Through the Deep Waters (6 page)

The name sent a jolt through Dinah’s middle. She looked frantically right and left, as if Miss Flo might materialize from the wood paneling.

Mrs. Walters continued, seemingly unaware of Dinah’s inner turmoil. “The Clifton Hotel in Florence, Kansas—Mr. Harvey’s only hotel—has need of a chambermaid.”

Slowly Dinah’s frozen mind thawed enough to process the interviewer’s words. Florence was the name of a town. In Kansas. Far from Chicago. “You said … chambermaid?”

“Yes. You would be responsible for cleaning the hotel rooms after guests have departed. The job includes a room and meals as well as uniforms and sixteen dollars a month. Might this interest you?”

A chambermaid. Cleaning other people’s messes. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing at the Yellow Parrot since she was big enough to wield a broom? A lump of cynicism tried to fill her throat, but she pushed it down. At least she’d be part of Mr. Harvey’s staff. And next year, after her birthday, she could apply again to become a server.

Dinah offered a hesitant nod. “I am interested, but I don’t have much money. What does a train ticket cost to get to …” She didn’t want to say the name
Florence
.

A smile tipped up the woman’s lips. “If you accept the position, I will arrange transport for you.” She glanced at the stately grandfather clock in the corner. “As a matter of fact, I believe we can get you to the station for the evening train, and you could be in Florence by morning.”

She paused, gazing at Dinah with expectation. “Shall I send a telegram to the manager at the Clifton Hotel, informing him the position for chambermaid has been filled?”

Dinah closed her eyes. Becoming a chambermaid hadn’t been her plan, but at least she’d be sheltered, fed, and clothed. She’d be far from Chicago where the stigma of the Yellow Parrot couldn’t touch her. She’d be working for Mr. Harvey, perhaps earning his respect, and have the chance to become a server when she turned eighteen.

“Miss Hubley?”

Dinah popped her eyes open.

“If I’m to reach the manager with a telegram today, I need an answer.”

Dinah drew in a big breath and blew it out.
Florence, Kansas …
Could she live in a town with the same name as the woman who’d callously arranged to steal her innocence? But what other choice did she have? Resigned, she nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go.”

Florence, Kansas

Amos

Amos cradled the basket of eggs against his ribs and made his way up the paved walkway dividing the front garden of the Clifton Hotel into identical halves. Although he’d seen them before, he couldn’t resist pausing to admire the pair of ornate fountains sending up water in a crystal stream. Something inside his chest seemed to flutter. A man who could afford such elaborate trappings in the
yard of his business would have the money to buy eggs. He only needed the manager to take a liking to him and his Leghorns’ creamy-white eggs.

As he stepped onto the porch, lifting his good leg first and pulling the lame one behind him, a ruckus greeted his ears. He peeked through the big glass window into the dining room. Such activity! The chairs around all six tables held guests, and waitresses in long black dresses with starched white aprons bustled here and there, bringing out plates of food. He drew back.

In his eagerness to show his eggs to the manager, he’d forgotten the morning train carried passengers hungry for breakfast. He peeked in the window again, shaking his head. Such a dolt! No one would talk to him with all those people wanting their food. Well, then, he would wait. Twenty minutes—that was the length of time the engineer needed to fill the train’s tank with water. Not much time at all.

Tucking the basket, which he’d covered with a red-checked square of cloth to make it look more presentable, under his arm, he aimed himself for the gazebo corner of the rambling porch. White-painted wicker chairs invited guests to sit and relax. Guilt tried to nibble at him—he wasn’t a guest, so should he make use of those chairs?—but in the end the ache in his hip from the long walk overrode any worry. He needed to sit.

He moved beneath the octagon roof, sighing as the shade from the lilac bushes growing alongside the railing touched him. His dark wool suit was too warm for this weather, but he owned no other. Underneath, he felt sticky from sweat, and he hoped the scented soap from last night’s bath hadn’t worn off already. He chose a chair near the hotel’s lapped siding and sank down, placing the basket of eggs in his lap.

Only then did he notice he wasn’t alone. On a chair in the deepest shade from the lilacs, a girl slept with her feet tucked up underneath her. Her hands, the palms pressed together and resting against the chair’s rolled armrest, formed a pillow for her cheek. A few strands of her light-brown hair had worked loose from her simple braid and swayed gently against her jaw as the Kansas breeze teased its way through the thick bushes. How peaceful she looked. He couldn’t help smiling at the picture she created.

But he’d startle her if she awakened and found him sitting there staring at her. He should find someplace else to wait. One hand gripping his basket, he used the other to push himself out of the chair. As his weight left the seat, the chair tipped up on two legs, then descended with a hollow thump against the floorboards.

The girl leaped up so quickly Amos thought she might sail over the railing and into the lilacs. Round eyes as delicately blue as the larkspur growing in Ma’s garden back home stared at him in obvious fright. She clutched her fingers together at her waist, and her bodice lifted and fell with frantic puffs of breath. Her face had lost all color. If she fainted, he would catch her. But first he’d better put down his eggs.

When he bent to place the basket on the chair, the girl gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “Wh-what are you going to do?”

His eggs safely set aside, he straightened and gave the girl a curious look. Because her hands were over her mouth, he couldn’t be certain he’d heard her correctly. “Did you ask what I’m going to do?”

She nodded, still hiding the lower half of her face—an appealing face, Amos noted—heart shaped with high cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.

He chuckled and gestured to his little basket. “Well, I hope I am going to sell my eggs to the hotel’s manager.”

Her wide-eyed gaze zipped to the basket and then back to him. Slowly she lowered her hands. “Oh.” Her shoulders wilted, and she eased back into the chair.

Amos heaved a prayer of gratitude that he wouldn’t have to catch her after all. He’d never held a girl before, and his hands went moist just thinking of doing so now.

The train whistle blasted, the sound piercingly shrill so close. Both he and the girl winced. Guests spilled out of the hotel and headed across the street to the loading platform, their clamoring voices nearly as loud as the whistle had been. In a few more minutes, he’d be able to take his eggs inside and show them to the manager. But he needed to do something else first.

He hitched two steps closer to the girl—one wide stride, one shorter one.
She shrank back, her blue eyes sparking with distrust. He stopped. “I want to say I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t see you there until I’d already sat down, or I would have left you alone to sleep.” From the look of her pale face, purple-smudged eyes, and trembling limbs, she needed a good long rest.

Sympathy twined through his chest followed by a host of questions. Why was she sleeping on the hotel porch? Was she old enough to travel alone? She didn’t appear to be, so where were her parents? Why was she so skittish? Her reaction to his approach brought back painful reminders of his family’s dog slinking away in fear from Pa. He swallowed and asked, very kindly, “Will you forgive me?”

She stared at him, her brow puckering as if she were confused. Her rosy lips parted, closed, then parted again. Her answer sighed out, so soft he might have imagined it. “Yes.”

Amos smiled, more relieved than he could explain. “Good. Good.” He picked up his basket of eggs and started for the dining room. His feet on the floorboards made an odd
bump-clunk
, his bad leg falling heavier than the other.

“Mister?”

The girl’s timid voice stopped him. He looked over his shoulder.

She was pointing at his hip. Her cheeks wore bright splashes of pink. “What … broke you?”

Heat rushed to his face. The question was tactless, yet her tone held no rancor. He sensed she didn’t intend to insult him, so he decided to answer. “A wagon wheel rolled over me when I was eleven.”

“Oh …”

Her expression held such deep dismay he wanted to assure her. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t bother me anymore.” Well, it did, both in physical pain and embarrassment, although not as much as it had in the beginning. But he didn’t need to tell her all that. To his relief, a small smile appeared on her face. “Good-bye now, miss.” He plodded the remaining distance to the front doors and started inside. But before he crossed the threshold, he glanced at the girl.

She still sat in the chair but with her hands braced on the armrests, leaning
forward a little. Tense. Alert. Like a prairie dog keeping watch for a preying hawk. His heart turned over. She’d asked what had broken him. An unexpected question formed in his mind.

What had broken her?

Dinah

Dinah waited until the man with the basket of eggs entered the dining room. Then she flopped back into the chair with a sigh of relief. Had she really fallen asleep out here in the open? What a foolish thing to do. Anyone could have sneaked up on her—and someone did!

When the chair legs crashed against the floor, she’d been certain he was coming after her. In her sleepiness, his dark suit, combed-back hair, and solid form had too closely resembled another man. But then he spoke kindly. And then he limped. And then he asked her forgiveness.

She shook her head in wonder. He’d only frightened her, but he asked for her forgiveness. He hadn’t even sneaked a look at her chest—she knew because she watched his eyes. He behaved respectfully, speaking to her gently while keeping his eyes and hands to himself. No, he hadn’t been anything like the men who visited the brothel or the man who’d hurt her.

Even so, she needed to be careful.

Now wide awake, she contemplated going inside. She’d tried to go in earlier when the train cars emptied of passengers, but the man at the desk asked if she was eating, and when she said no, he sent her away before she could explain. Now that everyone was gone, she should let the manager know his new chambermaid had arrived. But she didn’t move.

The man with the eggs was in there, talking to the manager. She didn’t want to disrupt their conversation. Mostly she didn’t want to see the man again. He must think her a complete ninny, the way she’d behaved. She hated feeling so jumpy inside, always fearful. The egg man said he’d gotten hurt a
long time ago and it hardly bothered him anymore. Would she be able to make the same claim someday?

The sound of footsteps—uneven ones—reached her ears. She hunkered low in the chair and peeked over the high back. Sure enough, the egg man was leaving. She tried to see his face. If he looked happy, she’d know he’d sold his eggs. But he held the basket upright in the curve of his arm. If it was empty, he wouldn’t have a reason to carry it up against his ribs. So he must not have sold them.

Unexpectedly, anger boiled in her middle. He’d looked so eager, saying he hoped the manager would buy his eggs. Would a cook need eggs? Of course he would—Rueben had arranged for daily delivery of eggs at the Yellow Parrot. So why had the manager said no? She watched the man stride away in his funny big step–little step way. If she had a house and a kitchen, she’d chase after him and buy some eggs to make up for the manager’s refusal, even if it took every penny she had left in her pocket. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

“May I help you?”

The voice startled her so badly she yelped. She bounced up from the chair and turned to find herself being scrutinized by a short, wiry, gray-haired man wearing round, thick spectacles on the end of his nose.

The man’s heavy gray brows descended in a scowl. “Are you a guest here at the Clifton?”