4
DESSA STOOD ON the cement porch of the home on Nineteenth Street that she now had every right to claim as belonging to her. Well, to her, the bank, and the many who contributed cash donations both past and future.
She went inside, an echo and a prayer of thanksgiving following each of her steps as she made her way through the vacant parlor. It was easy to envision the donated furniture that now awaited only collection and delivery. Not every room would be filled just yet, but she had no doubt all her needs would be met soon.
Sophie Pierson herself hadn’t expected to open such a home for another two years, and that at the very earliest. She’d been prepared to work toward it for five!
But here it was. What had once been the home of a Market Street merchant would soon boast the name Pierson House. Mariadela White had been the first to hear it was for sale for far less than it was worth, and Dessa quickly pursued the opportunity. Yes, opium dens and gambling houses had encroached on the neighborhood, which was why respectable families had moved farther from Cherry Creek and the railroad yards that had sprung up in the last decade. They’d left behind those Dessa’s heart ached to serve.
This was precisely where Pierson House needed to be. Surely even Sophie would have followed this quicker plan, despite her caution about borrowing. Hawkins National might have refused her as easily as those first banks had done. But considering the relative ease with which Dessa had procured the funds, she couldn’t help believing God had hurried the schedule for a reason.
Even though at the moment Dessa had not a single girl committed to joining her. That was to have been the next phase in Sophie’s plan, once the funds were raised—actually getting into the neighborhood, even in a rented room or storefront, to befriend the residents. Dessa’s plans had bypassed that step altogether. Certainly it would be far more appealing for women to find immediate shelter in such a comfortable home!
Dessa knew she had work to do, but it was work she had no doubt God would bless.
On his way home from the bank, Henry instructed his driver to go well past his house and to slow once they reached Nineteenth Street in the Fourth Ward. He wanted plenty of time to assess the building that Tobias—and through him, Henry himself—had allowed to pass into the hands of one young and obviously optimistic young woman.
Seeing the house, he acknowledged it looked sound enough, with a roof that appeared in fine condition over a brick structure that would last many years to come. Fire had taught the city well.
Still, the trim was in need of paint, and he wondered if Miss Caldwell had taken on more than she could handle. Not that any of the homes along this street looked as though their owners took much pride in the neighborhood. It was far too close to the worst vice in the city. Everything was for sale around here, from women to gaming to cheap liquor to opium beds.
Nor was it far from the edge of another section, the one that mimicked respectability. A place where people like Turk Foster attracted a better-dressed clientele to his gambling den.
Miss Caldwell’s house was the filling in a sandwich made of the worst elements of society, and from what he’d seen of her, she wouldn’t last long.
Derision filled him. How long would it be before the darkness around here blotted out the foolish light that had filled Dessa Caldwell’s eyes?
It was a shame, really. He wondered if she would be so pretty once the realities of the harsher side of life snuffed out that light.
One last thought trailed along with Henry as the driver continued their slow progress down the street. It was a wonder Uncle Tobias wasn’t fretting over a woman left so vulnerable in a neighborhood like this. Tobias mustn’t know.
The thought only irritated Henry, because now he wished he didn’t know either.