Waltz with the Lady Page 7

  The gambler paled, knowing the women had bested him. He could not turn over the card to show the face of another six. Instead he quickly picked up his cards and shuffled them back into his deck. Needing the bracing influence of liquor, he took a whiskey-filled silver flagon out of his coat pocket. “Another round, ma’am?” This offer wasn’t enthusiastic.

  Before India could answer, Gat Ransom had moved to her side and had taken her arm in his. “I’m sorry, but the lady’s stop is comin’ up. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.” He pulled her to her feet and navigated her through the admiring faces and down the aisle as the train slowed.

  “Mr. Ransom, I was not quite finished with the game,” she protested quietly while he guided her along.

  “Take my advice. Quit while you’re ahead. Besides, your beginner’s luck was bound to run out.”

  “Beginner’s luck had nothing to do with it.” She stopped short with indignant air. “No matter what you may think. I am a college-educated woman and I am not as naive as you think.”

  Ransom muttered under his breath. “Thank heaven for small mercies. Come on, ma’am. Let’s get off before that gambler and his partner decide they want their money back.”

  “One moment, sir.” India picked up her guidebook. She split the roll of bills in her hand and put half in her handbag and looked over her shoulder at the immigrant family. Her eyes met the young woman’s and she reached an admiring hand to touch the baby’s face and deftly tucked the roll of money in the swaddling shawl. “Good luck.” She smiled, kissed the apple-red cheek of the golden-haired child and turned to follow Ransom out the railway car.

  Chapter 6

  The whistle echoed and the Union Pacific journeyed westward into the night. Bathed in moonlight, the towering sandstone buttes surrounding Green River station looked like battle-eroded ruins of ancient fortresses. Above the crumbling peaks, from one horizon to the next, stars spread out in a tapestry of constellations. India stood on the platform in what was no doubt a lawless railway town. Here they were, in the middle of the night, without bed or board. A fine escort he is! she thought mutinously. Barring Indians and outlaws, she would have done better on her own after all.

  Feeling abandoned in a wild, eerie land, she shivered against the nip of the night air, and looked at Ransom reproachfully. Maybe he read the message of reproach in her eyes, maybe he didn’t. Shaking out the blanket he took the liberty of wrapping it around India and in a gesture of gentle consolation, as if to say, “everything will be fine,” his large hands briefly rested on the curve of her shoulders. A shiver of a different sort trembled through her, and despite her own ill humor, India no longer felt abandoned. In truth, her regard for him rose a notch and she began to understand why Will Noble chose this recalcitrant but self-reliant man to escort her.

  In an agreeable voice he broke the silence. “I guess we’ll need a place to bed down.”

  Losing some of her combativeness India said, “I should confess at the beginning that I will not suffer filth. I would sooner not sleep than lie in a bug-infested bed.”

  Gat pushed his hat back and scratched his temple as if he would be hard pressed to find a place clean enough to meet her high standards. “Well, the cleanest place in town is a”—Gat cleared his throat slightly—“a ladies’ boardinghouse. This late at night we’ll have to walk, but it isn’t far.”

  “You lead, me follow, O scout-of-many-trails,” India replied, too exhausted to be anything but obedient. Gat gave a half laugh and shook his head. In the darkness, wrapped in the red-and-black-striped wool blanket, she might have been mistaken for an Indian if it weren’t for that ungainly puff of bustle and skirts around her hips.

  “Where did you pick up that line?” he asked as he put his hand on her elbow to help her down off the rail depot platform to the street.

  “A dime novel,” she replied. “All the young ladies at finishing school read them.”

  “I’m not surprised. But let me tell you now, Miss India Simms, life out here is a lot different than in dime novels.”

  “I already know that.”

  “Let’s hope you do, ma’am,” he replied rather doubtfully. He gave Coyote a whistled command to follow them down the street. “I’ll try and make our travels together as easy on you as possible. We’ll stay here in Green River tonight and then set out for South Pass in the morning. I’ll get supplies at the mercantile. You can put anything you need on a list for me. I’m trusting you to be sensible about it. We won’t have much room, unless you want to take along an extra pack animal for that damn ball dress.”

  India drew up defensively, “Might I point out, Mr. Ransom, it isn’t my fault I’m out in the wilds of Wyoming in a ball gown.”

  Ignoring her remark, he asked, “I suppose you can sit a horse?”

  She prickled at his tone. “We have horses in the East too.” She omitted telling him she’d never ridden one. Now, she knew out of necessity she would have to learn. She was confident that after a few days in the saddle, if she put her mind to it, she would be an expert.

  The lamps along the street were few and far between. India felt uneasy walking past saloons still bright with late night activity. Plenty of loungers hung around the doorways. Glittering-eyed Mexicans, savage-looking miners, high-booted and shaggy-haired roughs, and an occasional boy in blue from nearby Fort Bridger—all watched them narrowly as they walked by. India wondered why the boardinghouse was not more convenient to the center of town.

  Once, Ransom lifted her into his arms and carried her over a mud hole spanning the width of the street. She had no choice but to wrap her arms about his shoulders. She thanked him politely, but he returned with a curt, “It’s my job, ma’am.”

  His reply bothered her almost as much as his nearness. She didn’t want him to look upon her as a burden. If he showed her a courtesy she hoped he was doing it out of genuine respect, not because he was being paid for it. Maybe she was expecting too much. Their arrangement had gotten off on the wrong foot and now she wanted to make amends. If they were to be traveling companions, she wanted their relationship to be amicable, not strained.

  When at last they arrived at the boardinghouse, India was surprised at its stylish appearance. A gingerbread-trim veranda circled the front of a twin-turreted frame building. Across the porch hung a neatly scrolled sign, Contessa’s Boardinghouse For Young Ladies. As they moved up the stairs, India thought it a bid odd that all the windows radiated lamplight so late at night, and that so many horses were tied to the hitching posts outside. When Gat pulled the door ringer—a gadget she hadn’t seen since leaving home—a white-aproned, black-smocked, almond-eyed Oriental girl opened the door. India’s attention quickly shifted to the entryway within.

  “You come in, please,” bowed the girl. Her eyes did not lower with the bow, but rested on India curiously. “Will you tell Contessa Gat Ransom would like to see her?” Ransom took off his hat and hung it on the nearby hat rack. India noted it was filled with a variety of other hats, all men’s.

  The little maid glided over to one of the sets of sliding wood-paneled doors that exited off the entryway, and slipped through. A whiff of tobacco smoke drifted past India’s nose and she heard male voices filter out from the room. Waiting silently, she curiously studied a relief of painted cattails on the wall in front of her and marveled at the thickness of an oriental rug covering the polished wood floor. Her eyes went up the narrow, walnut-banistered staircase which led to the second level. Just as she turned to remark to Ransom on the quality of the furnishings, a handsome, curvaceous woman opened a paneled door and stepped into the entryway.

  “Why, Gatlin,” she began with a soft-lipped grin. “I’ve never had anyone bring a young lady of their own before!” She picked up the train of an elegant, mauve silk dress and moved over to give Ransom a warm embrace.

  At that very moment the picture cleared for India and she realized this was a young ladies’ boardinghouse of sorts, but not the sort she wanted to stay in. How dare he bring
her to a place like this! She felt exhausted, rumpled and dirty, and the only thing that was holding her together was her corset, and it dug into her left hipbone.

  “Contessa, I’d like to present Miss Simms,” Gat began, ignoring India’s wide-eyed glare. “We’ve come in on the late train and I wondered if you could put us up for the night.”

  Contessa gave India the once over. “Well, she certainly is dressed for it.” India realized with chagrin that her own dress was more brazen than the high-necked, laced-inset silk of Contessa’s. She was of India’s own height and hair coloring and her movements were marked by grace and refinement.

  Flustered, India remained silent. She didn’t trust herself to speak, for whatever could she say that wouldn’t border on rudeness?

  “I’m escorting Miss Simms through the territory. She is on a speaking tour for woman suffrage,” Gat said.

  “A suffragette. My goodness, Gatlin, you are certainly improving the company you keep.” She moved toward India and slipped her arm inside India’s. “Come along, you will be my honored guest. I’m a firm supporter of the vote for women. In fact, the motto of your Victoria Woodhull is my own: ‘women must be free to vote, free to work and free to love.’”

  The “free to love” unnerved India. Of course, the radical Victoria Woodhull’s philosophy advocating free love was not her own. Despite this, India remained in awe at finding a woman who knew something about suffrage. Distracted by this she slowly relaxed her moral indignation and warmed to Contessa’s animated welcome.

  “In the morning, after business hours, I’ll have you address my girls. Now, I’ll show you where you can wash up and sleep.” She turned to Ransom. A warm invitation glowed from her brown eyes. “Gatlin, please feel welcome in the dining room.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  India saw he needed no direction to the door which led into the dining room. Her own curiosity caused her to crane her neck through the opening, but she saw only a sideboard filled with silver warming pans and a long, linen-spread dining table. The scenes of depravity which she expected to discover inside such a house were nowhere evident.

  “Tell me, Miss Simms, what has prompted you to undertake the crusade of women’s suffrage in Wyoming of all places?” She led India through a door and up a back stairway.

  “Ah…a…” A rare occasion, but India was momentarily at a loss for words. “It seems there are some who feel if women had the vote, the territory would attract more settlement.” She heard the clank of pans and dishes coming from the kitchen.

  They passed down a hall and Contessa paused in front of a closed door, took out a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked it. “I’d like you to use my own private room.”

  “Oh, but you are too kind,” India began to protest. “I really don’t want to cause any inconvenience.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re my guest. It is rare to find a woman of my own philosophies. I suppose that’s why Gatlin brought you here. He knew we would get along famously.”

  India followed her through the door and into an extravagantly decorated bedchamber. She had never seen anything quite like it in the West. A canopied bed draped with handworked lace curtains and covered with a soft, rose, silken spread was the room’s focal point. India quickly averted her eyes from the bed and looked at the rose-papered walls. Paintings, not of scantily draped women in lewd poses but of pastoral scenes of sheep grazing in green valleys and wild fowl in flight at sunset, hung tastefully on the walls. A nickel-plated parlor stove stood in one corner, filling the room with radiating warmth.

  “Feel free to use anything you need.” Contessa went to a carved pine wardrobe, opened it, took out a lace-beribboned dressing gown of the same rosy hues of the room, and laid it upon a brocade love seat. “I’ll send one of the girls up with hot water if you’d like to wash.”

  “Thank you so much, Contessa.” The name felt awkward on her lips. And, as if a scarlet letter would suddenly emblazon itself on Contessa’s bosom, India watched her sweep up the lace train and leave the room.

  “Until the morning,” she smiled, and closed the door behind her, the scent of expensive perfume hovering in the room.

  Continuing to avoid looking at the bed, India turned in a slow circle and inspected the room more closely. A beautiful, glass-orbed, brass lamp sat upon a nightstand, illuminating the room with a soft, glowing light. Hand-painted bouquets of roses fanned the panels of a dressing screen, the room’s one concession to privacy. A large rolltop desk, filled with ledgers and neatly stacked papers, sat against one wall next to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. She stepped closer to examine the books, finding Gibbons’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Plutarch’s Lives. How curious to make such discoveries in a Wyoming brothel! Indeed, she and Contessa had more in common than she might imagine.

  She turned away, remembering the list of necessities Ransom had asked her for. At the desk, she took the pen from the inkwell, and on a sheet of paper began to make her list: traveling dress and bonnet, soap, hairbrush. She assumed Ransom would provide the food and other supplies. Her personal needs were few. Lastly, she wrote down “one ledger with ink and pen.” She intended on circulating a petition wherever she went, and presenting its signatures to the governor at the conclusion of her tour.

  She returned the pen to the inkwell, noting the neatness of the desk and the accounting ledgers. Contessa apparently was a good woman of business. Certainly the furnished elegance of her “boardinghouse” attested to this fact. Putting prejudices aside, India admitted there were few legitimate businesses in which a woman could become successful and self-supporting. Perhaps if women had the vote and the right to own property they would not be forced into such occupations. Eventually, many left the profession through marriage, but unfortunately, too many others left by morphine overdose. What woman would choose a life of prostitution if she had other options?

  A knock at the door drew India’s attention. “Please come in,” she called. The door opened and a youthful blond girl carried a large cast-iron kettle of hot water. She crossed the room and sat it on top of the parlor stove.

  “Contessa asked me to bring you some hot water. I’m Lady Jane.” She offered a friendly smile, and then promptly sneezed. “Oh, excuse me, I—” She sneezed again. “I have a fearsome cold. I’ve been excused from work for the evening.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Lady Jane. I’m India Simms.” She smiled with unease to the bathrobed girl.

  “Contessa said I was to help you with anything you needed.” She blew her nose into a cotton hankie.

  “How very kind of you, but I think I can manage,” India returned.

  “You sure I can’t help undo your lacings or something?” The girl’s voice had the ring of cockney English.

  “Why, if you’d like,” agreed India, warming to the girl. “I could use help with my gown.”

  “Oh, it’s a pretty one.” Lady Jane stepped behind India and began unlacing. Soon India stepped out of the hoop and petticoats.

  “Are you from England, Lady Jane?” With hands on her hips, India steadied herself while the girl’s fingers worked at the tedious lacings of her corset.

  “How did you guess?” Lady Jane laughed. “I was born there, but me and me mother emigrated. You see, me father was a wealthy lord of the realm, and me mother was a housemaid. So you see, I have a claim to gentry. Me and Contessa.” She laughed again.

  “Well, I think the name ‘Lady Jane’ is lovely.” India slipped out of her corset with a deep sigh of release, glad to be free of it. She stood in her camisole and cream silk pantalettes.

  “Well, it’s good for business. Before I came to Contessa’s, I called meself Red Stockings. She suggested I change me name to Lady Jane. The men are more polite when they think I’m a genteel lady come on hard times. I guess if I marry I’ll have to change me name again.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied India. “By keeping your own name you have some measure of independence from your husband. It’s ve
ry popular in the East among high-minded women to add their husband’s name onto their own.”

  Lady Jane began to giggle. “I’d never find a man who’d marry me if I held such a notion. ‘Folks,’ he’d have to say, ‘meet me wife, Lady Jane Red Stockings.’” India had to laugh herself.

  “Well, perhaps you are right,” India yielded.

  While they spoke, Lady Jane’s fingers traveled over the intricate tatting and satin-flowered embroidery of India’s dress. “You and I are about the same measure. Could I try on your dress?”

  “Why, of course you may,” India declared when she saw how Lady Jane admired it. “You know, it’s direct from Paris.” In a reciprocal gesture, India helped her on with the dress and began tightening the lacings. All the while her curiosity was piqued over Lady Jane’s occupation. “Have you been here at Contessa’s very long?”

  “Oh, not too long.”

  “Have you ever thought of doing something else?” India wondered what sorry circumstance had brought the young girl into such a life.

  “Yes, all the time. Me mother did laundry but I don’t much care for that.”

  “Perhaps you could go to school. A bright girl like you could become a teacher.”

  “Oh, I left school. After the schoolmaster jumped me in the cloakroom I figured I’d learned more than I needed to know.” She giggled and twirled around in the center of the room, all the while keeping an eye on her reflection in the full-length, brass-encased looking glass.

  India was taken aback, and sympathy filled her heart for the young girl. How truly sheltered her own life had been. She realized that circumstance rather than weakness of character could lead a woman into a life of immorality. “Lady Jane, aren’t you afraid you’ll…” she hesitated to say it.