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“Mail for you, Mr. Newland.”
Spence took the envelopes from the mailroom clerk. “Thank you.”
The door to his office closed again as he shuffled through the correspondence. He dropped all on his desk but the letter from Chicago.
Gripping the communication, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the envelope in his hand. He tapped it against his palm several times, listening to the soft crinkle. Each tap shouted for him to open the letter.
The Newlands had done their best to build a store to mimic establishments like Marshall Field & Company in Chicago and R. H. Macy & Company in New York. Where most of those department stores operated in large cities with six or more floors of merchandise, his father had gambled and chosen to open their store in his hometown of twelve thousand people and settled for three floors of available merchandise.
Most of the family money had been inherited or came from other ventures—a variety of them. The store was just the latest. However, the recent financial decline had taken a large bite out of the Newland family’s wealth as they propped up the store’s losses. A silent partner would allow them to branch out into other forms of business.
Frank Woolworth had achieved success with his five-and-dime stores in the East. Surely the Newlands could do the same in the Midwest.
Spence continued to stare at the envelope. In his eagerness to prove himself physically and mentally strong enough to man the Newland helm, he had assured his father he would convince Lark to invest in their future.
What if he failed? What if Mr. Lark refused to take a chance on them?
Grow a backbone, Third. No one ever said succeeding in business was easy. You wanted to prove yourself, so do it.
A low growl rose in Spence’s throat. The words were his, but the voice in his head belonged to his grandfather.
Spence had come a long way since the day he’d overheard The First claim that Spence’s poor health would prevent him from ever running the Newland enterprises.
Over the years, he had grown that backbone and wouldn’t give in to doubt now. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out an expensive sheet of notepaper.
Dear Mr. Newland,
I received your lovely gift of the cigar box and want to express my appreciation for your thoughtfulness. I find it both commendable and remarkable that you would take the time from the busyness in your day to create something for me that was both artistic and functional.
My wife also brought me your proposal for the five-and-ten-cent stores. Although I believe in your idea...
Spence drew in a deep breath and braced himself to read what his mind already knew.
...it is with deep regret that I inform you that I am unable to agree to a silent partnership in your new enterprise. However, Juliet and I wish you and your family well in your endeavor to find the proper investor.
Yours truly,
Clifton Lark
Spence dropped the letter on his desk. Well, that was that.
He spun the chair and faced the window behind his desk. The gray sky and buildings across the street faded to a blur. This was just the latest problem to progress at a merry march through his mind.
After speaking to the warehouse manager, who expressed ample faith in the trustworthiness of his employees, Spence had sought out Eugene and veiled his questions in routine conversation. He came away convinced the man was either an accomplished liar, or he knew nothing about their missing stock. Finally, he and Gil spent hours going over the account books and paperwork, looking for clues that the merchandise had been received but mishandled. Nothing came to light.
Thinking of Eugene reminded Spence of Maura. On Saturday an employee had found her wandering around the fourth floor in search of her mother. Since then Spence had not forgotten their talk...or her wish for a father. Poor child.
More often, though, his thoughts ran to her mother. For months he hadn’t cared about her opinion of him. Sometime in the past few days, that had changed. Ridiculous when it was obvious Phoebe didn’t like him or, at the least, didn’t trust him.
Did these thoughts stem from Maura’s question about him marrying Phoebe and becoming her father?
He turned back to his desk and dropped his elbows on the paper-covered top, his hands clenched together. He couldn’t grant Maura her wish for a papa, but he easily could grant her another wish.
***
PHOEBE ENTERED NEWLAND’S, closed the wet umbrella, and wiped away drops that splashed on the tip of her nose. She preferred walking in snow to the bone-seeping dampness of a cold rain. Plus, the gray skies forecast snow, so it seemed she would experience both today.
Adding to her chill, the dollhouse Maura admired was no longer displayed in the front window. Had they sold it?
Her tense muscles relaxed at seeing they had moved it to a counter ahead of her. She still hadn’t earned the money to purchase the dollhouse, but she still had a chance.
God, please keep it available for me.
She listened but heard no confirmation that the dollhouse would remain unsold. Why had she expected one?
In a soggy flour sack, she carried three completed scarves for her Widow’s Might donation to the orphanage. She hoped the colors—bright blues, reds, and greens—would cheer the children who resided there.
Too often in the past five years, she had focused on her problems. It was nice to help better someone else’s life.
On the way to the elevator, she caught herself searching for The Third, a troublesome behavior that reared its head whenever she entered the store these days.
The elevator operator opened the gate and asked her for a floor number. “Three, please.”
After exiting the elevator, she stood in the midst of a department arranged to resemble a woman’s dressing room. Current fashions in dresses and shirtwaists draped mannequins and hung on hangers against walls papered in a neutral color to best flaunt the merchandise. Wardrobes with their doors thrown open exposed more choices. The latest styles of velvet and feathered hats tempted her to stop and pluck them from their stands to try on.
Toward the back of the floor, women’s undergarments filled display shelves and dressed more mannequins. She avoided a section with extravagant colorful, lacy corsets—once a weakness.
Someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned. Claire’s smile filled her surroundings with good cheer, and her pale hair shimmered like a yellow diamond. The woman brought sunshine to any room and had proven to be one of the store’s prized sales clerks. But Claire didn’t belong here.
Claire’s late husband, Richard Kingsley, had acknowledged his wife’s interest in the field of architecture and permitted her to work in his architectural office. Shamefully, upon his death two years ago, Richard’s partner made it clear that Claire was no longer welcome in the company.
For months the Widow’s Might women had prayed she would find employment with an architect who would give her the same respect her husband had given her.
Claire pointed to the sack. “The rest of them?”
Phoebe held out the scarves, but her friend waved them away. “It won’t do any good to give them to me. I’ve been asked to take part of Mary Dobson’s shift. She had an emergency and left the store. I’m afraid I’ll be here for hours yet.”
“Then who will deliver them?”
“I know the weather is awful, but Verbenia said she would pay for a hack if you would take them to the orphanage for us. The rest are in a crate in the employee salon, along with an envelope containing the fare.”
Since she had no lesson this afternoon, Phoebe said, “I’m already wet, so I might as well.”
“I’m due a short break. Would you like to go to the tea room?”
A small tea room located in a private third-floor corner invited weary customers to congregate and visit, rest and rejuvenate, then begin their shopping again. At one time, Phoebe would not have given a second thought to stopping at a restaurant or coffeehouse for refreshment. Those days had disappeared along with her marriage. “Perhaps another time.”
After saying goodbye to her friend, Phoebe returned to the employee salon. Quiet sobs greeted her at the door. A woman no older than Phoebe’s twenty-four years, and possibly younger, stood against the far wall, head down and shoulders quaking. She was dressed in the same dove-gray skirt and crisp white shirtwaist as Claire and all the other sales clerks working at Newland’s.
Phoebe pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to the distraught woman.
A frail smile tipped the clerk’s lips as she grasped the linen square and sniffled. “Thank you, ma’am. I-I couldn’t find m-mine.” The tears began in earnest again.
“Would you like to talk about what’s troubling you?”
The woman wiped the tears pooling under her eyes. “No. No, I couldn’t.”
Phoebe considered picking up the box she’d come for and leaving the woman in peace, but she sensed she was needed.
“I’m not normally weepy. I’m just so tired of how he treats me, you know?” The woman’s prominent chin quivered as she dabbed at bloodshot eyes in an effort to control herself.
“Who is he?”
“My husband.”
“He’s physically abusive?”
“No.” She rubbed a wrist covered by the sleeve of her blouse. “It’s the cruel things he says.”
Phoebe’s heart went out to the woman.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” Both women turned their attentions to the doorway, where Spence Newland stood.
The clerk stepped away. “No, sir.”
His gaze shifted to Phoebe. “I thought I heard your voice, Mrs. Crain. It isn’t Friday.”
“I’m here for the crate.” She pointed to the small table against the back wall.
His glance bounced between the two women, to the table, and back to Phoebe. Lines etched the area between his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s not my place to say.” Phoebe strode toward the table. “I’ll take what I came for and leave you two to speak in private.”
“Roslyn?”
When Phoebe turned around, he had blocked the doorway, spread his feet, and crossed his arms. Evidently, no one was leaving until he received an answer.
