CHAPTER

11

I expected Lily Diamond to be flashy, possibly a madam earning extra money by dealing faro, presiding over a smoke-filled room full of men. Instead, the woman I found in the tea room at the Rollins House Hotel was a diminutive, plain-looking woman in full mourning, sitting on a cushion to give her enough lift to sit square to the table.

She spotted me and her round face broke into a jolly grin. “You must be the fill-in Charlie mentioned. Welcome!”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Lily Diamond.”

“Helen Graham.”

The room was small and feminine, with pale pink wallpaper patterned with rosebuds and intertwined with greenery. Lily Diamond and two women sat at a bare table in the middle of the room. The other two cloth-covered tables were shunted off against the wall out of the way. Lily shuffled cards with a deft hand and dealt. There was no shoe, no abacus for counting cards, and room for only four players. My suspicion that this wasn’t a faro game was confirmed when the woman with her back to me turned around, and her open, friendly expression morphed into one of irritation.

“Hello, Mrs. Bright. Good to see you again,” I said.

Portia Bright nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Oh, you’ve met Portia?”

“Yes, today at the jail.”

“Did you and the Reverend go visit the condemned man?” Lily asked.

“Yes.”

“I suppose he repented,” the third woman said with derision.

“Now, Amalia, the Lord forgives those who ask,” Lily said.

Amalia harrumphed and held her hand out to me. “Amalia Post.”

“Helen Graham. Nice to meet you.”

Lily motioned to the open chair. “Have a seat.”

I sat and adjusted the neckline of my dress, hoping against hope it would cover my cleavage. I’d dressed in one of Rosemond’s more revealing gowns, hoping to distract my male playing partners with what little cleavage I had on offer. Now I sat conspicuously with three fully covered, prim women. Portia pointedly ignored me. She truly didn’t like me, though I couldn’t figure why.

“What are we playing?” I picked up my cards.

“Bridge.”

“You do know how to play,” Portia said.

“Of course. Are we betting?”

All movement stopped and the women gaped at me. “No, dear,” Lily said. “Just for fun.”

I paused. Damn you, Charlie. It would be rude to leave, but every minute here meant one less minute earning money to leave. I hoped Rosemond would make her entrance soon.

“What a relief,” I lied. “I’m terrible at gambling.”

We went around and bid. Lily declared the trumps and I laid down my dummy hand.

“Why were you visiting the prisoner?” Amalia asked.

I gathered my thoughts. I’d expected to be quizzed but not so soon. I’d decided the less detail the better, as all good liars know. “He worked for my sister, Eliza. We’d hoped to be able to help him.”

“It is untenable that there wasn’t a trial,” Portia said, taking the first trick.

“True, but he would have been convicted,” Amalia said. “It was only delaying the inevitable.”

“It doesn’t make it right, Mrs. Post,” Portia said.

“What brings you to Cheyenne, Helen?” Lily asked, trying to turn the conversation from death.

“I came with my sister.”

“Why?” Portia asked.

“Why?”

“Why did your sister come west?”

“I suppose she was looking for adventure. Something new. She had a friend who came out here and I think it motivated her to do the same.”

“Who?” Portia asked.

“My, aren’t you curious tonight, Portia,” Amalia said.

“We get so few women who move to Cheyenne,” Portia said. “Especially single women.”

I chuckled. “I assure you, Eliza isn’t here for a husband.”

“And you?” Portia asked.

“Nor am I.” I lifted my hand and showed my thin wedding ring. “Enough about me,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t quiz me about my husband, where he was, and why I wasn’t with him. “Tell me how you ended up in Cheyenne.”

“My husband owns one of the general stores in town,” Amalia said.

“Mrs. Post is being modest,” Portia said. “She’s as good at business as her husband.”

“Indeed?”

“I own some property,” Amalia said.

“Women can own property?” I said.

“You didn’t hear of it?” Portia asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “It was all over the papers last year.”

Not only did Portia not like me, she was suspicious. I sighed and decided the only way to deflect her curiosity was to dust off the flibbertigibbet personality that had been a somewhat successful disguise in Indian country.

I waved my hand in dismissal. “Oh, well. Who reads the papers? Such frightening stories. It brings me low, always has. And what man wants a serious wife? None that I’ve ever known.”

“You’ve had a lot of husbands?” Portia asked.

“No, dear, just the one.”

“Where is your husband?” Portia asked.

“In Europe on business. Which is why I have plenty of time to help my sister settle into her new home. The West is thrilling, don’t you think?” I pursed my lips at Portia. “Or are you not the excitable type? You strike me as very practical. Levelheaded. Today was the perfect example.” I included Amalia and Lily in the conversation with a glance. “She threw herself over my sister to protect her from the mob.”

Lily gasped. “You were there when the mob came in?”

“We were. My sister got a horrible gash on her head. Good thing I was a nurse in the war. Stitched it right up.”

“You,” Portia said.

“Yes, dear. I’m quite good at needlepoint. You have the most extraordinary eyes,” I said. “I was incredibly rude, staring at you as I did when we first met. I do hope you’ll forgive me?” I grasped her hand and gave her my best vacuous, pleading expression.

“Of course she will,” Lily said. “Portia is one of the sweetest women I know.”

“Indeed?” I said, not believing it for a second. “Now, Amalia. You were talking about women and property rights?”

“Yes, and we have the right to vote. I served on a jury last year, was the foreman,” Amalia said. “It was a murder case. Two murders, in fact.”

“Goodness! What happened?” I asked.

“Found guilty and hanged. So, you see, I have experience with capital trials. If a white man is hanged for murder, what else should a Negro who killed a white man expect?”

“I suppose he expected a fair trial, as the white man received,” I said.

Amalia ignored my comment. “There is no fun sitting on a jury where there is a murder case to be tried, but it’s a civic duty. If women want to be seen as equals, we cannot shirk our responsibility.”

“Or give the men any reason to take the right away,” I said.

“Oh, they’ve tried,” Lily said.

“Mrs. Post put a stop to it,” Portia replied. “Went straight to the governor.”

Amalia focused on her cards, but she did not blush or preen at the compliments. She took it like it was her due and nothing more. No need to simper away her accomplishments. I liked her immensely.

“My husband sells building supplies. Canvas tents, mostly,” Lily said.

“I always thought that would be a going concern in the West,” I said.

“It is,” Lily said. “He sells them the tent when they arrive, then the prefabricated building, then the tools to make repairs.”

The last round of cards was played and the tricks tallied. Amalia pulled the cards to her and shuffled. A waiter walked in and placed a tray of coffee, mugs, and small cakes on a table. “Thank you, Don.” Lily rose. “Who wants coffee?”

We all accepted. “Let me help,” I said.

While Lily poured, she asked, “How will you and your sister make a living?”

“Eliza is a painter,” I said. “Does either of your husbands have a sign painter he recommends to his customers?”

“There’s one in town, but he isn’t good and charges a fortune. Does she paint signs?” Amalia asked.

“She does.”

“That’s hardly an appropriate job for a woman,” Lily said. “Standing on ladders like they do.”

“I’m sure she would prefer to make a living painting portraits, but in a booming town like Cheyenne, signs are more practical.”

“Have her come talk to me at our store on Fifteenth Street,” Amalia said.

“I will.”

“She shouldn’t dismiss portraiture,” Portia said. “Cheyenne is the state capital. It is overrun with self-important men who want to leave their mark on the world.”

“Portia, that is ungenerous,” Lily said.

“But the truth. What about you, Helen?” Portia said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a midwife.”

The women laughed softly. “Not much call for a midwife in Cheyenne,” Amalia said.

At my perplexed expression, Lily clarified. “Men outnumber women by—what was it at the last census, Amalia?”

“Six to one.”

“Better hope your sister is a good painter,” Amalia said, pragmatically.

“Portia might be a patient soon enough,” Lily said with a sweet smile.

Portia’s face flushed.

“What is going on here!”

Rosemond stood in the door of the room, anger morphing to confusion. Her chest heaved in false indignation beneath the tasteful neckline of my dress. “Hello, Sissy,” I said, brightly. “We’re playing bridge, of course.”

“Oh, is this your sister?” Lily asked.

“Yes. Come in, Eliza. Pull up a chair and watch,” I said.

Rosemond came in hesitantly, her plan to cement her reputation as an upstanding citizen to a room full of men thwarted. I made the introductions. “Eliza Ryan, this is Lily Diamond and Amalia Post. And of course you met Portia Bright today.”

“Yes.” Rosemond’s voice was strained. “Good to see you again. And nice to meet you,” she said, taking in the other two.

“Don’t hover, Sissy. Pull up a chair.” Rosemond glared at me but pulled a chair over and set it between me and Portia.

“Did you have a nice rest?” I asked, voice sweet.

“Yes, I did. Thank you for not waking me.”

“It’s the least I could do. How do you feel?” I looked into Rosemond’s eyes and was happy to see they were steadier than earlier in the day.

“Is that your handiwork, Helen?” Amalia said, nodding toward Rosemond’s temple.

“It is.”

Amalia scrutinized my stitches. “Fine job.”

“Thank you.”

“Helen tells us you’re a painter, Eliza,” Amalia said. The conversation went over the same ground I’d just trod, allowing me to sit back, watch, and listen. Lily and Amalia drove the conversation, with Rosemond answering questions as if she were on the witness stand. For the first time since I’d known her, Rosemond was stiff and ill at ease. Maybe respectability was going to be more difficult for her to pull off than I thought.

When they got back around to my inability to contribute to our livelihood, I said, “I merely came to help my sister settle in. I don’t plan to stay.” Rosemond lifted her chin and studied me. I realized my mistake and kicked myself.

“Too bad, Portia. I suppose Doc Hankins will have to do for you,” Amalia said.

“A doctor? Are you ill?” Rosemond asked, pulling her gaze from me to the minister’s wife.

Portia shook her head, but wouldn’t look up. “No.”

“For the baby,” Lily said.

“You’re pregnant?” Rosemond asked.

The woman blushed again and shook her head. “No.”

“But soon,” Lily said, patting Portia’s hand.

Rosemond relaxed, sensing weakness and eager to pounce. “How long have you been married, Portia? May I call you Portia?”

Portia met Rosemond’s gaze. “Of course. I’ve been married six months.”

“A newlywed,” Rosemond said. “And not pregnant yet.”

“God will bless us in due time.”

“Indeed.” Rosemond turned to me. “You look peaked. I’m happy to take your place if you’d like to go rest.”

“Oh, thank you, Sissy.” We rose together and I took Rosemond in my arms and whispered, “Don’t alienate these women. You’ll need friends when I’m gone.”

Rosemond placed a lingering kiss on my cheek and held me at arm’s length. “I’ll be quiet when I return so as to not wake you.” She stroked my cheek in a very unsisterly way.

“Thank you.” I pulled away. “And thank you, ladies, for being so welcoming. I hope to see you again before I leave.”

“We’re here every Tuesday night,” Lily said.

“Are you?” Rosemond said, sitting in my place. “How fun.”

I left the room and with a pang of trepidation. Rosemond was coming into her own, and I wondered which of the women she would insult first. Amalia and Lily seemed oblivious to sarcasm, but I suspect Portia saw straight through me and Rosemond. If Rosemond felt threatened, the minister’s wife didn’t stand much of a chance. I almost felt sorry for her.