Page 57 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“Fenton bought it in New Orleans on his last trip. The shop owner told him it was all the rage in Paris.”
“Monstrosity is too generous a word to describe this ghastly, feathered horror,” Winona muttered, reaching up to adjust the ostrich plume that drooped over her eye.
Charlotte had to admit it was distracting and rather annoying, almost as much as Winona. “Stop that!” she exclaimed, slapping her hand away.
“I’m only teasing, sugar,” she said, laughing softly. She stiffened abruptly then pivoted toward the breakfast spread on the sideboard. “I smell Molly’s cinnamon rolls. You heifers better have saved one for me.”
With a blissful sigh and a lick of her icing-covered fingers, Lou declared, “They were delicious! You should really get down here sooner if you want one.”
“You didn’t seriously eat them all!” Winona looked heartbroken, like she might cry.
Just then, Molly entered through the rear door carrying another tray of fragrant buns fresh out of the oven. In a flutter of satin, chiffon, and lace, the ladies scrambled to get one, Charlotte’s hat forgotten in the chaos.
“I won’t be long,” she said with a wave.
“If you would pick up a pound of chocolate drops at Ivinson’s, I’ll be in your debt forever,” Lou, who had an insatiable sweet tooth, called after her.
“Make it two,” the rest of them chimed in. Apparently, Lou’s affliction was catching.
“Will do!” she called back.
Someone sang out, “Bless you, Sister Charlotte,” and peals of good-natured laughter followed her out the door.
Sixth Street was quiet this time of day, save for a few delivery wagons and a lone, bleary-eyed patron who’d obviously imbibed too much and slept it off somewhere, making his unsteady way home.
After turning the corner at the end of the block, it wasn’t long before she entered the business district. When she crossed onto Main Street, Charlotte didn’t bother greeting the women gossiping outside the milliner’s shop when she walked past. She’d tried being friendly more times than she could count, but they weren’t interested and only stared at her with a mix of condemnation and morbid curiosity.
Feeling their eyes boring into her back, she tipped her chin higher. Let them look. She had the same right as any of them to conduct business in town.
A half block away from the bank, a man called out, “Mornin’, Mayor Jackson!” The shout drew Charlotte’s attention to the couple strolling on the other side of the street. They made a striking pair as they stopped to speak with the man, the mayor, tall and handsome and his wife a petite blonde with a noticeably rounded belly. Henry and Leticia Jackson would be over the moon at the prospect of another grandchild.
With a rueful shake of her head, Charlotte continued her walk. She was acquainted with the Jacksons, one of Laramie’s most prominent families, but not well enough to be on a first-name basis. In her former life, Rowena Eldridge and the Jackson women would have likely been friends. Being a brothel owner, a fallen woman, and a societal outcast made it impossible. Despite this, their lives had intersected occasionally, although not by her doing.
She’d met Jenny, the oldest brother’s wife, first, before they wed. A scoundrel claiming to be her uncle tried to take her family farm and her young brother away from her. When Jenny came to her in desperate need of a job, to save it, she’d given her a wig to hide her hair and put her to work behind the piano. It was the perfect disguise—hiding in plain sight—because no one suspected sweet-as-pie Jenny Harper would dare set foot inside a saloon with a second-floor brothel. Not even Heath, her future husband, or his two brothers, one of whom was the sheriff at the time. She missed those days, not for the drama when the scheme blew up spectacularly but because even on a slightly out-of-tune instrument and playing dance hall tunes, Jenny’s rare talent shone through.
Wisteria Jackson, married to Luke, the middle son, was born into a family of conmen and swindlers, inheriting their penchant for trouble. Even on Sixth Street, rumors spread about a hurried wedding and the Jackson family’s unexpected first grandchild. In her line of work, gossip and tall tales ran rampant. Charlotte typically paid it no heed, but when Wisteria disappeared, she had to bring her suspicions to the Jackson men.
Josephine was a disreputable local madam cut from the same cloth as Heloise. Her establishment, just one block over, was competition for theRed Eye. But so were a dozen other pleasure houses in town. The murmurs about Madam Josephine’s methods of acquiring young ladies for her second floor were unsettling. There were also whispers of opium used to control the unwilling victims who would comply with her demands, no matter how demeaning for a steady supply of the drug.
With Charlotte’s inside information, the Jacksons’ power and influence, not to mention Aaron’s badge—he’d been the marshal then—they saved Wisteria, several other missing women, and shut down Josephine’s vile operation. While the rescue was cause for celebration, poor Wisteria had to endure weeks of illness getting weaned off the drug.
The only Jackson bride she hadn’t needed to save was Mrs. Aaron Jackson. She and Janelle had become acquainted, partly because of her sisters-in-law’s troubles and because she was a skilled healer. She collaborated with the town doctor and had expertise in herbs. Janelle even co-authored a book on home remedies with her mother-in-law, Leticia. Charlotte often consulted their “home medicinal” when someone at the Red Eye was unwell.
If Charlotte’s skills proved insufficient and the doctor was busy with a delivery or emergency, Janelle responded immediately, day or night, but she didn’t come alone. Aaron would quietly escort his wife up the rear stairs and patiently wait outside the door while she attended to her patient. Once done, he’d efficiently whisk her out again.
None of the Jacksons acted like she or her ladies were beneath them or as if they feared catching some deadly disease, but the men were very protective of their wives’ reputations. Charlotte understood, having once been on the right side of the street with a reputation of her own to protect, which seemed like forever ago.
Arriving at the bank, she stopped at the base of the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath before climbing them. An older woman exiting gave her a sour look and pulled her skirt aside so they wouldn’t touch. The man she was with politely held the door, tipping his hat as she murmured, thank you and sailed in.
The biddy grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Politeness is wasted on the likes of her, Reginald.”
Like she didn’t hear, Charlotte kept walking in. But being treated like she was a plague or so much dirt beneath someone’s shoes took a toll on a person’s self-esteem.
The deposits took only minutes. The teller twice-counted the $2300 business deposit before recording it in his ledger. Next, he counted Charlotte’s monthly savings deposit—her $630 contribution going into thejoint account with Fen, thanks to their ridiculous rules. It wasn’t a fortune, but her savings had grown considerably over time.
Her next stop was the shoemaker, where she got the cold shoulder.
“He’s booked up for months,” the woman at the counter declared. “Perhaps try the general store. They have ready-made shoes or can order you something from a catalog much quicker.”
