7
“WAS THAT really necessary, Henry?”
Tobias plopped his considerable girth on the seat opposite Henry, jostling the entire carriage. He had a look of purest irritation on his normally jovial face.
“Go back if you like,” Henry said, looking out the carriage window. But as the vehicle rolled forward, they both knew it was too late.
“If I’d known you were going to threaten her with foreclosure, and this before her first loan payment is due—”
“The loan was a mistake, Tobias; even you must see that now. She’s a fool to live in this neighborhood, if men like that drunken Irishman are the only people who want anything to do with her. She’s just sitting there sewing and cooking on that stove, and she’s obviously already tapped anyone who will give her the charity she needs. How is it we’ve been foolish enough to make this home a reality before either she or the neighborhood is ready for it?”
“You don’t know that! And you must give her a chance. She’s obviously worked day and night to get settled, and I have no doubt she’ll do exactly as she hopes.”
Henry spared his uncle a glance. Doubt was all over Tobias’s face, despite his words. “At least it’ll be easier to sell, with the improvements she’s made on the place.”
“Huh,” grumbled Tobias, then grumbled again. “Fine and well for you to sit there, hoping she fails. Huh.”
It was nothing to be proud of; even Henry knew that. He attempted a halfhearted smile. “You’re just angry we didn’t get any of that pie.”
“Of course I am!” Tobias said, grinning at last. “Aren’t you?”
The funny thing was, in spite of telling himself his actions had been justified, Henry realized he was indeed missing that very thing.
“Why don’t you suggest she open a café?” Henry asked. “She has the kitchen for it.”
“I cannot believe you begrudge her the purchase of a stove. You heard what she said: appealing food is part of the investment.”
“Yes, if it were a café. I want you to tell her that.”
Tobias leaned forward and Henry felt his stare even though he continued to look out the window.
“Tell her yourself.”
“Shh, hush now, Dessa,” soothed Mariadela, having pulled her chair around the table, close to Dessa’s.
“The whole luncheon was a disaster! He—he didn’t have to be so . . . so mean!” Dessa knew she sounded like a child, but that’s exactly how she felt. Chastised as if she’d done something foolish.
The worst part was she still couldn’t help wondering if she’d been every bit as foolish as Mr. Hawkins seemed to believe. The thought brought a fresh supply of tears. “Oh, Mariadela! What if he’s right? I thought—” A hiccup interrupted her; then another sob overtook her. “I thought women would be eager to find a safe place under this roof! And there isn’t one, not a single one, who came!”
“They will,” Mariadela said. “They will.”
A new thought came to mind, one Dessa hadn’t even entertained before now. “And what if the donations don’t continue as regularly as expected? Why, if a single donor decides to go elsewhere, I won’t be able to make the payments. Because Mr. Hawkins is right! I can’t pay back that loan just from linen sales.”
Dessa used one of her carefully sewn napkins to wipe away tears that were only replaced by more. “What if I’ve misunderstood what God wanted me to do? Why didn’t I wait and work toward more donations the way Sophie would have done, so I wouldn’t have to borrow so much?”
Thoughts of Sophie brought inevitable grief, something Dessa carried despite the nearly nine months she’d been gone. Visions of Sophie going off one day, as she so often did, to the county hospital—better known as the pesthouse—not far away on Wazee and Sixteenth, where poor and indigents came for treatment of any contagious disease. Sophie had gone there often, never with a thought to herself. They couldn’t have guessed God would allow her ministry to end because of one of those visits. Conditions in the almshouse—the greater part of the pesthouse—were what had inspired Sophie to open an alternative in this very neighborhood.
Dessa had never cared for the irony that Sophie died in a city known for its crisp, clean, dry air that promised healing for so many of the infirm.
“If only Sophie were still here,” Dessa whispered, wiping again at her tears, relieved they were beginning to wane. An idea rose that made the last of them stall. “I need to visit her grave. I’ve always been able to imagine better what she would do when I’m near her.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. When William arrives, he can take you.”
Dessa sighed as they cleared away the remnants of the meal. At least the men had eaten everything on their plates, including seconds.
“William will be pleased there’s more pie left for him,” Mariadela said with a wink.
But the smile Dessa afforded in return was anything but genuine.
Denver City Cemetery wasn’t far from Brown’s Bluff—the spot designated as Capitol Hill after years of delays and disputes. Building had begun on the state capitol just last year. Dessa had visited the cemetery often since Sophie’s death, having fought Sophie’s family for her right to be buried where she wanted—not back in St. Louis in the prestigious family plot, but right here in Denver, with those relegated to the edge of the cemetery, where the remains of the lower classes from respectable to criminal could be found.
At Sophie’s graveside, tears replenished themselves in Dessa’s eyes. She knew Sophie wasn’t here, that this grave was nothing more than a testament to the way Sophie had lived her life trying to help those less fortunate. And yet standing here never failed to bring Dessa closer to her dear friend’s memory.
Sophie hadn’t just been helping those who didn’t seem able to help themselves. She, like Dessa, had carried a sort of obligation to set something right—though in Sophie’s case the wrongdoing had not been her own. But Sophie had felt the need to make up for the wrongs done by a Pierson. Her brother had compromised more than a few women’s virtue. Including Dessa’s.
“Did I fail you, Sophie? Did my impatience once again spoil your plans?” She wiped at a fallen tear, not feeling the dampness on her fingers for the thickness of her glove. An unexpected smile tugged at her lips. “I haven’t forgotten the times my impatience got the best of us. That horrid mail express carriage we took from Greenville to Louisville, or the shortcut we took in Chicago that ended with us hopelessly lost. My fault, both, and you missed important meetings because of my foolishness. Yet you were able to fix it all, weren’t you? And never blamed me, not once.”
A meager laugh escaped, but her tears weren’t banished altogether. “Oh, Sophie, I knew you would comfort me. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh today, not after the way Mr. Hawkins made me feel.” She hugged her arms to herself. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know impatience is one of my biggest faults. But this time . . . it’s more than just impatience. Did I misunderstand God’s will? Was I to put your dream in other, more capable hands than mine? I wish I knew.”
If Mr. Hawkins’s visit had done anything, it had surfaced every doubt Dessa had secretly harbored since her unhesitating start. She’d been so convinced no one but she had the same amount of passion and pure doggedness to get the job done that she hadn’t stopped to think she might not be the right person to implement Sophie’s vision.
Sophie had loved even those who’d turned their backs on God, not seeing their sin the way so much of society was wont to do. She saw the weakness and weariness that forced so many into a life that came with pain and loss of choice. Choice, at least, was something Sophie strove to restore.
Raised until she was seven in an institution for orphans and indigents, Dessa knew firsthand how it felt to be bereft of choice. Upon her seventh birthday she’d been sent by train to work. Her brother went to a farm while Dessa was placed into service with the Pierson family in St. Louis. A place that Dessa herself had eventually needed to escape—an escape Sophie provided.
Coming here today had been the right thing to do. Renewed resolve filled her. Even if opening Pierson House had been premature, even if Mr. Hawkins thought it a mistake, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Who knew better than Dessa the heartache and loss of everything from faith to dignity when a person was denied all choice, all hope?
It was up to Dessa to prove Mr. Hawkins—and her own doubts—wrong.