Engaging the Competition (11 page)

She'd darken Mr. Lowe's door as often as it took to get warm quilts into every drafty shack, whether the miser liked it or not.

“You have such beautiful hair. It's a shame to put it up.” Mama glided into Lydia's bedroom like a ghost, though the scent of her homemade rose soap proved she still lived. Sarah King's slow smile transformed her haggard face a tiny bit—but not enough. She took Lydia's comb and a handful of her daughter's hair and threaded her fingers into the dark waves. “So like mine used to be.”

Lydia's gaze drifted from Mama's pallid features to her thinning hair. She'd rather imagine Mama as she once had been, but Lydia only had a few more years, maybe only a handful of months to look into those eyes, pale blue like her own. Hopefully she'd make it to her twenty-third birthday, for twenty-two years with her mother was simply not enough.

Lydia took the comb back before Mama could turn her wavy locks into a massive cloud.

“Did you have a restful nap?” Lydia warmed some hair gloss in her palms to weigh down her subtle spirals and pushed her hair forward, making a pleasant puff above her forehead.

Mama didn't answer. Her eyes were duller than usual.

Lydia stopped pinning up her curls. “Mama, what is it?”

“Did Papa tell you Dr. Lindon came today?”

“Again?” Lydia's breath caught. “Why?”

She wouldn't meet her daughter's eyes. “Have you seen your father since you've been home?”

“No, but I thought nothing of it. It's payday.”

Mama's shoulders slumped, and Lydia squeezed her canister of hair gloss but refrained from crushing it. Why couldn't she keep from speaking ill of Papa when it only upset her mother? He was a ne'er-do-well, and nothing would change that. Mama knew it, she knew it, the whole town knew it. Venting her frustration over him gambling when medical bills needed to be paid wouldn't make her mother feel better.

Mama grabbed hold of the bed's steel-pipe footboard and lowered herself onto the mattress. “Dr. Lindon believes my time to leave this Earth may be sooner than later.”

Lydia's throat clogged. Moisture pressed against her eyes, hot and thick. “How long?” Her raspy voice tattled on her threatening tears.

“Now remember, according to his prediction last year, I should've been frolicking with our Maker eight months ago.”

Lydia moved over to the mattress and snatched up her mother's hand.

“I'd rather not voice his newest prophecy.”

“Oh, Mama.”

She squeezed Lydia's hand pitifully.

“Does Papa know?”

“Yes, he was here.”

A stab of guilt pervaded her chest. She'd so quickly jumped to the usual conclusion of his whereabouts. For all his ill-fated business schemes and lackluster fathering skills, he did love Mama. Well, as much as he could love anything that didn't involve a wager.

“Don't judge him too harshly, my dear.”

How could she not? If he didn't constantly put them in a lurch, her mother wouldn't need to excuse his behavior. Lydia nodded but didn't look Mama in the eye. “I should stay in tonight. You shouldn't be alone.”

“No, you should go, now more than ever.”

“But—”

“I can't have you hovering over me for the rest of my life.” She looked away. “I won't tether you to a sickroom.”

“But a watched pot never boils. If I stare at you all day, every day, I might get to keep you forever.”

A tiny smile perked Mama's grayish lips. “You look lovely. Sebastian will be enchanted with how you've done your hair.”

Tears pricked her eyes again at the change of subject. If it wasn't for Mama's wish for her to marry, she wouldn't bother going. “Let us hope.”

If she could marry before Mama took to her deathbed, perhaps her mother's last days would be easier. She rose and kissed her mother's temple. “Wish me luck. I'm stopping by Mr. Lowe's gas company before dinner. Mrs. Little thinks procuring a donation for our project will prove whether or not I'm capable of raising campaign finances and garnering votes.” Could she really win Sebastian's admiration by proving she could raise funds? But what else did she have besides a pretty face and a petite figure to entice him into a commitment? “Though I'm certain I'd have an easier time convincing a turkey to
crawl up on our table and stuff itself for Thanksgiving than getting Mr. Lowe to hand me a penny.”

Mama laughed, but her chuckles turned into deep, throaty coughs. Lydia exchanged Mama's blood-spotted handkerchief for a fresh one. She shouldn't have made her laugh. She put her arm around Mama's frail, trembling body, seized with spasms so hard she feared her mother's bones would crack.

After the coughing fit ended, Lydia brewed the doctor's special tea, thankful the fit had subsided enough she felt comfortable leaving.

“Go, and have a merry time, Lydia dear. After you pluck Mr. Lowe's feathers, of course.” She smiled wanly as she pulled the sewing basket closer and pulled out the dress the neighbor's wife had ordered. “I shall be fine.”

“I'll return home the moment dinner is over.” She frowned at the garment her mother would insist on working on instead of resting like she ought. “Though I expect you to be in bed long before then.”

“Of course, my dear. Do not fret.”

Then why did God give her so many trials? The Almighty seemed bent on testing her lately. She retrieved her secondhand evening coat and leaned over to plant another kiss on Mama's moist forehead. “I shall try.”

As she stepped out of doors, a buggy clattered past on the brick street of her run-down little neighborhood, and the autumn wind played in her unruly hair. She hugged herself against the cool breeze, but the second she descended the first stair, her father appeared from behind the bushes separating their dismal yard from the road, his gaze pinned to his feet. Then he about-faced and stomped the other way.

“What are you doing, Papa?”

He glanced at her, then returned to pacing.

She wanted to huff and walk past, but what if he was worried about Mama? If so, how short a time had the doctor given her? She looked over her shoulder. Should she leave the house if any minute could be her mother's last? She gripped the porch balustrade. “Papa?”

“What, Lydia?” His unkempt eyebrows twitched above his glassy eyes.

“Is Mama all right?”

“She won't be when she gets wind of what I've done.” He moaned, not with sadness but deprecation.

Worried about himself, not Mama.

Lydia gripped the railing to keep from lunging at him and flailing her fists like she had as a little girl whenever he'd made Mama cry.

He paced in a short, choppy path twice more before stopping in front of her and pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. “How much money do you have?”

Of course. She'd been a fool to believe he'd have done anything else on payday besides creep into an illegal saloon and gamble. She turned her head away, trying to find a way to answer without lying. “How much did you lose?”

“All of it.”

What did he mean
all
of
it
?

Lydia wrung her hands. What if Sebastian broke things off because of her utter poverty rather than her inability to campaign and influence? She might be able to do something about the latter, but her gambling father held the trump in regards to the former. “You can't have lost everything.”

“I was only trying to pay the doctor's exorbitant fee.” He raised his fist and shook it at the sky. “God surely should have blessed my hand.”

He dropped onto the bottom step, tucked his elbows between his knees, and slumped. “Doctor Lindon won't wait.”

Unable to sit next to him on the tiny stairwell, she slid past him onto the sidewalk. “Of course, he'll wait. Just like all the others.” What other choice did the doctor have?

Papa looked up at her—then down, and slowly back up.

She swallowed, his eyes too assessing.

“You seeing Sebastian tonight?”

“He's invited me to dinner with his parents again.”

Papa stood and tucked an errant curl behind her left ear. She worked to keep herself still and her eyes on the ground.

He lifted her chin. “Do you have any rouge? Coal? You could pretty yourself up more.”

She pressed her lips together. The fact that she'd pinched her cheeks and bit her lips a few dozen times made her wish she hadn't even done that. “I'll not paint myself like some lady of the evening.”

“Keeping his interest is crucial.” His eyes suddenly lit and he let out a relieved laugh. “Why, things aren't as bad as I thought. By Jove, you're good for something!” A stupid grin brightened his face, and
he chucked her chin. “You make certain Roger's son is happy, and we've no worries.”

What was he talking about? She licked her lips. “How's that?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty head over.” He turned her around, and with a hand to the small of her back, pushed her out of the yard. “You save your Papa by charming that windbag's son before he changes his mind.”

She wrapped her arms about herself and nodded. Marrying Sebastian would make both her parents happy. If that wasn't a direct sign from God to ignore her misgivings, she didn't know what was.

To squeeze away the chill her father sent her away with, Lydia tucked her arms under her cloak and dropped her gaze to the sidewalk whenever men passed her on her way to Lowe's gas company office. How many of them sneaked over to The Line at night like Papa and threw away the money their families needed on watered-down moonshine and a fling with the queen of spades?

Mrs. Little shouldn't worry about her dedication to raising funds for Sebastian's campaigns. If Lydia married her son, she'd gladly join their family's crusade to close down the dens of iniquity that robbed so many wives of their husbands' attention and little girls of their fathers' promises.

But how did Papa expect Sebastian to save her family from ruin? Sebastian would take care of her if they wed, but what did Papa expect to get out of the deal? Would he constantly beg her for money after she married?

She rubbed the callus on her finger. How much loathsome mending had she been forced to take on to pay off Papa's accumulating debts? She'd once dreamed of attending college, but now all she hoped to afford was fabric for a wedding-worthy dress and a headstone for Mama.

The
tink
of a bell pulled her gaze off her feet. Mr. Lowe—tall, muscular, and disturbingly handsome—backed out of his office a half a block away, turned over a placard, and pocketed his key.

With a huff, she blew away the fine hair tickling her forehead and raced down the storefront-lined road to catch Mr. Lowe, but her ladylike pace was no match for his purposeful stride. She sped up so she wouldn't have to call out for him to stop.

He tipped his hat as he passed people on the sidewalk and to someone down the alley next to Minnie's Hotel.

Lydia glanced down the narrow street.

An old lady in a torn black dress stood in the shadows shaking slop from a clay pot. The woman looked up and scowled.

Lydia sidestepped to the sidewalk's edge and hurried after Mr. Lowe.

He stopped, his hands tense at his side.

Immediately, she slowed and touched a gloved hand to her face. Was she flushed? That might be good. Pink cheeks would heighten her charm. Now if she could manage to keep from sounding winded when she spoke.

He pivoted, pushed his felt hat off his forehead, and stiffened. “Ah, Miss King.”

She fluttered her hands down to her waist and clasped them together. Innocuous small talk should disarm him. “Good afternoon. It's a rather pleasant day for walking.”

He looked to the sky and frowned. A gray frothy haze hung low in the steel-colored sky. “Hadn't noticed.”

She could have pinched herself. Looking dull-witted wouldn't help her cause. “I mean . . . I am pleased that it isn't raining yet.”

“I hope you get where you're going before it does.” He looked ready to turn and dart away.

She sidled forward, cutting him off from the direction he'd been headed. “I think walking does wonders for the lungs, don't you? I take it you believe in exercise since you so often walk about town.”

“Hmmm, that's the nicest assumption I've heard so far. Usually, I hear I'm too stingy to pay the livery man or no one can stand me long enough to drive me home.”

She winced inwardly at how she'd thought so herself. “Well, it truly is unhealthy to sit all day. Mind if I join you?”

“Are you giving me a choice?” His eyes narrowed.

“I won't be any trouble.” She batted her eyes and hoped her smile didn't look fake, considering her teeth were dry from prolonged exposure.

He pulled the brim of his hat down to his eyebrows. “I can't stop you from walking where you please.”

She smiled as if that were the greatest invitation she could ever receive. “Great.”

He turned toe and headed toward the railroad tracks, his mansion not far past them on the southern outskirts, where the town disappeared and the gentle roll of southeast Kansas hills could be seen for miles.

He took one long stride for her every two steps. Didn't the man know he shouldn't force a lady to gallop?

When she caught up, she replastered the pleasantness onto her face. “My, you walk uncommonly quick.”

“And you are uncommonly tenacious.” His eyes held no sparkle.

Was that good or bad? “I don't understand your meaning.”

“My secretary told me you waited for me earlier today—and I apologize you were left alone so long—but I can only assume you are currently walking beside me to try again to needle money out of me.”

“I accept your apology.” Her lips tightened with the effort to keep them in a pleasing curve. “No harm done. As for needling—”

“Ah, and so the puncturing begins.” He walked even faster.

The warmth in her face seeped out, turning her cheeks cold and brittle. She wouldn't take it anymore. “How can you be so rude to me yet tip your hat to a woman tossing slop in the alley? I don't believe anyone's ever treated me as poorly as you.”

He halted.

Her arm brushed his as she blew past. Three steps later, she'd slowed enough to turn without falling on her backside. “I'm only asking for Christian charity and to be heard. There's nothing wrong with that.” She glared, waiting for his excuses. Then, realizing her scowl couldn't be attractive, she exhaled sharply and forced her facial muscles to relax.

He could affront her, rail at her, spit at her feet. But she could endure his rudeness for a donation. “If you would just listen, we'll never have to see each other again.”

His eyes rolled toward the dark heavens, as if he were pleading for the ten thousand angels who hadn't rescued Christ to condescend to rescue him.

But then his shoulders sagged. “I apologize for not giving you the same courtesy I gave Mrs. Willis.”

“Who?”

“The lady with the pot in the alley.”

He knew the chambermaid's name? “Apology accepted.” She let her fists slip off her hips. “I know you're every bit of a gentleman, a man of good fortune, and are as concerned for the poor Mrs. Williamses of this town as I am.”

“Willis.”

“Yes, women like her who often don't have enough money to buy essentials. With winter only weeks away, the moral society wants to provide blankets for the needy. But sewing a quilt by hand takes a long time. With machines, we could produce more. A Burdick sewing machine is less than sixteen dollars.”

Mr. Lowe stood silently, his gaze pinned to hers. He was listening!

She plowed on, “We'd like to purchase two for the church. Whereas I could only finish about one block a day, I could potentially finish five in the same amount of time. With two machines being employed while the other women quilt, we could potentially finish about eight more quilts a year. Though I suppose we could do more if we tied them. And our other donations would be used to purchase enough material and notions to keep up with our increased production.”

His face hadn't moved, and yet it somehow turned harder. Maybe his listening wasn't a good thing.

“I'd hoped you'd be kind enough to pay for the two sewing machines since you're a well-off member of our church and care about the Mrs. Williamses of the world.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

She cleared her throat. “I mean Mrs. Willistons.” At the almost imperceptible shaking of his head, she backpedaled. “Well, whatever their names . . . those that need blankets.”

Sunrays escaped from behind a storm cloud, and light flickered across his immobile face. He must know he was being stubborn for no good reason. For him, thirty dollars was nothing.

She tilted her head to the side and exercised her eyelids.

“Is that the end of your spiel, Miss King?”

“Yes.” She quit batting her eyelashes and tucked in her lips.

“Wonderful.” He steepled his hands in front of him. “Now that I've heard your argument in its entirety, I stand by my initial decision. I wish you luck getting money from someone else.”

Her lungs deflated. “But—”

“The day's almost over. Surely you don't want to vex yourself by arguing. I wouldn't want to ruin your walk on such a fine day.” He shook his head, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to be on my way.”

She strangled her skirt with shaky hands. Mrs. Little expected her to give up, which meant she wouldn't, no matter how appealing the idea. Maybe if she tried to befriend him . . . goodness knows the man couldn't have any real friends. He never hosted dinners or held a dance, despite the fact it was well-known his entire third floor was a ballroom. “All right, but might I continue walking with you?”

“Seems I can't stop you.” He took off like the lightning bolts dancing amid the far-off clouds.

After walking two blocks in silence, she chose a neutral topic.

“Have you enjoyed church this past month? I've learned much from the sermons in James. It's my favorite book.”

“They've been good.”

Not much of an answer, but at least he hadn't ignored her. “Will you attend the Bible study starting Wednesday? I hear Mr. Taylor has chosen the topic of Christian Virtues.”

His jaw grew tight. “I believe I'll stay home and read.”

“What will you read?” The question flew out of her mouth before she'd thought.

If he actually did read, how tedious would this conversation be? He probably read engineering manuals or—

He shrugged. “I don't know. Aquinas, Augustine, Donne, Bunyan, Edwards. Someone I trust to teach me about virtue, if that's what I desire to learn.”

“You have all those?” She bit her lip to keep from begging to borrow the whole stack. “I love the few Donne poems I've been lucky enough to read.”

“Yes, they're quite good.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and charged toward the small hill where his mansion sat. He stopped at his iron entry gate attached to stone pillars, an unnecessary structure being there was no fencing—though it was lovely draped with trumpet flower vines during the summer.

She stopped, saddened she'd just found a topic with which she might have engaged him. But when he opened his gate and stood waiting, she nearly did a cartwheel. Chitchatting had gotten her further than she'd hoped.

However . . .

She looked behind her to see if anyone was watching. Even though this road out of town was never busy and only a few buildings lined it, what might people think if they saw her walking alone with him up to his mansion?

Though if Mrs. Little found out she'd been given such an invitation and not used it to squeeze out three thousand pennies from him . . .

Lydia stepped inside. “I was thinking—”

Without waiting, he quickly turned to eat up the ground with long-legged strides. His driveway snaked along the thick curves of the landscape, but she hadn't the time to take in the terrain. The
pace he set up the incline was grueling, and she'd already started huffing before they'd reached the gate.

At the crest of the hill, he slowed, making her want to break into the Hallelujah Chorus despite being too winded to sing.

He put his hands in his pockets and stared off at the delicate cloud-to-cloud lightning, too far away to be heard.

“The way Donne explores the contradictions in life makes reading his poetry similar to . . . I don't know.” Mr. Lowe broke off from his hesitant speech and stood silent for a moment. “It's like the feeling you get when you find something in a Bible passage that gives you insight into yourself or the world. A gem worthy of meditating on, savoring . . .” He reached up to play with his collar. “I'm sorry. That probably made little sense.”

Lydia barely kept herself from clapping. He actually read, really read! Surely he'd listen to her requests with a more sympathetic ear if he discovered she had the same interests. “Do you have a favorite poet?”

“Byron, Coleridge, Poe . . . ” He broke off with a huffed chuckle. “The dark ones apparently.”

“I love Byron. Which is your favorite piece?”

“‘When We Two Parted,' perhaps.”

“I don't remember that one.” She frowned. Hopefully she could find something they'd both read before he dismissed her.

“I'll lend you my Byron, if you wish.” He resumed walking and took the massive porch stairs two at a time.

She raced eagerly after him despite her tight lungs. If only he weren't half a foot taller than her, her legs might not have been burning to keep up.

He spun in front of his towering double doors and held out his hand. “But, ah . . . remain here if you would.”

The heavily stained door slammed, leaving her alone in the moist cold. She stopped short of kicking his door in frustration. He could have at least let her into his entry hall. But he was a thoughtless man; so she shouldn't be surprised.

But did thoughtless men read Augustine and Donne?

The house was gargantuan, so his library had to be of remarkable size. She'd already borrowed all the books her old high school teacher owned thrice over, and she hadn't enough money to buy more than one a month—if that.

She eased toward the door's glass but stopped shy of hooding her eyes against the glare. Female voices sounded inside, and Lowe's quick baritone barked a one word reply. She scurried back from the door.

Instead of Mr. Lowe, a woman with soft dark curls framing sharp, serious eyes opened the door. She was likely in her early thirties, like Mr. Lowe, but her black dress and dirty white apron bespoke her position as a servant. The woman stepped onto the porch and held out two books.

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Lowe had a pressing matter arise. He said to give you these and bid you ‘good day.'”

Lydia blinked hard. Maybe she shouldn't take the books. If he wasn't willing to help poor people with blankets, should she take his books for her own entertainment? Yet her feet moved toward them as if they had free will. The temptation to borrow something she hadn't read a dozen times over was too much. She took the stack: a small leather-bound volume of Byron sat atop Mark Twain's
Roughing
It
.