismiss it out of hand. If I only knew for certain that Mark was dead.” She sighed. “Well, ‘what ifs’ are useless. Abe, what we must do is clarify our business relationship, you and I. In writing.”

She closed her eyes as a wave of longing washed over her. Not longing for Mark, but for the past. When things were simpler. When it took so little to laugh, to feel alive and free.

“So you get a divorce,” said Abe. “I don’t see how that changes our business dealin’s. We never needed papers afore. Why now?”

She opened her eyes. “It’s insurance. Let’s say I get a divorce, based on desertion, since we cannot prove Mark’s death. We need to have this down in writing, all legal, that this business is ours equally. Half to you, half to me. I don’t want anyone taking away what’s yours. Or mine, for that matter.” She tipped her head up, defiant. “It’s going to be complicated enough, what with little William back East. The more straightforward we can make our partnership, the quicker I can take care of this mess.”

“And if’n he comes back?”

Inez’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always maintained Mark met with foul play. That he died, somewhere, somehow.”

Abe nodded. “And it’s what I believe. But I’d be a fool t’ throw down every nickel I have on a blind bet. To speak straight out, I’m not sure that havin’ a paper statin’ that we divvied up the saloon, half ’n’ half, would look so good if it fell into the wrong hands. If Mark’s alive, it might look like we just took what was rightfully his. And if’n he’s dead? Lordy, I can see someone sayin’, hmmm, who stands to win by shootin’ this Mr. Stannert in the back and shovin’ him down a mine shaft? How about his widow and that nigger she’s in business with?”

“It’ll not fall into anyone’s hands but our own. We’ll keep a single copy here, locked in the safe. Abe, I cannot imagine a worse nightmare than having Mark walk through that door, right now, saying, ‘Hello, Darlin’.” She did a dead-on imitation of his Georgia drawl and continued, “Just as if he’d never been gone. If that happens, then, my God, what sort of man did I marry? That he would disappear for more than a year and not contact me during that time? I’m better off without him. I’m done. There’s nothing he or anyone else could say to make me return to the marriage.”

Abe stared at her soberly. The cat in his lap butted his stilled hand, demanding that he resume petting her. He did. “Well now. Most like we won’t see him again.” His voice was gentle, as if he attempted to soothe her with words, as he did the cat with his touch. “If’n you feel better havin’ my mark on a paper contract, that’s fine with me, long’s we keep it locked up. Like you said, for insurance. And I got my wife to think of. Should somethin’ happen t’ me, I want Angel to get my share, for herself and the child.”

He moved the cat to the seat cushion and rose, brushing cat hair from his lap.

Inez dipped the pen and held it out to him. She scooted her chair out of his way, small brass wheels screeching. Abe signed the paper without reading her carefully crafted words. Inez took the proffered pen, dipped it again, and signed her own name next to his.

“We’re now legal partners,” she said softly. “Right down the middle. Equal, all the way.”

Abe said, “We always were, Inez.”

“Yes, but now no one, even the lawyers, can say different.” She rose from the chair with a rustle of silk taffeta and crouched down by the safe on the floor, mindful of her tight corset. She placed the paper in the safe—an offering to the black maw of the iron beast—and pushed the door shut with a clank, closing a door on her past.

A knock on the office door immediately followed, a wooden echo of the metallic closure.

“Mrs. Stannert?” Reverend Sands’ voice, muffled by the door.

“Please, Reverend, come in.” She stood, smoothed the raspberry-colored satin panel of her dress and reached behind to adjust the complicated waterfall of bows and flounces.

The door opened. The reverend paused on the threshold, hat in hand. “You outshine the stars, Mrs. Stannert.”

Inez smiled and retrieved the stray evening glove. “Thank you, Reverend.”

Reverend Sands nodded at Abe. “Mr. Jackson.”

Abe nodded back. “Reverend.” He crossed his arms, the garters black slashes against the white sleeves.

Inez took her evening cloak off the pegs behind the door and handed it to Reverend Sands, allowing him to place it around her shoulders. Ready to leave, she turned to Abe. “Thank you for taking care of everything. I imagine Michael will do well under your tutelage. And you do have Sol to back you up.”

“Won’t be no problem, Mrs. Stannert. You have a fine time and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Inez and the reverend left through the Harrison Street door, Sands opening and holding an umbrella over them both. He steered her over to a waiting landau on the street corner, saying, “Surely you didn’t think I’d make you walk the four blocks to City Hall.” The driver, dressed for foul weather, hopped off his perch and pulled open the door. Inez gratefully allowed them to help her up, then Reverend Sands eased in beside her and the driver closed the door.

“No, of course not,” said Inez. “But I didn’t think you’d manage a carriage and driver. I would have thought they had all been spoken for days ago.”

“Never underestimate the influence of a man of the cloth. There are those who wager they’ll gain a few extra points at Heaven’s gates if they can rustle up transportation for a minister.”

The carriage lurched forward, wheels churning the mud as the pair of horses strained forward.

“Are you certain you want to walk into such an august gathering with a saloonkeeper on your arm?” she asked. “It’s bound to tarnish your image.”

He shifted in the seat across from her, his knee pressing briefly against hers. That glancing brush had an immediate electrifying effect on her, an effect that she determinedly ignored.

“Why bring this up now?” His voice was mild. “We’ve been through it before, and here we are, on the way to the reception. Still, I’ll repeat what I’ve told you many times. I’ve made my choice, Inez. To stand by your side. Forever, if you’ll have me. The ministering, the preaching, there are ways to serve God that do not require that I stand behind a pulpit.”

An image of Preacher Thatcher, threadbare jacket, staring, unseeing eyes, beard a-tangle, flashed through her mind. She suppressed a shudder.

The carriage lurched to a stop in front of City Hall. Inez and the reverend disembarked and joined the throngs of well-dressed people waiting patiently in the drizzle to enter.

He tucked Inez’s gloved hand under his arm. “Ready to enter the lion’s den, Mrs. Stannert? It’s time to introduce you properly to Leadville society and the Grants.”