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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
My Twins are for Claude because one day he suggested that I write something like the Alexandria Quartet. When I’d picked myself off the floor, where I’d fallen from laughing so hard, I thought about it . . . .
Prologue
The fat old woman, gray hair scraggling from beneath a battered hat, teeth blackened, was surprisingly agile as she hoisted herself onto the seat of the big wagon. Behind her lay a variety of fresh vegetables covered with a dampened canvas.
“Sadie.”
She looked to her left to see Reverend Thomas, tall, handsome, his brow furrowed in concern.
“You’ll be careful? You won’t try anything foolish? Or call attention to yourself?”
“I promise,” Sadie said in a soft, young-sounding voice. “I’ll be back in no time.” With that, she clucked to the horses and set off at a lumbering pace.
The road out of the town of Chandler, Colorado, and into the coal mine that was Sadie’s domain was long and rutted. Once, she had to wait for a train to pass on one of the spur lines of the Colorado and Southern Railroad. Each of the seventeen coal camps outside Chandler had its own train line into the camp.
Outside the turnoff to the Fenton mine Sadie passed another huckster wagon with another old woman sitting on the seat. Sadie halted her four horses, scanning the landscape as far as she could see.
“Any trouble?” Sadie quietly asked the other old woman.
“None, but the union talk is stronger. You?”
Sadie gave a curt nod. “There was a rumble in tunnel number six last week. The men won’t take the time to shore up as they dig. Do you have any peppermint?”
“Gave it all away. Sadie,” the woman said, leaning closer, “be careful. The Little Pamela is the worst one. Rafe Taggert scares me.”
“He scares a lot of people. Here comes another wagon.” Her voice deepened as she hijahed to the horses. “See you next week, Aggie. Don’t take no wooden nickels.”
Sadie drove past the men on the approaching wagon and raised her hand in greeting. Moments later, she was turning down the long road into the Little Pamela mine camp.
The road was steep as she travelled up into the canyon and she didn’t see the guard post until she was in front of it. In spite of herself, her heart began pounding.
“Mornin’, Sadie. You got any turnips?”
“Big, fat ones.” She grinned, showing her wrinkles and rotted teeth.
“Save me a sackful, will ya?” he said, as he unlocked the gate. There was no question of payment. Opening the gate to allow an outsider into the closed camp was payment enough.
The guards were posted there to make sure no union organizers got inside. If they suspected anyone of trying to organize the miners, the guards shot first and asked questions later. With that kind of power, all the guards had to do was say whomever they’d killed was a unionist and both the local and state courts freed them. The mine owners had a right to protect their property.
Sadie had to work to maneuver the big four-horse wagon through the narrow, coal-littered streets. On each side of her were frame boxes that the mine owners called houses, four or five tiny rooms, with a privy and coal shed out back. Water was drawn by buckets from a coal-infested community well.
Sadie moved the horses past the company store and coolly greeted the store owner. They were natural enemies. The miners were illegally paid in scrip so a family could purchase what it needed only from the company store. Some people said the mine owners made more money off the company store than they did from the coal.
To her right, between the railroad tracks and the steep mountainside, was Sunshine Row—a straggling line of double houses painted a ghastly yellow. There were no yards and only fifteen feet between houses and privies. Sadie knew too well the combination of train smoke and noise combined with the other smells. This was where the new mine workers lived.
Sadie halted her horses before one of the larger mine houses.
“Sadie! I thought you weren’t coming,” a pretty young woman said as she came out of the house, drying her wet hands and arms on a thin towel.
“You know me,” Sadie said gruffly, as she laboriously dismounted. “I slept late this mornin’ and my maid forgot to wake me. How you been, Jean?”
Jean Taggert gave a grin to the old woman. Sadie was one of the few outsiders allowed into the camp, and each week Jean was afraid the mine police would search her wagon.
“What did you bring?” Jean asked in a whisper.
“Cough medicine, liniment, a little morphine for Mrs. Carson, a dozen pairs of shoes. There’s not much I can hide inside a head of cabbage. And lace curtains for Ezra’s bride.”
“Lace curtains!” Jean gasped, then laughed. “You’re probably right. Lace will do more for her than anything else. Well, come on, let’s get started.”
It took Jean and Sadie three hours to distribute the vegetables, the townspeople paying Sadie in scrip—which Jean would later return to them in secret. The mine owners nor the camp police nor even most of the miners themselves had any idea that Sadie’s vegetables and secret goods were free. The miners were proud and wouldn’t have liked taking charity—but the women would take anything they could get for their children and their tired husbands.
It was late when Sadie and Jean returned with the empty wagon to Jean’s house.
“How’s Rafe?” Sadie asked.
“Working too hard, as is my father. And Uncle Rafe is stirring up trouble. You have to go. We can’t risk your getting into trouble,” she said, taking Sadie’s hand. “Such a young hand.”
“Trouble . . .?” Sadie began, confused. She jerked away, making Jean laugh.
“Next week then. And Sadie, don’t worry about me. I’ve known for a long time.”
Confused into speechlessness, Sadie climbed into the wagon and clucked to the horses.
An hour later, she was parked at the back of the old rectory in Chandler. In the twilight evening, she ran through the unlocked door, down a short hall, and into the bathroom where clean clothes hung from a hook.
Quickly, she tore the wig from her head, washed the theatrical makeup from her face, scrubbed the black gum from her teeth. In another quick motion, she slipped out of the hot, padded clothes that made her look fat, and pulled on drawers and petticoats of fine lawn, a white linen corset that she laced in front, and stepped into a tailored skirt of blue serge edged with jet beads. A pale green silk blouse was covered with a jacket of blue serge trimmed with the new green looking glass velvet.
As she was fastening her
dark blue leather belt, a knock sounded.
“Come in.”
Reverend Thomas opened the door and stood for a moment gazing at the woman before him. Miss Houston Chandler was tall, slim and beautiful, with dark brown hair highlighted with red glints, wide-set blue-green eyes, a straight, aristocratic nose and a small, perfectly-shaped mouth.
“So, Sadie has gone for another week.” The reverend smiled. “Now, Houston, you must go. Your father—.”
“Stepfather,” she corrected.
“Yes, well, his anger is the same whatever his title.”
“Did Anne and Tia make it back with their wagons?”
“Hours ago. Now get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled. “See you next Wednesday,” she called over her shoulder as she left by the front door of the rectory and began to walk briskly toward home.
Chapter 1
May 1892
Houston Chandler walked the block and a half to her house as sedately as she could manage, halting before a three-story, red brick French Victorian house that the town called the Chandler Mansion. Composing herself, smoothing her hair, she mounted the steps.
As she put her parasol in the porcelain holder in the little vestibule, she heard her stepfather bellowing at her sister.
“I’ll not have language like that in my house. You may think that because you call yourself a doctor you have a right to indecent behavior, but not in my house,” Duncan Gates shouted.
Blair Chandler, as like her twin sister as another person can be, glared at the man, who was a few inches shorter than she was and built as solidly as a stone building. “Since when is this your house? My father—.”
Houston stepped into the family parlor and put herself between her sister and her stepfather. “Isn’t it time for dinner? Perhaps we should go in.” With her back to her stepfather, she gave a pleading look to her sister.
Blair turned away from them both, her anger obvious.
Duncan took Houston’s arm and led her past the staircase and toward the dining room. “At least I have one decent daughter.”
Houston winced as she heard the often repeated remark. She hated being compared to Blair, and worse, hated being the winner.
They were barely seated at the big, mahogany table, each setting laid with crystal, porcelain and sterling, Duncan at the head, Opal Gates at the foot, the twins across from each other, when he started again.
“You’d think you’d want to do something to please your mother,” Duncan said, glaring at Blair, as an eleven-pound roast was set before him. He picked up carving utensils. “Are you too selfish to care about anybody else? Doesn’t your mother mean anything to you?”
Blair, her jaw clenched, looked at her mother. Opal was like a faded copy of her beautiful daughters. It was obvious that what spirit she’d ever had was either gone or deeply buried. “Mother,” Blair said, “do you want me to return to Chandler, marry some fat banker, have a dozen children and give up medicine?”
Opal smiled fondly at her daughter as she took a small helping of eggplant from the platter held by a maid. “I want you to be happy, dear, and I believe it’s rather noble of you to want to save people’s lives.”
Blair turned triumphant eyes toward her stepfather. “Houston’s given up her life in order to please you. Isn’t that enough for you? Do you have to see me broken too?”
“Houston!” Duncan thundered, clutching the big carving knife until his knuckles were white. “Are you going to allow your sister to say such things?”
Houston looked from her sister to her stepfather. Under no circumstances did she want to side with either one of them. When Blair returned to Pennsylvania after the wedding, Houston’d still be in the same town with her stepfather. With joy, she heard the downstairs maid announce Dr. Leander Westfield.
Quickly, Houston stood. “Susan,” she said to the serving maid, “set another place.”
Leander walked into the room with long, confident strides. He was tall, slim, dark, extremely good-looking—with green eyes to die for, as a friend of Houston’s once said—and exuded an air of self-assurance that made women stop on the street and stare. He greeted Mr. and Mrs. Gates.
Leander leaned across the edge of the table and gave Houston a quick kiss on the cheek. Kissing a woman, even your wife, and certainly your fiancée, so publicly was outrageous, but Leander had an air about him that allowed him to get away with things other men couldn’t.
“Will you have dinner with us?” Houston asked politely, indicating the place set next to her.
“I’ve eaten, but maybe I’ll join you for a cup of coffee. Good evening, Blair,” he said as he sat down across from her.
Blair only glanced at him in answer as she poked at the food on her plate.
“Blair, you’ll speak to Leander properly,” Duncan commanded.
“That’s all right, Mr. Gates,” Leander replied pleasantly, but looking at Blair in puzzlement. He smiled at Houston. “You’re as pretty as a bride today.”
“Bride!” Blair gasped, standing and nearly upsetting her chair before she ran from the room.
“Why, that—,” Duncan began, putting down his fork and starting to rise.
But Houston stopped him. “Please don’t. Something’s upsetting her badly. Perhaps she misses her friends in Pennsylvania. Leander, didn’t you want to talk to me about the wedding? Could we go now?”
“Of course.” Leander silently escorted her to his waiting buggy, clucked to the horse and drove her up the steep end of Second Street and parked on one of the many dead ends in Chandler. It was beginning to get dark and the mountain air was growing cold. Houston moved back into the corner of the carriage.
“Now, tell me what’s going on,” he said as he tied the horse’s reins, put on the brake, and turned to her. “It seems to me that you’re as upset as Blair.”
Houston had to blink back tears. It was so good to be alone with Lee. He was so familiar, so safe. He was an oasis of sanity in her life. “It’s Mr. Gates. He’s always antagonizing Blair, telling her she’s no good, reminding her that even as a child he thought there was no hope for her, and he’s always demanding that she give up medicine and remain in Chandler. And, Lee, he keeps telling Blair how perfect I am.”
“Ah, sweetheart,” Lee said, pulling her into his arms, “you are perfect. You’re sweet and kind and pliable and—.”
She pulled away from him. “Pliable! You mean like taffy?”
“No,” Lee smiled at her, “I just meant that you’re a pretty, sweet woman, and I think it’s good of you to be so worried about your sister, but I also think Blair should have been prepared for some criticism when she became a doctor.”
“You don’t think she should give up medicine, do you?”
“I have no idea what your sister should do. She’s not my responsibility.” He reached for her again. “What are we talking about Blair for? We have our own lives to live.”
As he spoke, his arms tightened around her and he began to nuzzle her ear.
This was the part of their courtship Houston always hated. Lee was so easy to be around, someone she knew so well. After all, they’d been a “couple” since she was six and he was twelve. Now, at twenty-two, she’d spent a great deal of time near Leander Westfield, had known forever that she was going to be Mrs. Westfield. All her schooling, everything she’d ever learned was in preparation for the day she’d be Lee’s wife.
But a few months ago, after he’d returned from studying in Europe, he’d started this kissing, pushing her into the buggy seat, groping at her clothes, and all she’d felt was that she wished he’d stop fumbling at her. Then Lee’d get angry, once again call her an ice princess, and take her home.
Houston knew how she was supposed to react to Lee’s touch. For all its appearance of staidness, Chandler, Colorado, was an enlightened town—at least its women were—but for the life of her Houston felt nothing when Lee touched her. She’d cried herself to sleep with worry many times. She couldn?
??t imagine loving anyone more than she loved Leander, but she was just not excited by his touch.
He seemed to sense what Houston was thinking and drew away from her, his anger showing in his eyes.
“It’s fewer than three weeks,” she said with hope in her voice. “In a short time we’ll be married and then . . .”
“And then what?” he said, looking at her sideways. “The ice princess melts?”
“I hope so,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “No one hopes so more than I do.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Are you ready for the governor’s reception tomorrow?” Lee asked, pulling a long cheroot from his pocket and lighting it.
Houston gave him a trembling smile. These few minutes after she’d turned him down were always the worst. “My Worth gown’s steamed and ready.”
“The governor will love you, you know that?” He smiled at her, but she sensed he was forcing the smile. “Someday I’ll have the most beautiful wife in the state at my side.”
She tried to relax. A governor’s reception was a place she felt confident. This was something she was trained for. Perhaps she should have taken a course in how not to be a cold, sexless wife. She knew that some men thought their wives shouldn’t enjoy sex, but she also knew Leander was like no one else. He’d explained to her that he expected her to enjoy him and Houston’d told herself she would, but mostly she felt annoyed when Leander kissed her.
“I have to go to town tomorrow,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Want to come along?”
“I’d love to. Oh! Blair wanted to stop by the newspaper office. I believe someone sent her a new medical journal from New York.”
Houston leaned back in the carriage as Leander clucked to the horse and wondered what he’d say if he knew his “pliable” intended was, once a week, doing something that was quite illegal.
* * *
Blair lounged against the end of the ornate, canopied, walnut bed, one knee bent, showing the separation of her Turkish pants. Her big blue and white room was on the third floor, with a beautiful view of Ayers Peak out the west window. She’d had a room on the second floor with the rest of the family, but after she’d left Chandler when she was twelve, Opal’d become pregnant and Mr. Gates had made her room into a bath and a nursery. Opal lost the child and the little room stood unused now, filled with dolls and toy soldiers Mr. Gates had bought.