Diamond Duo (18 page)

Mama sagged against the door frame. “What do you mean? They were brand new.”

“Yes, they were, but not anymore. I got caught out in the storm and wound up tramping through muddy floodwater.” She nodded at the boots on the floor. “Those look better than the shoes did when I finally made it to high ground.”

Mama cringed but didn’t speak, so Bertha went on.

“The boots don’t fit Mrs. Hayes, so she offered them to me. And they’re ever so comfortable, as if made for my feet.” Mama scowled, so she ducked her head. “Mrs. Hayes took a liking to my shoes, though I can’t imagine why.”

Mama crossed her arms and raised one dubious brow.

“They were puckered and ruined, I promise. When she offered the boots, I suggested an even trade. It seemed only fair.”

This brought Mama ramrod straight. “So the lovely pumps I saved weeks of egg money to purchase–shoes in the latest fashion, I might add–were an acceptable exchange for. . . for. . .”

Papa, who had come to stand behind Mama without her knowing, started to mimic her stiff posture and wild gestures. When he broke into a jaunty Irish jig, Bertha plastered both hands over her mouth. Laughing would be the ruin of them both.

Still oblivious to Papa, Mama stopped waving her arms and glared. “What are you doing, Bertha?”

Papa tugged his twisted vest into place and stepped forward with a poker-straight face. “The girl’s speechless with remorse, my dear Emeline.”

Mama whirled. “And well she should be. I’m glad you’re here, Francis. You need to deal with this girl. I’ve reached the end of my tether.”

“Ah, me lady, surely there’s an inch or two left. What dastardly thing has the wee snippet done?”

“Ask her yourself. I’m taking leave of the situation before I lose my temper.”

If Mama hadn’t already lost her temper, Bertha would just as soon see her go.

Papa put on his pious face. “It can’t be that bad. Can’t we afford her a bit of Christian charity?”

Mama waved off his suggestion. “Francis, I fear your daughter has depleted my ration of Christian charity for the day and with the sun barely over the horizon.” She shoved past him and started down the hall then turned for one last remark. “This time see to it you’re not overly lenient, Francis, or you’ll answer to me.” She left in a huff, still muttering.

Papa raised his hands to his throat and mimicked strangling himself, causing Bertha to erupt in stifled laughter. He waited until the angry clack of heels faded toward the kitchen before he winked and grinned at Bertha. “Stretch out on the bed so I can beat you, daughter. I’m getting too old for the chase.”

She clutched her head and moaned. “Can’t you do anything with her?”

His cheeks reddened. “Been trying for years. Haven’t made much headway. It’s my penance for marrying a city girl.” He sighed. “Let’s get your punishment over and done.”

“Do we have to?”

“If you want to save me hide, we do.” He touched the end of his chin. “Let me see, now. Can you live with adding Mama’s chores to your own until the Sabbath?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Not so easy, me girl. Sabbath next.”

She winked. “Can’t fault me for trying.”

“You would, you rascal. Do we have a bargain?”

She nodded. “We do.”

He raised both shaggy brows. “You’re sure? It’s not too late for a beating.”

Bertha laid her cheek on his shoulder, one of the few shoulders she could reach. “The extra chores will do nicely, thank you.”

He patted her back and gave her a tight squeeze. “Fine, fine. Now squeal a bit or work up some tears–else you’ll land me in trouble, too.”

She giggled and pulled away. “Stop it, now. And kindly take leave
of my room. I have to dress and get started on all those chores.”

He held up his hands. “I’m going, lass. I have to get dressed meself.”

She looked him over. “You are dressed.”

“Aye, for the barn, not for town.”

She widened her eyes. “You’re going into town?”

“Right after breakfast.”

She clutched his hand. “Oh, Papa, I need to go with you.”

He screwed up his face. “I don’t know, lass. What about your work?”

“I’ll do all I can before we leave and the rest when we get back. I promise.” She grabbed both of his arms and pleaded with her eyes. “I need to see about a friend of mine.”

Concern creased his forehead. “Is your friend ill?”

She looked away. “She needs my help with a problem.”

“I see.”

She put both arms around his neck. “Oh, please. It’s very important or I wouldn’t ask.”

His staunch resolve crumbled before her eyes. “This will get us both a lashing, but very well. We’ll slip away after we eat.”

She kissed his ruddy cheeks. “You’re a wonderful papa.”

His rosy face turned crimson. “So it’s flattery you’re up to, is it? Save yourself the trouble, lass. No bit of trickery or slip of the silver tongue can sway Francis Biddie.” At the door, he spun on the ball of his foot. “Ah yes, and those extra chores can wait. You may start them Monday morn.”

She tried to hide her grin. “Thank you, Papa.”

He winked and turned to go.

“Papa?”

“Yes, wee girl?”

“Why are shoes and such so all-fired important?”

He cocked his head and squinted both eyes. “Ah, Bertha, me love. One barefoot day spent dealing with the trials of those too poor to buy shoes and you’d be begging to wear them. Trust your old papa on this one. Now ready yourself for breakfast and be quick about it.”

Quick she was, with chores and with breakfast, and in no time they were ready to leave. Mama scowled when Papa announced Bertha would join him on his trip to town, but she held her tongue. Bertha slipped out of the house fast when he pulled the horse and buggy to the door, before Mama decided to make her stay home.

In the two hours since daybreak, Jefferson had come to life. Nearly all of the locals shopped and ran errands on Saturday in preparation for Sunday rest. Lone riders on horseback and families on outings swarmed the streets, and the boardwalks teemed with farmers, merchants, laborers, and backwoodsmen. Gentlemen planters stood in clusters bemoaning the price of cotton and lamenting the decline of trade brought on by the dwindling steamboat traffic.

The ladies, unmindful of their husbands’ woes, pranced about in high-dollar duds. Not the elaborate gowns reserved for balls and garden parties or the chaste and unassuming frocks set aside for church–these colorful dresses were their town clothes, topped off by matching parasols and feathered hats.

The carriage from the Commercial Hotel rumbled past, and the toothy driver tipped his hat at Bertha. Papa frowned at the young man then shook his head and winked when Bertha grinned. He reined in the wagon in front of Rink Livery Stable and set the brake. “Won’t be a minute, sugar. When I come back, we’ll head over to Sedberry’s Drugstore.” He patted her hand. “I’ll let you pick out some nice penny candy.”

Bertha pulled her hand free and placed it over his. “I hate to tell you this, Papa, but I’m not ten years old anymore.”

He leaned nose to nose with her and scrunched up his face. “Is that a fact? When did it happen?”

She swatted his arm. “A good while ago. A detail you’d notice if you paid better attention.”

He pulled her close and chuckled. “Daughter of mine, a man can’t see what he ain’t looking for.” He leaned back and regarded her from a distance. “So that’s why the young upstart driver’s eyeballs popped?” He stretched his arms out in front of his face. “Out to here, they were.”

Her face flushed with heat, and she lowered her head. Papa chuckled and lifted her chin. “You turned into a right bonny lass while me head was turned.”

His words flooded Bertha’s soul with warmth. “Thank you, Papa.”

He kissed her cheek and climbed down then peered up from the ground, scratching his head. “So you’re not ten years old, you say? Funny how you never grew.”

“Oh, go on with you,” she sputtered.

His laughter rang out in the morning air. “Sit tight, then. I’ll be back directly. I just need to check on Sol.”

“Is Mr. Spellings ill?”

He pushed out his bottom lip. “Nothing any doctor can fix. He’s having a hard time dealing with Carrie’s loss, is all. If he didn’t have the livery to keep him busy, I expect he’d go clean out of his mind.” He furrowed his brow and stared toward the livery door.

“Papa?”

Lost in his own thoughts, he regarded her with dazed eyes. “Yes, love?”

“I still have the errand of my own to attend.” She pointed. “It’s just over on Vale Street. Is it all right if I walk?”

He tilted his head and stared across the distant treetops. “I suppose, since you’re not ten anymore, I won’t ask what your errand might be.” He shook his finger at her. “Go on, then. Just don’t cause me any more trouble with your ma.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He finished securing the reins and helped her to the ground. “I’ll pick you up at the corner of Lafayette and Polk in one hour. See that you’re there.”

“Yes, Papa.” Bertha smoothed her bodice and straightened her skirts around her. She looked back, but he had already disappeared through the wide doors of Mr. Spellings’s livery.

It took all of her strength to walk in a dignified manner to Brooks House. She longed to break into a mad dash and run, the way Annie described on the bluff–sans bonnet, corset, and shawl.

After last night, the need to ensure her new friend’s safety swelled in her heart, pushing reason aside. She didn’t know how she would go about it, but she had to speak to Annie away from her frightening companion.

Bertha drew near Brooks House, a grand yet inviting place where the white picket railing and four columns on the ground floor perfectly matched the wide balcony and four columns up top. Inside its walls, weary travelers who could afford it found comfort and rest under the vigilant eye of the hotel’s owner, Dr. J. H. Turner.

She had no idea how to find Annie inside or how to get her away from Abe when she did. She just knew she would do it if it took all day and night, although squeezing so much time into the hour Papa had given her might pose a challenge.

Dr. Turner’s omnibus approached from the opposite end of the street and pulled to a stop near the steps. Judge Armistead and another man, engaged in quiet conversation, stepped down from the big carriage and strolled to a spot by the front steps. The door of the hotel opened, and Bertha’s heart ricocheted in her chest when Abe stepped out on the porch and lit a fat cigar.

Ever so slowly, so as not to attract his attention, Bertha pulled her shawl up over her head and faced the other way. As naturally as she could manage, she took three steps to put a shrub between her and the porch. From the cover it provided, she watched Abe while he watched the judge and his crony. When the two older men sauntered into Brooks House, Abe tossed his cigar over the rail and took the two steps down to the street.

For one heartrending moment, Bertha thought he would head her direction, but he turned right instead and strode down the street whistling, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Sending a prayer of thanksgiving toward heaven, she made a beeline for the hotel but kept her gaze fixed on Abe’s back until she reached the entrance and ducked inside.

Brooks House seemed quiet for a Saturday morning. Bertha expected to find staff buzzing about the dim lobby and guests lounging in the well-appointed parlor. But the judge and his friend
must have retired to a room, and there were no porters or maids in sight. Surprisingly, Dr. Turner himself manned the front desk.

Bertha pulled back her shoulders, licked her lips, and sauntered toward him as fast as she dared. “Good morning, Dr. Turner.”

He looked up from the copy of the
Jefferson Jimplecute
he had spread open across the desk. “Bertha Biddie. How nice to see you, child. How’s your father? We’ve missed him at the lodge.”

“He’s well, Doc. Mama’s been a mite under the weather, but she’s fine now.”

He closed the newspaper and crossed his arms on it. “Good, good. Now what can we do for you?”

Bertha cleared her throat. “I need to see a friend of mine. She’s one of your guests, but I don’t know what room she’s in.”

Doc pulled the hotel register around so he could see it. “Well, of course, dear. Which guest?”

“Her name is Annie Moore.”

When he frowned and flipped the page, Bertha waved her hand at the book. “Forgive me. I guess you know her around here as Bessie Monroe.”

Drumming on the desk until Bertha wanted to scream, Doc stared at her as though trying to cipher a disturbing puzzle.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Turner, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Frowning, he awoke from his ponderings. “I have a couple of guests registered as A. Monroe and wife. I believe the wife might be the person you seek, considering she has a trunk labeled ‘A. Moore.’ ”

Bertha nodded. “Yes, that’s her. Please tell me what room she’s in.”

He cocked his head. Bertha could almost read in his eyes the questions he wanted to ask. She supposed he thought Annie Moore wasn’t exactly the sort of friend she should have.

“I guess it’ll be all right,” he finally said then pointed behind him. “Go right down the hall to number four. I think you’ll find your friend inside.”

She pushed away from the desk but stopped and turned back
after only a few steps. “Can we keep this between us, please? I don’t want anyone to know I was here.”

He pulled on his mustache. “Somehow I can believe that, Bertha. You be careful, now, you hear?”

She nodded then rushed down the ornate hall. She found number four with no trouble and knocked. No one answered, so she knocked again, this time louder. Though she saw Abe leave with her own eyes, her flesh crawled as she pictured him standing behind the door.

“What now?” Annie blustered from inside. “You have the key.” She opened in a rush, and all the blood washed from her face. With wide, darting eyes, she looked down the hall before yanking Bertha inside. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”

Bertha’s legs threatened to give out, so without an invitation she hurried to sit on the end of the bed. “I’ll only stay a minute. I had to see for myself that you’re all right.”