Roma, Texas, 1897
Salt residue marked the trail of Blanche Lamar’s tears down the front of her black twill suit. “At least I didn’t need to buy new clothes for the funeral.” A hiccup interrupted her sobs.
Dipping a washcloth in a basin of cool water, she blotted away the evidence of tears from her face and dress. She raised her face to look in the mirror. Mama always said that a lady should present a neat appearance, no matter what.
Hollow brown eyes stared out of her pale face, whiter than usual beneath her always bright auburn hair. Her black hat would cover the chignon, hiding the riot of color that had irritated Mama so.
“Oh Mama.” Blanche rubbed her eyes, but nothing stemmed the flood of tears.
A gentle knock fell on the door, and Mrs. Davenport, the pastor’s wife, slipped in. “It’s time.” Clucking, she put her arms around Blanche’s shoulders. Mama would be mortified by Blanche’s puffy eyes. She sniffed the tears… and grief… inside.
“Take this, dear.” Mrs. Davenport handed her a lace-edged handkerchief. “Are you ready?”
Nodding, Blanche followed her down the hall to the sanctuary. If only she had some other family member to accompany her—a father, brother, sister, aunt, grandparent—but she and Mama had been a tight family of two. Did one person constitute a family? I’m alone. Reverend Davenport and his wife were kind, but they couldn’t tuck her in at night or tell her stories about the past. Tell her about the father Blanche had never known and now never would.
Organ music streamed through the open door of the sanctuary. “Rock of Ages.” Mama loved that hymn. Blanche bit on her bottom lip against renewed tears.
“There’s a good turnout. People admired your mother. You’re not alone.” Mrs. Davenport gestured at the sanctuary, three-quarters full of people, men and women, dressed in the same somber black as Blanche.
Except for one blot of color. A lone man, his hair nearly as red as her own, sat by himself on the back pew. His dove-gray suit glowed in the sea of black that made up the congregation. She searched her memory but couldn’t place him. What was a stranger doing at her mother’s funeral?
Pushing the man to the back of her mind, she took a seat on the front pew. After Mrs. Davenport sat beside her, her husband began his remarks.
Blanche struggled to pay attention to the pastor’s words of comfort, about the promise of eternal life, his words of praise for her mother’s good works among widows and orphans. Mrs. Davenport sang “The Old Rugged Cross,” another one of Mama’s favorite hymns.
At the end of the service, the pastor motioned Blanche forward. She forced herself to look down into her mother’s face, prematurely white hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing her favorite mauve silk dress, Bible placed between her hands. The mortician’s blush on her cheeks looked unnatural. Mama didn’t approve of cosmetics of any kind.
“Are you ready? Come, let’s go,” Mrs. Davenport whispered in her ear. At Blanche’s nod, she cupped her elbow and led her to the church’s fellowship hall. The scents of ham, beans, and potato salad greeted them, cloying her nose.
A long line of deacons and church matrons filed past Blanche, each one with a kind word to share about her mother. Their comments fell into a predictable pattern. With every repetition of “she’s in a better place now,” a silent scream built in Blanche’s throat.
What would Mama make of the mansion God had prepared for her? She might insist it was much too fancy, that she only needed a room or two. God would have to change her mind; no one else had ever been able to.
No one acknowledged Blanche’s pain, an almost physical ache. Not that she wished her mother back, not now that she had entered a place of peace and joy. No, Blanche’s grief was for herself, her loneliness, and her final loss of any ties to her past.
Ruth Fairfax, Mama’s best friend, came toward the end of the line. “You know you have a home with me, as long as you need it.”
Blanche’s heart swelled, and once again she blinked back tears. “Thank you, Ruth.”
“I’ll wait until you are ready to leave, so I can take you home.”
“I appreciate that.” Truth was, Blanche didn’t know what the future held for her. Mama left a little money, enough to keep her going for a few weeks, but not much more.
The man in the dove-gray suit came last in line. Upon a closer inspection, Blanche confirmed her first impression that she had never seen him before. What a dandy, with his three-piece suit, stiff collar and shirt studs, and curling mustache. What this man was doing at her mother’s funeral, she couldn’t guess.
Despite his fancy suit, the man’s features settled in somber lines, his blue eyes solemn and serious. “Miss Lamar, I know we haven’t met before, but first let me express my condolences on the loss of your mother.”
“Umm… thank you.” The appearance of this stranger troubled her in ways no one should have to endure at her mother’s funeral.
“I know this must be a difficult time for you, but if I could have a few words with you in private either today or tomorrow, I would be most appreciative. Whatever time is convenient for you.”
Blanche blinked. “I’m not in the habit of meeting gentlemen alone.” She heard the asperity in her tone and chided herself for it.
“Of course not. But… away from all these people. Perhaps with the pastor?” The solid muscles beneath the well-fitting suit testified to his familiarity with getting his own way. Perhaps he was an attorney of some kind, with news of an unexpected will dispersing Mama’s few worldly goods?
Blanche’s pulse raced as another possibility occurred to her. Perhaps he knew something about her father. Perhaps Mama had broken her silence from the grave and arranged for the truth to be revealed in the event of her death. Her heart sped. “Tomorrow, here, at the same time?”
“I’ll be here. Oh, and my name is Ike Gallagher.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a card. Ike Gallagher, purser, Lamar Industries, Ltd.
Lamar Industries. Blanche’s hopes rose another notch.
Ike Gallagher gazed across the church hall, filled with well-meaning people and tables laden with food. From his spot at the door, he had sensed at least half a dozen glances flick over him and dismiss him as not their kind.
Give them the benefit of the doubt, Captain Lamar had urged him. They mean well. Even if they only wanted to protect young Miss Lamar, why didn’t they practice the love Christ preached? He’d rather grab a bite to eat at the saloon down the street.
Thinking of Blanche Lamar, he couldn’t believe that straitlaced woman could be the offspring of Captain J.O. Lamar. Until last week, when the captain had pointed out the obituary of Cordelia Lamar, Ike didn’t even know the captain had ever married. In the ten years Ike had known him, he had never mentioned one word about family.
The captain flirted with female passengers but never entertained any serious relationships. Ike attributed that to the captain’s desire to avoid attachments—one of the ways they were alike.
The captain never would have revealed his secret, if not for the death of his wife. “Cordelia and me, we knew pretty quick that we weren’t suited to each other. I didn’t discover the news about the baby until after I had gone back to the River. And when I sent her money, she said she wouldn’t accept money from me if she had to beg on the streets. I respected her wishes and stayed away. But now that she’s gone… my girl. She’s all alone in the world. I’ve got to be sure she’s provided for.”
After the study he’d made of Miss Blanche Marie Lamar during the funeral, Ike suspected she wouldn’t be any more agreeable to Lamar’s lifestyle than her mother had been all those years ago. The young lady might have only lived nineteen years, from what the captain had told Ike, but she dressed like an old maid already. He doubted she would agree to the offer he would make on behalf of the captain.
But then again… there was the set of her features, the flash in her eyes, the tilt to her chin when she’d challenged him about meeting men alone. Oh, he’d seen that tilt before, many times—when the captain wanted to make a point. Blanche Lamar might follow the rules, but she knew how to fight for what she wanted. For the sake of the captain, he would make his best effort to carry out his wishes.
Whistling, Ike flipped a coin. Heads, he’d go to the saloon. Tails, he’d go back to the hotel for the evening. Performing somersaults in the air, the quarter landed tails-up. He’d see what action he could find at the hotel. He was good at ferreting it out.
After all, Captain Lamar would expect no less.
Ike headed straight for the bar until the bartender had chased him and his companions out shortly after midnight. A few hands in Ike’s suite turned into an all-night affair, leaving him about a hundred dollars richer. Pale streaks of gray relieved the black sky when the last of Ike’s guests left his room. He hefted the bag of coins and cash in his hand. No matter what Miss Blanche Lamar had to say later today, he’d had a successful trip.
A quick glance at the bedside clock reminded him that only four hours remained until his meeting with Miss Lamar. He would sleep while he could, he decided. After stripping down, he stretched out on top of the sheets, set his mind to wake up in a couple of hours, and closed his eyes.
When he awoke, he put on a fresh shirt—this one deep blue with mother-of-pearl studs. He reached for a red bow tie but decided against it. After all, they were meeting at a church; he should show proper restraint. Comb and pomade restored his hair to its usual perfection. Tugging on the lapels of his suit, he grinned at his image. Blanche Lamar didn’t stand a chance against his charm.
Whistling “Oh Promise Me,” he ventured down the stairs and into the bright sunshine of a summer day. With money in his pocket, time away from the river, and a pretty girl to see, he looked forward to the day. Even with her dull mourning clothes and grief-stricken face, the captain’s daughter couldn’t hide her beauty or the sparks that flew from her fiery hair.
Pausing by the hotel’s dining room, Ike inhaled the aromas coming from the kitchen. He resisted the temptation to stop for a few minutes; Blanche didn’t look like the kind of person who would take tardiness lightly. If he didn’t show up at the church on time, she might decide he wasn’t coming and disappear.
If that happened, he’d never hear the end of it. Thinking of that, he hastened his steps for Christ the King Church. Even when quiet and empty, the sanctuary didn’t feel deserted. The air hummed with expectancy. God’s house—the house where God dwells. A shiver ran down Ike’s arms. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but he didn’t like to think of God looking over his shoulder at some of the mischief he got into. Goose bumps raced up his arms, and he shook himself. Put the same furnishings of plush pews and stained glass in a different setting, and he’d think theater. No need to get the whim-whams.
Shoes scuffled on the polished floor, and Ike turned to watch the approach of Blanche with the pastor. She wore the same somber black suit as at the funeral; maybe she was one of those people who thought she needed to adhere to strict rules of mourning. If anything, she looked paler than she had the previous day.
“Mr. Gallagher, I presume?” Reverend Davenport extended a hand.
Ike nodded.
“Let’s retire to my study.” The man, so thin he could almost have served as a model for Ichabod Crane, led the way to a room with two hardwood chairs in front of a walnut desk, surrounded by an ocean of musty-smelling books. Give Ike his purser’s quarters any day, with sextant and telescope and logs… freedom this room didn’t even afford a glimpse.
Two hard-backed chairs sat in front of a fearsome desk; no one would stay here long. The setting neither inspired confidence nor invited intimacy—something he excelled at creating, even in the dullest of back parlors. He reminded himself that this errand wasn’t about him but about the captain’s wishes.
He smiled to turn on the charm. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
Blanche reached into her reticule and pulled out the ivory calling card he had left with her yesterday. “This says you’re from Lamar Industries. Did my… father… send you?”