13 

Your work is exquisite, Madame Charlotte.” Mrs. Slater, a tall woman with a waist so slender she hardly needed a corset, smiled as she admired the dark brown poplin dress that Charlotte planned to finish by the end of the week. It was the first Tuesday of the new year, and though Charlotte did not have many customers at this time of the year, Mrs. Slater was one of her best, ordering at least one new dress each month. Like Barrett, Mr. Slater had made his fortune in cattle, and he gave his wife a lavish clothing budget.

“Even Mr. Slater complimented me on my new Christmas gown,” the cattle baroness said, “and he never notices what I wear. Men.” She wrinkled her long nose. “Who can figure out what they’re thinking?”

“I’m glad you both liked the gown. Lemon yellow is particularly attractive on you.” Mrs. Slater had been surprised when Charlotte had pulled out the bolt of heavy satin, saying she’d ordered it specifically for her. “I don’t know anyone else in Cheyenne who could wear this shade,” she had explained, holding the fabric in front of the older woman so she could see how the light shade highlighted her dark hair.

“It wasn’t just Mr. Slater. I had a dozen women telling me they’d never seen such a pretty gown. You’re a genius, Madame Charlotte.”

“Hardly that.” If it was true as Mama had claimed that she had an eye for color, it was a gift.

“You should accept praise, my dear, when it’s deserved. And in this case, it is.” Mrs. Slater pursed her lips as she studied her reflection before smiling. “You were right again. The draped panel looks good over the pleated skirt. I’ll be the first lady in the city with a dress like this.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Charlotte suspected she was choosing her words carefully. “You’re wise, not like some people I could name. You know I don’t like to gossip, but . . .”

Charlotte tried not to sigh. If there was anything Mrs. Slater enjoyed more than being a trendsetter, it was gossip. Though Charlotte had tried to dissuade her from relating tales in the past, she had failed, and so today she didn’t even try. Instead, she busied herself pinning the hem so that she did not have to see the expression of contentment on her customer’s face as she recounted some juicy bit of news.

“I was shocked when I heard it,” Mrs. Slater said, “but it appears to be true. Mr. Landry seems to have lost whatever common sense he possessed.”

A shiver ran down Charlotte’s spine as she realized that Barrett might be paying a high price for having befriended her and the children on Christmas afternoon.

“The stories are very confusing.” Mrs. Slater needed no encouragement to continue. “All I know is that no engagement has been announced, and Miriam Taggert and her parents were seen driving with Mr. Eberhardt on Christmas Day when they should have been with Mr. Landry.”

Charlotte forbore pointing out that the Taggerts had been Barrett’s guests for Christmas dinner. If Mrs. Slater didn’t know that, Charlotte would not be the one to add that to her gossip bag.

“I tell you, Madame Charlotte, I never thought Mr. Landry was foolish,” Mrs. Slater continued. “I thought he’d be a good senator. Why, he’s so handsome, and his voice is so nice that I could listen to him talk for hours. But any man who lets a prize like Miriam slip away is foolish. Mark my words. He’ll see his political career slip away too, if he doesn’t marry her soon.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. The man needs a wife, and he won’t find a more suitable one than Miriam.”

Charlotte wasn’t certain of that. What she was certain of was that Wyoming needed a man like Barrett. She shook her head as she put the final pin in Mrs. Slater’s hem. Though others seemed willing to tackle tough issues and to fight for Wyoming’s rights, Barrett was the best advocate for sensible water laws Charlotte had seen. His explanations of the problems were easy to understand, even for men who lived in parts of the country that had never suffered from drought and where adequate supplies of water were taken for granted. More important, he did more than explain the problems. He provided concrete suggestions for how to solve them. That combination of oratorical eloquence and practical policy was unique to Barrett. If he withdrew from the race or if he lost, the real losers would be the citizens of Wyoming.

By the time she closed Élan, Charlotte was exhausted. Mrs. Slater had been followed by four other women. Though each of them had ordered a new dress, they had spent the majority of their time in the shop discussing Barrett and Miriam and the engagement that had not been announced. Charlotte’s head ached, her feet ached, even her fingernails ached. The year that she had believed to be so full of promise had not begun well. It was a day when she could hardly wait for spring to arrive. Surely by then Barrett and Miriam would have announced their betrothal and his political future would be assured.

Gwen was not suffering from the doldrums. Her face wreathed with a smile, she dished a fragrant beef stew into four bowls before she settled onto her chair. “It’s only January fourth, but I’m convinced this is going to be the best year ever,” she said as she buttered a piece of freshly baked bread. Charlotte had known that Gwen was happy, simply by the aromas that had greeted her when she entered the kitchen. A contented Gwen added more spices than normal to whatever she was cooking, making the whole apartment smell wonderful.

“Warren told me this would be the year my dreams would come true,” she continued, “and I believe him.”

Charlotte managed a smile. “I hope he’s right. You deserve everything good.” So did Barrett and Miriam. Most of all, so did David. While some might believe that the problems he faced were not as important as those looming over the territory, to Charlotte there was nothing more critical than assuring that her son had the prospect of a happy, productive future.

Once supper was over, David returned to what had become his favorite pastime, playing with the wooden animals Barrett had given him. Each time he would pick one up, he would run his fingers over the edges, as if learning the shapes, while Rose would recite the names. The pleasure that both children derived from the simple gift told Charlotte that Barrett understood children better than he admitted.

Unbidden, the memory of how he’d shown David the snow on top of the bush brought a genuine smile to Charlotte’s face. She was David’s mother. She spent her days trying to devise ways to teach him, but though she had introduced him to snow, she had not thought to demonstrate that snow fell on everything, not merely the ground. Barrett, a man with no children, not even any nieces or nephews, had done that. Ever since that day, when they’d gone outside, David had raised his arms and spread his hands as if he were searching for evidence of snow.

Barrett had recognized a need. Perhaps he had also recognized how little Charlotte knew about teaching the blind, and that was why he had given her the book.

“Oh, Gwen, I don’t know whether I can do this,” Charlotte said when the children had been put to bed.

“Do what?” Gwen looked up from the table runner she was embroidering while Charlotte studied the book.

“Teach David. There’s so much I don’t know.” Charlotte hated the whining tone of her voice. If only her head didn’t ache so much, the book might not seem so overwhelming. “I want David to be able to read, but if I’m going to teach him, I need to learn Braille.” She lifted her right hand and felt the pads of her fingers. “My fingertips have calluses from sewing. I wonder if I’ll be able to distinguish those dots. They’re so small.”

Gwen flashed her a smile. “You’ve got years to learn. I know that David’s unusually clever, but even he won’t be ready to read for four or five more years. By then you’ll be an expert. I know you will.”

Charlotte did not share her confidence. She was still troubled when she went to bed, her mind jumbled with thoughts of Barrett’s future and worries about her ability to help David. Somehow she had to find a way to give him everything he needed, and—God willing—that way would not involve sending him away.

Her gaze settled on her son, watching him as he slept, his arms tucked close to his chest, his legs splayed in a wide V. With his lips curving at the corners, David appeared at peace. If only Charlotte could share that tranquility. As she turned away, she recalled her father reciting one of his favorite Bible verses, and the words of Proverbs 16:9 echoed through her mind: “A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.” That was the answer. Papa was right. Charlotte had been so concerned about establishing her independence, about proving that she did not need to be coddled or protected, that she had forgotten the fundamental truth. She could deny it all she wanted, but she did need help. God’s help.

Help me, Lord, she prayed. I can’t do it all alone. I need you to guide my steps. She reached for the Bible on her nightstand, then shook her head. What she needed was her childhood Bible, the one she’d kept hidden since she’d reached Cheyenne. The words were the same, but the soft, slightly worn leather felt different in her hands, providing a tactile comfort that the newer one did not. The older one had been a gift from her parents on her eighth birthday, and if she opened it, she would see her name and birth date carefully inscribed inside it, followed by the other milestones of her life: her marriage, Jeffrey’s death, David’s birth. Perhaps it was because she had been thinking of Papa and remembering his wise counsel that the only book she wanted to hold was the one he and Mama had given her.

Removing it from its hiding place, Charlotte opened it randomly, searching for the Lord’s words. Her eyes landed on the forty-first chapter of Isaiah, the thirteenth verse. “For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”

She smiled as she looked down at her hands, her eyes focusing on the right one. Less than an hour ago, she had worried that that hand would be unable to read Braille. It was no coincidence that this was the first verse she had read. God had heard her worries, and he’d answered them. He would hold her hand. He would help her. That was all Charlotte needed.

Reluctantly, she placed the Bible back in the bottom drawer, covering it with clothing. As much as she wanted to use it daily, she could not risk Rose finding it and showing it to Gwen. She would wait until David’s second birthday. Surely by then the baron would have forgotten her. Then she and David would be safe.

“Oh, Charlotte, it’s lovely.” Miriam admired her reflection in the long mirror. “I never thought brown would look good on me.”

Charlotte smiled. “It’s russet, not brown.”

Fingering the lightweight wool, Miriam smiled again. “Only you would know the difference and which one I ought to wear. Mama would have insisted on blue again, but I wanted something less . . .” She hesitated, as if searching for a word. “Flamboyant,” she said at last. “I want to look nice when I’m at his side, but I want the attention to be on Barrett.”

Nodding, Charlotte handed Miriam the pair of gloves she had made to match the new dress. It appeared that Mrs. Slater and the other women were mistaken, for if there were any estrangement between Miriam and Barrett, Miriam would not be planning to be with him at the polls next week.

“Did you have a happy Christmas?” Miriam asked as she slid her hand into the gloves, smoothing each finger.

“Indeed, I did. This was the first year David understood opening gifts.” Charlotte smiled, remembering how excited her son had been by the wooden animals Barrett had given him.

“I heard that Mrs. Amos dined with Mr. Duncan at the InterOcean.”

Charlotte turned abruptly, startled by the odd note in Miriam’s voice. Surely she did not disapprove of Gwen having a special meal. “Yes, she did.”

“Mama was horrified, but you know Mama. She has a set of rules, and woe to anyone who dares to flout them.”

Charlotte knew she shouldn’t have been surprised that the story of Gwen’s dinner had spread or that Mrs. Taggert found something disagreeable about it, but she could not imagine what social convention Gwen had broken. “What bothered your mother?”

“His age.” Miriam pursed her lips as if she’d bitten into a sour lemon. “A woman should not marry a man old enough to be her father, especially here in Wyoming where there are a dozen men to every woman,” she announced, mimicking her mother.

“I don’t believe marriage has been mentioned, but even if they were considering it, I think a man’s character is far more important than his age.” And it was Warren’s character that worried Charlotte, not the fact that he was twenty years Gwen’s senior.

“That’s what I told Mama.” Color flooded Miriam’s cheeks. “She wouldn’t listen. She claims anyone who’s foolish enough to consider an older man is doomed to be a young widow.”

Though that was possible, it was by no means assured. Besides . . . “Gwen is already a widow, and her husband was only two years older.”

Miriam looked confused. A second later, she nodded. “You’re right. We were talking about Gwen.”

“I’m surprised you’re here.” Herb Webster clapped his hand on Barrett’s shoulder and motioned toward a less crowded corner of the courthouse. Though the older man held no official position within Barrett’s party, he was well known as one of the organization’s men behind the scenes. If he wanted to speak with someone, a man refused at his own peril.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” Barrett asked as they made their way through the lines of people waiting to vote. It was January 11, Election Day in the city of Cheyenne. “I agreed to help, because we all know some voters need encouragement as they enter the polls.”

Herb’s lips formed a crooked smile. “Most of the men who are providing what you refer to as encouragement are also trying to advance their own prospects.”

“I won’t deny that that’s part of the reason I volunteered to be here.”

Nodding slightly, Herb lowered his voice. “And that’s why I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d abandoned your hopes of running.”

“That’s a false rumor.”

“I’m glad to hear that. The party needs you, and so does the territory. We’ve got to get past this stage of having the president decide who’ll govern us.”

“You don’t like Moonlight?” It had been less than a week since President Cleveland had appointed Thomas Moonlight as territorial governor.

Herb shrugged. “I don’t know enough about him to say. He may be a fine man, but he’s from Kansas. The citizens of Wyoming deserve a governor who lives here.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that.” While he’d been greeting voters, discussing issues with them and promoting his party’s candidates, Barrett had also been stressing the importance of Wyoming’s becoming a state. Like Herb and many of the politicians, he believed that self-government was essential.

“Where’s Miriam?” Warren clapped Barrett on the shoulder and led him away from Herb. “I thought she was supposed to be with you today.”

“She’ll come.” In the two and a half weeks since Christmas, Barrett had seen Miriam three times. They’d attended a New Year’s party at a friend’s house, they’d gone for a ride in Minnehaha Park so that Miriam could admire the frozen lagoons, and they’d attended a play last night. Each time, Miriam had mentioned that she would be at Barrett’s side on Election Day. She’d even said that she was having a new dress made for the occasion. She would be here.

“There she is.” Barrett gestured toward Miriam, who stood in the doorway, her smile radiant, her hand on Richard’s arm. As her gaze met Barrett’s, she nodded and headed toward him, never letting go of Richard.

“You look lovely today,” Barrett said when she reached him. It was no lie. The reddish brown dress made her hair seem as bright as sunshine, and the smile she’d been wearing when she entered the room set her face aglow. Barrett had never seen her looking more beautiful. While Warren engaged Richard in a discussion of the various candidates’ chances, Barrett kept his attention focused on Miriam. “You and Richard appeared deep in conversation when you arrived.” Though she’d been smiling, her animated expression had left no doubt that she had been engaged in something that touched her emotions.

Miriam’s smile widened. “We were talking about ‘The Raven.’ Richard doesn’t agree with me that there are several layers of meaning to it.”

“I’d have to agree with him. How much meaning can a bird have?”

“Oh, Barrett.” He could see that Miriam was trying not to laugh. “You may be the territory’s best hope for sensible government, but your knowledge of literature is sadly lacking. ‘The Raven’ is a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”

A poem. No wonder he was confused. The only book Barrett had thought about in the past month was the one he’d given Charlotte, and that one had assumed almost monumental importance. He’d spent far too much time worrying whether it would help her learn the specialized techniques that were needed to teach David. He’d worried about why the child wouldn’t roll his ball unless Barrett was there and what that might mean for his future. Most of all, he’d worried about David growing up without a father. That was far more important than poetry.

“I’m going next door,” Charlotte told Molly as she snipped the last thread and pulled the fabric from the sewing machine. “I shouldn’t be long, but if someone comes, you can offer them coffee or tea and a few cookies while they look at the new pattern books.” Though she never ate or drank while sewing, Charlotte kept pots of tea and coffee for customers. Some days, like today, when she also had freshly baked cookies, the shop was redolent with delicious aromas.

A perplexed expression crossed Molly’s face. “Now? You’re going now?”

Charlotte nodded. It was no wonder that her assistant was confused. Charlotte had a firm schedule, and it was rare for her to deviate from it. She wouldn’t be leaving now, for there was still work to be done on Mrs. Slater’s new dress, but Charlotte couldn’t ignore the feeling that she ought to check on Mr. Yates immediately. Normally, she stopped in at the end of the day, making excuses because she knew the elderly man would protest if she admitted that the reason she visited his shop was to provide him with a bit of companionship. He’d seemed sadder than normal since Christmas, though he’d denied that anything was wrong other than missing Prudence and wanting to move to Arizona.

Charlotte could find no reason for her feeling of urgency, but her instincts told her this was the time to visit Mr. Yates, and so she hung the partially finished dress on a hook, tossed her cloak over her shoulders, and headed for the door. Though she would occasionally dash next door without a coat, yesterday’s snow and the continuing bitter cold made that impractical today.

“Good morning, Mr. Yates,” Charlotte called as she entered the mercantile, a covered plate in her hand.

“Ah, Madame Charlotte. It’s good to see you.” To Charlotte’s relief, her neighbor seemed more cheerful than he’d been yesterday. Perhaps that was because she’d come during the morning today. Perhaps Mr. Yates was a person who dreaded sunset. She had heard that some people, particularly the elderly, were afflicted with that malady.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward on the counter. “More socks for David?”

Charlotte laughed. “You know he doesn’t need any.” Mr. Yates had given him half a dozen pairs for Christmas. “I thought you might enjoy some of Gwen’s cookies.” She removed the covering before handing him the plate.

As the scent of gingerbread filled the room, a broad smile crossed the shopkeeper’s face. “My favorite. Thank you, but do you mind if I share them with someone?”

“Of course not. They’re yours.”

Charlotte took another step toward the counter, intending to cover the plate again, but to her surprise, Mr. Yates called out, “Mrs. Cox, would you and Nancy like a cookie?”

Charlotte spun around, startled by the realization that there were other customers in the store. She had neither seen nor heard anyone. The reason for the first was evident as a woman emerged from behind the counter stacked with table linens. Less than five feet tall, the tiny blonde who was carrying a child had been hidden by the display.

“Thank you, Mr. Yates. We’d enjoy that.” Her voice was soft, almost tentative, as if she were afraid of drawing attention to herself. Perhaps that was why Charlotte had heard no sounds. Mrs. Cox settled the little girl on the counter and turned toward Charlotte, a question in her eyes.

Before Charlotte could speak, Mr. Yates performed the introductions. “Mrs. Cox, I’d like you to meet Madame Charlotte. Her shop is next door. Madame Charlotte, this is Mrs. Cox, one of my best customers, and her daughter Nancy.”

Charlotte tried not to stare at the little girl with the clouded, unfocused eyes. Instead, she smiled at the mother, a woman Charlotte guessed to be in her midthirties.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Cox said in response to Charlotte’s smile. “I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve seen the wonderful work you do.” Her smile faded slightly. “I’d like to own one of your dresses, but it’s difficult to find time for fittings. Nancy occupies almost every hour of my days, and I know you’re not open past her bedtime.” She kept her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, perhaps to reassure her, perhaps to keep her from falling.

“You could bring Nancy with you.”

The woman shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I always hold her when we’re in a store, but I couldn’t do that if you were fitting a dress. You see . . .”

“Yes, I see.” Charlotte couldn’t ignore the irony in the words. She and Mrs. Cox might see, but Nancy could not. Like David, she was blind.

“Cookie,” the little girl said.

Charlotte watched as Mrs. Cox handed her daughter a gingerbread man. Though David was adept at breaking them into smaller pieces and eating the morsels one at a time, Nancy tried to stuff the entire cookie into her mouth at once, with the inevitable result that pieces fell out and onto the floor.

“I’m afraid she’s not a very neat eater.”

“That’s not a problem.” Mr. Yates’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I’ll get a broom.” He headed toward the back room, leaving Charlotte alone with his customer.

She looked at the little girl who was obviously enjoying her treat, even though half of it was on the floor. Small and thin like her mother, the child appeared to be older than David, though her eating skills were less developed.

“How old is she?”

Mrs. Cox’s expression said she understood Charlotte’s unspoken concerns. “Nancy will be two next week. That’s why I was shopping today. I wanted to buy a new dress for her birthday. I had hoped she’d be walking by now, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Have you tried having her hold on to a doll carriage?” Barrett’s book had suggested that technique for encouraging children to walk. Though he still wasn’t walking independently, David seemed to be gaining confidence from holding on to Rose’s little carriage.

“I haven’t.” Mrs. Cox’s light blue eyes clouded with confusion. “How . . . ? Why . . . ?” She seemed unable to complete her questions.

“How do I know about using a perambulator?” When Mrs. Cox nodded, Charlotte said simply, “My son is blind.”

To Charlotte’s surprise, Mrs. Cox smiled. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.” As soon as the words were spoken, the woman flushed, and her smile disappeared. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t misunderstand me, Madame Charlotte. I’m not happy that your son cannot see, but I am happy that I’m not alone. It’s been so difficult.” She picked up another cookie, this time breaking off a bite-sized piece to hand to Nancy. “I love my daughter dearly, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to do, and there’s been no one to ask. I’ve met several mothers whose children are hard of hearing, but none who are blind.”

Mrs. Cox stretched out her hand and touched Charlotte’s arm. “Oh, Madame Charlotte, I’m so glad you were here today.”