Whistler in the Dark (4 page)

Emma drew in a long breath.
Almost
nobody, for someone had already tried to dishearten her and Mother. Still, she hadn't realized how much was riding on the success of the newspaper.

But surprisingly, Mother smiled. “Mr. Abbott, I have no intention of letting this paper fail.”

“I appreciate that, ma'am, but do you know how to—”

“I started working as a typesetter when I was Emma's age. During the four years I spent at that, I learned everything there is to know about the mechanical needs of a printing press. Then I married the publisher's son. My husband became publisher a year later when his father died, and he taught me a great deal about the business. After my husband enlisted in the Union army, I oversaw the newspaper's operation for another six months. I ceased publication only because I wanted to devote my energies to war relief work. I was very active in the Sanitary Commission—which, as I'm sure you're aware, saved countless lives by raising money to provide healthy food and medical supplies for soldiers in need.”

Emma dared a glance at the two men. Both were listening intently.

“In addition, I served on the steering committee of the 1863 Chicago Sanitary Fair,” Mother went on. “I negotiated contracts, oversaw construction of the exhibition pavilions, and managed fund-raising activities that ultimately raised more than one hundred thousand dollars to help our soldiers. I am quite capable of conducting business outside of the home.”

Mr. Spaulding blinked. Mr. Abbott's eyebrows raised.

Mother was still building steam. “I'm here to make a success of this newspaper. And I have a very capable daughter to help me. I don't pretend for a moment that it will be easy. We have subscriptions to solicit, advertisements to sell, news to gather. We have stories to write and set, paper and ink to secure, and a small staff to hire. All this, knowing that someone in this town already wants Emma and me to fail. But I assure you, gentlemen, that it will be done.”

That torrent of assurance left Mr. Spaulding speechless. Mr. Abbott nodded, looking pleased. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Emma's mouth. Whoever wanted her and Mother to pack up and leave town was going to be very disappointed.

Homesickness balled in Emma's throat that evening as she unpacked the few mementos she'd been able to bring from Chicago. She put her copy of Father's daguerreotype on her half of the dresser and placed her precious packet of letters from him beside it. She put a little shell-covered box that Judith had given her beside the letters. The box held a mourning brooch made with a lock of Father's hair. She propped up one of her paintings and pinned a fashion plate from
Godey's
on the wall. Only then did she feel ready to slip into her own nightgown and slide between the sheets. They smelled of lye soap.

Mother was silent as she put on her nightgown and brushed her hair, then opened one window a bit to let some cool mountain air into the stuffy room. She got out her notebook and pencil, but she only stared at the blank page.

Emma finally broke the silence. “Who do you think could have left that note and stolen the lever? I can't imagine who would be willing to sacrifice having a newspaper, and all the good it can do, just because the editor is a woman. Who would be so mean?”

Mother rubbed at a flyspeck on her notebook. “I have to believe it's just a mischief-maker—someone who thought it would be funny to see if a woman editor would have the vapors at the first sign of trouble.”

Emma didn't think it was the least bit funny. Did he have more tricks in mind?

Mother sighed. “Oh, Emma. Twin Pines is not at
all
what I expected.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have taken Mr. Spaulding's word for everything,” Emma murmured. It was disrespectful, but honestly! Mother prided herself on her business sense!

“You're right. I didn't ask enough questions. After all the rejections, I was just happy to get Mr. Spaulding's letter. I guess I wanted to believe that everything would work out.”

Emma stared at the ceiling. She didn't know what to say.

Mother turned down the oil lamp, and darkness cloaked the room. Several moments passed before she spoke again. “I'm quite unhappy with Mr. Spaulding for misleading us.”

Emma was too, but she thought she understood his deception. “He needs you, Mother. It sounds like a lot of people around here need you.”

“They need
us
, Emma. I couldn't do this without you, you know. You kept your wits about you this afternoon, just when I was at wit's end. I was very proud of you.”

The unexpected praise made Emma feel guilty for her lukewarm support of this newspaper venture. She was still thinking that over as she heard Mother's breathing deepen into the rhythm of sleep. She wished she could talk to Judith—

Suddenly Emma sat bolt upright in bed. Through the open window came the faint but unmistakable sound of whistling.

Someone was whistling
Maggie by My Side
… with the same jaunty style, the same pause on the high note, that she'd heard from Father a thousand times before he went to war. Just as she'd heard the tune whistled again in Chicago as she and Mother prepared for the journey west, and again on the road.
Exactly
the same.

Emma clutched the quilt to her chest as a shiver whisked down her spine. “Father?” she whispered, wishing she could claw away the darkness. Her heart hammered.

The last whistled note, held long, seemed to hang in the night air. Then—nothing, except Mother's even breathing and faint shouts from the saloon across the street.

Emma finally lay back down. But a long time passed before she stopped trembling and fell asleep.

C
HAPTER
4

M
EETING THE
B
OARDERS

The next morning, Emma woke to the noise of male voices and heavy footsteps in the corridor—the other boarders. She kept her eyes closed, remembering the threatening note and the stolen press lever, the whistled tune and the icy ball of fear she'd felt, wondering if Father's ghost was near. Emma wished she could stay in bed. Should she tell Mother she'd heard
Maggie by My Side
again? Surely she could convince Mother that she hadn't imagined it—

“Good morning, Emma.” Mother's cheery voice punctured Emma's thoughts. Her spirits lifted as she splashed some water into the bowl on her nightstand and washed her face. The aroma of frying bacon beckoned beneath the door. Sunlight streamed through Mrs. Sloane's starched muslin curtains. The last shreds of Emma's fear faded. If Father … well, if his
spirit
could come back, he wouldn't want to frighten her! The whistler was surely a real man.
Maggie by My Side
had been a popular tune. Probably every man in Colorado knew it.

“Well, Emma? Do you want to wear your Reform Dress today?”

Emma looked up from the towel. Mother had insisted on making her one of the horrid trouser costumes. It hung now from a peg on the wall, cranberry red with white spots. “Mother, I told you I wouldn't!”

“I had hoped you might change your mind,” Mother said quietly. “I thought it would be a fitting way to start our new venture together. But it's your choice. That's what dress reformers want to do—encourage women to make their own choices.”

Emma hesitated. “Mother, maybe you should wait a day or two. What if … what if Mr. Spaulding isn't comfortable having a dress reformer in charge of his town newspaper?”

Mother raised one eyebrow. “I mentioned my interest in dress reform in my introductory letter. It didn't stop him from hiring me.”

Crackers. Emma tried to think of a new argument. “But someone in this town is already unhappy because Mr. Spaulding hired a woman. Maybe—”

“
Emma
. I've already said I'd accept your decision. Now I'm asking you to accept mine.”

I
can't
, Emma thought, remembering the thrown egg, and Mrs. Littleton's scorn, back in Chicago … and Mrs. Sloane's proper air … and how beautiful Miss Amaretta Holly had looked riding sidesaddle, her skirt draped and flowing.
I simply can't
.

Emma dressed slowly, hoping Mother would go downstairs without her. She chose her good wheat-colored dress with braid trim and took special care arranging her hair. Perhaps if
she
dressed well, people would be less judgmental about Mother's attire. She studied herself in the mirror. Perhaps the mourning brooch would help as well—

“Emma Catherine Henderson!” Mother stood by the door. “I—am—waiting.”

“I'm coming!” Emma said, but she couldn't help adding, “Mother, aren't you at all afraid of what people will say? What if—what if someone throws an egg at you?”

Mother lifted her chin. “I believe in what this costume stands for. My husband went to war because of something he believed in. How can I be afraid of a few taunts, or even an egg or two? Come along, now.”

Emma followed Mother down the stairs, wrestling with guilt and embarrassment. Through the open dining-room door she could hear a cheerful babble of voices—

Which fell utterly silent as Mother walked into the room.

As Emma followed, she saw Mrs. Sloane, standing rigid with a steaming coffeepot in one hand. She saw astonishment on the faces of the two men seated at the table …
and
on the face of Miss Amaretta Holly.

Miss Amaretta boarded here, too? Emma considered pretending that she'd never met her mother before and only chance had brought them into the dining room together.

The silence became painful before Mother found her voice. “Good morning!” she chirped. “I'm Mrs. Henderson, and this is my daughter, Emma.”

Miss Amaretta studied her plate. Emma's cheeks flamed. She wished she could melt into the floorboards.

“Why … good morning!” One of the men, a handsome blond of middling age, jumped up to pull out a chair. Then he paused, as if unsure whether a woman in Reform Dress would accept his gesture. With a gallant smile he stepped back, indicating the chair with a flourish: a successful compromise. “You must be the newspaper editor we've heard so much about.”

Emma slid into the empty chair beside Mother's. Mrs. Sloane collected herself and silently poured coffee for the Hendersons. Emma sipped the scalding, bitter stuff, grateful to have something to do.

The man reseated himself. “Call me Blackjack,” he said, looking mildly amused. He was dressed impressively in a pair of checkered wool trousers with a dark coat, brocade vest, and striped cravat.

“That's an unusual name,” Mother said, reaching for a platter of chipped beef. Her cheeks were flushed. Emma suddenly realized that this first public appearance in Reform Dress was more challenging for Mother than she wanted to admit.

The second man had followed the exchange with a sour look. Unlike Blackjack, he wore the worn trousers, wool vest, and stained work shirt of the miners Emma had seen in the street. “‘Aces' would be a better name,” he observed in a humorless drawl. “He's usually got an extra up his sleeve.”

“I own The Raven—the saloon across the street,” Blackjack told Emma and Mother calmly. He used his knife blade to sprinkle salt on his fried potatoes. “I'm afraid my good friend Dixie John here has lost a poker game or two at my establishment.”

Dixie John
. Emma sucked in a slow breath. This man was Southern! Had he been a Confederate soldier? Had he fought against Father?

Dixie John scowled. “I don't mind losing in a fair game,” he muttered, then addressed Mother. “What will our newspaper editor have to say about a crooked gambling house?”

“I don't write stories based on hearsay,” Mother said carefully. “But if I find firm evidence of illegal activity, I will write the truth.”

Mrs. Sloane emerged from the kitchen and set a basket of biscuits on the table. “Mind your tongue,” she warned Dixie John. “I'll have no trouble stirred up under my roof.” She marched back into the kitchen.

“I ain't aiming to stir up trouble. Just asking a few questions of the editor-lady here.” Dixie John leaned back in his chair. His gaze swung from Mother to Emma. “I'm trying to decide if I should subscribe to the paper or not,” he continued, looking back at Mother. “I may not be inclined toward your politics. I may not be comfortable with your family background, so to speak.”

Emma couldn't bear his wordplay for another moment. “My father was a captain in the Union army,” she said with cold pride. “Is that what you wanted to know?” So there!

Mother squeezed Emma's hand beneath the table. “My daughter and I are proud of my husband's service,” she told Dixie John quietly. “But the war is over.”

Dixie John shoved away from the table. His boots clattered down the hall. The front door slammed. He began to sing as he stumped down the steps, and the words drifted through the window: “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land …”