Six Little Sunflowers: Historical Romance Novella (American State Flower) (2 page)

Pearl stood by Alta, nodding.

“I don’t know why I’m nervous,” Alta chuckled. “It’s not as if you’re leaving Wichita. You’re not even leaving the hotel.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “If I have a question, I can find you and ask, right?”

Félicie nodded. “Absolutely. Hotel housekeeping is a science. It is an artistic achievement in which everything is in its right place and is of the proper grade, shade, quality, and cleanliness, harmonizing in every way. If you cannot remember the details, check the clipboard or the housekeeping books. Mrs. Jenkins keeps diligent notes. You are now one step away from being
the
housekeeper of the prestigious Hotel Carey. Alta Vandenberg, you can do this.”

Alta looked down at the clipboard. “You two clean Mr. Hays’s suite. I want the floors washed and polished this week.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pearl said.

Félicie smiled and nodded. Leaving Alta to study the clipboard, she followed Pearl down the hall. The cart’s left wheel squeaked. Before she finished her shift, she would take the cart to maintenance—no, this was Alta’s responsibility now. From her pitfalls and mistakes she would learn lessons that would enable her to avoid making the same mistake in the future. As Félicie had learned.

And now she was a mere five hours away from a new life.

A wonderful perfectly-planned life.

When and how man made his first acquaintance with fire is a question which history and science are alike unable to answer.… At last, someone, more ingenious than his fellows, hit upon a plan of procuring [fire] at will, either by rubbing two sticks together, or, perhaps, by means of two hard stones. Probably the discovery of a method of artificially producing fire ranks as one of the most important events in the history of humanity.

~
The Chemistry of Fire and Fire Prevention

W
HILE PEARL COLLECTED
the last of the cleaning supplies, Félicie removed her cleaning gloves and laid them on the cart. All six rooms smelled of
orchid, jasmine, and orange blossom
. The musky scent overpowered her senses, but who was she to disagree with a man who could afford oil and candles imported from India. From the furniture to the tins of exotic tea leaves in the cabinet, everything in the suite came from the places the mysterious Mr. Hays had traveled. Among the myriad trinkets, only one photo of a young blonde (family? friend?) was displayed.

She glanced around to see if they had missed anything. The last hotel room she cleaned would be her best work ever. All she had to do was make sure the suite was perfect and then she would have finished her final shift as being Félicie Richmond, chambermaid.

Linens replaced.

Bed made.

All furniture washed and oiled.

Marble counters cleaned.

Mirrors polished.

Windows washed.

Pearl laid the oil cloths on the cart, drawing Félicie’s attention. “Did I tell you about the time he crawled under that blazing naphtha tank and got a man out who was in there unconscious?”

“He who?”

“Carp.” Pearl groaned. “Who else would I be talking about?”

True. He was the only man Pearl
ever
talked about. This week.

Félicie nodded to acknowledge she’d heard Pearl’s words while doing her best not to look interested in another conversation about the angelic fireman. She motioned to the broom and dustpan.

Pearl released an exaggerated groan. Then she walked away from the broom and dustpan to the southwest window. “I wonder if we can see Engine House No. 2 from here.”

Félicie sighed. Maybe she ought to encourage Pearl to propose to Captain Yeary. Once he refused, Pearl would be devastated. While she hated to see Pearl’s heart broken, if that was what it took for her to accept reality, then so be it. Pearl needed to forget about the man and focus instead on becoming the hotel’s best chambermaid.

Crockery cleaned.

Toilet scrubbed and disinfecting power added.

Washbowl and bathtub scrubbed.

Carpet swept.

“Oh!” Pearl pushed the sheers away from the window. “There’s a fire.”

“It is smoke from a bakery,” she answered without pause, and Pearl nodded as if that made sense to her. “Let’s finish work.”

Pearl nodded again.

Félicie closed her eyes and focused on her mental checklist.

Floors swept.

“Félicie?”

Floors washed.

Floors pol—

“FAY-lee-cee!”

Félicie looked to Pearl. “Our shift is almost over. Please, I want to finish and be done.”

“Come here. Please,” she added when Félicie didn’t move. “You’ve lived in Wichita longer than in have. Look out the window and tell me what building’s on fire.”

“The smoke is from Minor’s Bakery. I promise.”

“Look to be sure.”

Félicie released an annoyed breath then walked to the window. She looked to where Minor’s Bakery was on Topeka Street. She frowned. How strange. The smoke was further west. Broadway? No, Broadway was only two blocks away. The fire had to be on Market, or Main. But the bakeries on Market were on the north, not south, end of the street. The businesses on that city block were Bergman’s Grocery, Clayton’s Cigars, Dr. Hamilton’s office and residence, attorneys Cade & Roberts, and Madame Laurent’s House of Design. Félicie leaned closer to the window, squinting as she studied the grayish-white plume rising. Considering the new construction on Broadway, her view of the buildings was blocked. Madame Laurent’s was south of the cigar shop and to the north of Dr. Hamilton’s. Félicie had an appointment in less than an hour to collect her new work clothes.

Madame Laurent’s shop was
not
on fire.

“It is the cigar shop,” she muttered.

Yet as Pearl walked away, Félicie stayed staring at the pillar of smoke. It had to be the cigar shop. Or Dr. Hamilton’s perpetually cold wife adding logs to the hearth.

Had to.

Félicie glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Hays’s black candlestick telephone next to the couch. The first time she saw a plume of smoke from this view of the skyline, she called in a fire, only to learn smoke was more visible on a colder morning. She had felt like such a fool. Never again did she look through the hotel’s windows. There were too many things outside to distract her from work.

She yanked the curtains closed.

One mistake was enough for her to learn her lesson.

~***~

Carpenter Yeary knew smoke. A bushfire smelled no more like a chemical fire than a barbeque pit did a cozy blaze in a hearth. With a warm February breeze against his face, he halted at the corner where Topeka intersected Douglas. Withdrew his hands from the side pockets on his suitcoat. Looked around. Sniffed. Fire! Two city blocks away, three at most. It wasn’t big. Not yet. It wasn’t from a bakery either.

A police siren cut through the air.

Carp took off, running west on Douglas, pushing through the confused pedestrians. Normally he would have apologized. Not now. If the fire spread, the whole block could burn. He pumped his arms and sprinted across English Street. People stepped back, giving him a clear path down the block. They had to smell the smoke, too. Where was the origin?

The buildings were too close, too—

He skidded to a halt as an automobile cut him off with its sudden turn onto Broadway, a carriage following. His lungs burned, feet ached in shoes not made for running. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone at a fire-box, ringing in the call. In ninety seconds, Engine 2 would be on the ground if it wasn’t already.

He sucked in a breath and released it. Once the traffic cleared, he broke into a sprint again. He was getting closer. He could smell it. More gawkers rushed into the streets, shoving one another for the best view.

There! On Market Street.

“Move, move, move!” Carp waved. The crowd parted. He turned left onto Market and kept running. Smoke above the cigar shop. No, next to the cigar shop…

MADAME HELAINE LAURENT’S

HOUSE OF DESIGN

Two police wagons skidded to a halt in front of the dressmaker’s shop. Officers jumped out and began to secure the area. Carp halted in front of the two-story building. He sucked in huge gulps of air. If the fire hopped next door to the cigar shop— Nasty smoke billowed from the roof and from under the first-floor’s partially-opened windows. A shattered chair lay on the sidewalk, in front of the building. He looked up. On the bricked building’s second floor, a stunning redhead stood in front of the busted window, coughing and holding a little dog in her arms. She eased onto the window frame as if preparing to jump.

“Don’t!” he called out over the angry clang of fire gongs.

Her panicked gaze shifted.

Carp looked right.

Up Topeka came Ladder 2 in a dead run, the Pumper right behind.

“Stay back,” yelled a police officer, waving at the crowd.

With more skill than any tiller-man in Wichita, Andrew Clark did a pretty bit of steering and braking. Even as he curved the truck to the left, the crew began hoisting the ladder. Carp held his breath. Every second counted. The truck tilted then stopped, settling on all four tires right in front of the building. Joe McDermott sprang up the slowly-rising ladder. The redhead offered him her dog. Joe shook his head. Within seconds he had the woman over his shoulder, holding her kicking legs firm even as she yanked and pulled with her free hand on his large overcoat.

The horses pulling Engine 2 slowed next to the ladder truck.

Carp rushed over. He tossed his black suitcoat onto the engine then kicked off his shoes. “Smoke heavy A-side, boys,” he said pulling on his turnout gear. “Let’s get inside.”

Gillon’s gaze shifted to the building. “All that fabric—”

“I know.” Carp tugged on a pair of rubber boots. The place was practically filled with kindling. And if a spark jumped over to the cigar shop—

“Joe, stop! My mother’s still in there.”

Joe sat the unharmed redhead on the ground. “Where is she?” he demanded, scowling under his helmet.

“There.” She pointed up to the lean, dark-haired woman on the roof.

“Stay here, Rena, or I swear I’ll—” Joe looked to Carp. “I’ll grab her.”

Carp nodded. He pulled on his turnout gear and rubber slicker. “Parker, you’re with me. We’ll do an interior attack while we have good access.” He grabbed an ax. “Leland, let’s keep this contained. I’d rather lose one building than the entire block.”

~***~

“Carp’s our best smoke-eater.”

“Got that fire out in no time, he did.”

“I heard electrical fire.”

“Carp will know.”

“Don’t know what we’d do wi’out Carp on the job.”

Félicie gritted her teeth as she wove through the people on the sidewalk to get closer to Mama Helaine’s shop. By the way everyone raved about Carpenter Yeary, one would think he was the only person working the fire. She stopped in front of the cigar shop next door. Five vehicles blocked the east side of the street in front of the red-brick building she knew all too well. No flames engulfed the dressmaker’s shop, no burn scarring on the building either, at least from what she could tell in the dusk. Only one window broken. The firemen seemed to be preparing to leave. None of the dresses behind the windows looked burned either.

That was a good sign.

While she knew nothing about fires—barring the ability to start one with flint and a knife—this one looked to have been small and short-lived. She drew in a breath to steady her nerves, releasing the tension inside. Rena and Mama Helaine had to be safe. She had no reason to worry. None. Not at all.

Two firemen stepped out onto the front steps, both holding axes and lanterns.

“Hot spots out!” one yelled.

“All clear!” said the other.

They stopped at the bottom of the steps and spoke to a policeman. Another set of firemen worked on pulling down the ladder. Another checked the ladder truck’s wheels. A half a dozen others lingered about the horse-drawn wagon, rolling the hose and checking equipment.

The highly-esteemed captain was nowhere to be seen.

She would wager Alta and Pearl knew the names of every fireman from Engine 2—which were bachelors, which ones had girls they were courting—even though Pearl had only moved to Wichita in December.

If Pearl and Alta were felines, men in uniforms would be catnip.

Félicie shivered. Right now, a warm fire would be nice. Once the sun set, the temperature seemed to remember it was still winter. She blew on her gloveless hands then rubbed her arms. The threadbare woolen coat she wore over her uniform only gave the appearance of warmth. Nose and ears red from cold, she must look a sight. Her cheeks had to be splotchy, too. This was why she rarely left the hotel in the winter. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look around. Rena and Miss Trudy-Bleu were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Mama Helaine.

Oh, the ambulance wagon! Perhaps they were in it. It had to be on the other side of all the emergency vehicles.

Félicie stepped onto the street and made her way along the crowd’s edge, swerving around the ladder truck.

A horse neighed.

She stopped. Horses? All the other vehicles were motorized. She stared at the two horses attached to the engine wagon. The brown horse neighed. The white one shook his—her?—head. In warning? Since her experience with large animals was non-existent, she took a precarious step forward.

“Do not bite me,” she whispered, “please.”

She eased closer.

The horses continued to watch her as she approached them.

“Nice horsies,” she muttered.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Félicie froze, grimaced. The man’s voice was hoarse. Likely from yelling, from breathing smoke. “I know, sir. I am sorry, but I am looking for—” She turned to her left.

Her breath caught. No. No, no, no, no, no. Why him? Of all the policemen and firemen on this street, why did it have to be him?

But it was.

He was right there, a few feet from her nonchalantly standing between the ladder truck and the engine wagon. They had never been this close. Every other time she has seen him, he had been surrounded by minions, sycophants, or adoring fans. At church even! Although shaded somewhat by his burn-scarred leather hat, even with those dark, heavy brows, his green eyes stood in stark contrast to the soot and stubble on his face. She had forgotten how remarkably beautiful and intimidating Captain Carpenter Yeary was.