Tomorrow's Dreams (14 page)

Raising one eyebrow in question, Seth asked, “Is there something else you wanted to discuss?”

Edward ran his hand through his carrot-colored hair, messing it into jagged peaks. “It's just that, well, Mrs. Vanderlyn is a mighty fine woman. She'll be ruined if you foreclose. Perhaps if you spoke with her yourself—”

“I distinctly remember specifying that I was to remain anonymous in all matters regarding the brewery,” Seth interjected, leveling the solicitor with his most quelling look. “For your sake, I hope you haven't breached that confidence.”

Visibly shaken, he stammered, “O-of course not M-Mr. Tyler. I thought, well, knowing your reputation for being understanding in matters such as these, well, I thought that if you s-spoke to her yourself that you might reconsider.”

“Then, you thought wrong.” Seth's eyes narrowed slightly. “Why all this sudden concern for the Vanderlyns?”

Edward met his gaze earnestly. “I just thought you might want to know the Vanderlyns' situation before you did anything hasty. I think you'd agree to give her the six months if you spoke with her yourself. She's a good woman. Smart, too.”

“I have no desire to speak with Louisa Vanderlyn, no matter how good or smart she might be. And I could care less about her dire straits.” Seth practically shouted the last few words, prompting several of the other diners to turn and stare. Ignoring their speculative glances, he smashed his fist against the table and barked, “You'll do as I say. If she doesn't have the money in thirty days, we'll foreclose. That's final!”

The bitterness behind his words stunned Edward speechless. Too shocked to do anything else, he sat gaping at his client, watching as he went through an elaborate ritual of selecting and lighting a cigar. Oddly enough, after the initial puff it took to light the expensive cigar, he never once took another draw. He merely cradled it between his index and forefinger, moodily watching the curls of blue-gray smoke spiral toward the ceiling.

After a long moment, he mustered up the courage to ask, “Excuse me, sir? Do you have reason to dislike Mrs. Vanderlyn?”

“Dislike her?” Seth snubbed out the cigar. “Hell. I've never even met her.”

Chapter 10

By mid-afternoon there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The early morning squall had departed almost as quickly as it arrived, lingering only long enough to dampen the Denver streets.

Dirt-packed and generally bone-dry, the unpaved streets of the town were the bane of Penelope's fastidious existence. From early morning till late at night, horses and wagons barreled up and down the filthy roads, kicking tornado-like swirls of dust into the air. The gritty gray grime flew everywhere. It clogged her nose and irritated her eyes. It streaked her skirts. Why, she'd once found enough dirt in her bloomers to make a mud pie if she'd been so inclined. Dreadful!

But this afternoon was wonderfully different. The sky had released just enough moisture to keep the dust to the road, and as Penelope stood at the corner of Larimer and Fifteenth waiting for a wagon train to pass, she found herself actually enjoying the bustling activity.

Beside her, Effie stood clutching a dainty handkerchief to her nose, scowling fiercely at a horse who'd had the audacity to relieve itself in front of them. “Horrid beast,” she muttered, thoroughly affronted. “Its owner should be required by law to buy it one of those diaper contraptions.”

Penelope fixed her companion with an incredulous stare. “A horse diaper? They actually make such a thing?”

“It's patented, my dear. They manufacture any number of things to make the filthy animals more tolerate. Why, Dombittle has just patented a cologne, Eau de Equine, which is guaranteed to make a mare smell as sweet as her mistress.”

Penelope laughed as she stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the slightly muddy street. She was about to question Effie further about the cologne when she suddenly caught sight of a crowd gathered in front of the City Drugstore. Curious as to what could be causing the stir, she joined the throng.

It was a circus poster, a colorful one depicting a scantily clad girl being shot from a smoking cannon. In the background a ringmaster cracked his whip, while a plump equestrienne in a scarlet gown balanced atop a plume-bedecked horse. Across the top, emblazoned in bold letters was the proclamation:
BUCKLEY
&
WILDER
'
S AMERICAN CIRCUS
!
THE BEST SHOW AND MENAGERIE IN AMERICA
!

Delighted, Penelope leaned over the shoulder of the man in front of her, eagerly reading the list of acts. As she thrilled at the prospect of seeing Vlado, the India rubber man, and Kongo, the dancing African elephant, she felt a frantic tug on her arm.

“Look!” Effie squealed, dragging her away to point excitedly at the display in the drugstore window.

Penelope cast a longing gaze toward the poster, before peering through the rain-streaked glass with a sigh.

Several jars and bottles of patented remedies were on display, as well as a harness-like contraption with numerous leather straps and buckles. To the right was an advertising board promoting the miraculous skin-preserving properties of something called Palmer Brothers Wrinkle Resister Cream.

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. The wrinkle cream was just the sort of thing Effie loved. Feeling mischievous, she teased, “Don't tell me you need Hendrick's Liver Prescription?” She pointed to a tall brown bottle on the left.

Effie let out an unladylike snort. “Of course not. I'm as fit as a fiddle.” She jabbed her finger at the advertisement. “I was referring to the Palmer Brothers Wrinkle Resister Cream. I read about it in
Peterson's
. I've been dying to try it.”

“I can't imagine why you'd be interested in such a cream,” Penelope said, following her friend through the shop door. “Not with your lovely complexion.” It was true. Effie might not look eighteen, or twenty-five, or even forty anymore, but she did have a remarkably smooth complexion for a woman her age.

Effie turned pick with pleasure at the genuine compliment. “It's a wrinkle
resister
, not a wrinkle
remover
,” she pointed out. “While it's true that I have no need for the latter, a girl is never too young for the former. We females must never surrender in our battle against the ravages of age.” She imparted that last platitude with much the same air as a general disclosing his plan of action to his troops.

Inside, the store was as neatly fitted and well stocked as the pharmacies Penelope had patronized back East. There was a gleaming wood counter along the back of the shop, topped with an impressive display of pharmaceutical equipment. Lining the walls were numerous shelves, upon which sat rows of bottles, jars, and boxes, all arranged with military precision. Glass-topped cases and heavy wooden tables displayed goods ranging from perfume and combs to cutlery. A sign with an arrow pointed the way to the upper-story photographîc rooms.

Effie immediately fluttered over to the wrinkle-resister display, while Penelope studied the infant remedies.

Adele had informed her earlier that she'd be allowed to see Tommy on Sunday, and she wanted to take him something for his croup. He'd had several terrifying episodes of the illness for which she'd spent a fortune on remedies, none of which helped.

Shaking her head, she picked up first one bottle, then another, reading the outrageous claims listed on the labels. If only Adele would allow her to take Tommy to see a real doctor. Not that she expected miracles, mind you. Even with her relative inexperience with children, she knew that he wasn't developing as he should. Still, there must be more she could do to help him.

Frowning, she shoved the bottle she was holding back on the shelf. If anyone could help Tommy, it was Hallie. Her sister-in-law took a special interest in treating women and children. She was the only doctor Penelope truly trusted.

Soon
, she assured herself. She'd get the money she needed to execute her plan, even if she had to steal it. Once she had Tommy back, she'd go straight home and enlist Hallie's aid.

Dread clutched at Penelope's heart at the thought of facing her family and confessing the shameful events of the past two and a half years. The hardest part would be explaining to her brother why she hadn't turned to him first when she'd found herself in trouble. She knew her foolish lack of faith in his love was going to hurt him far more than all the rest of her sins combined. But she would do it. She'd explain until her face turned blue, if necessary. Anything for Tommy.

As she stood there, imagining herself groveling in front of her brother, she was approached by the pharmacist.

“Having a problem deciding?” he asked, his lips stretching into a congenial smile beneath his bristly mustache.

She stared at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

“I noticed that you seem to be having trouble selecting an infant remedy.” He indicated the shelf in front of them. “If you tell me your baby's symptoms, I might be of some assistance.”

“Yes … uh … croup,” she murmured, turning her mind back to the task at hand. “The baby has croup.”

The man nodded sympathetically. “Poor little thing. My third daughter was prone to croup. How old is your baby?”

“He'll be two on Sunday.”

He nodded again. Stroking his mustache thoughtfully, he picked up a bottle of amber-colored syrup and studied the label. After a moment of deliberation, he handed it to her. “You might give this honey and tar expectorant a try. You also might try adding several drops of eucalyptus oil to a pan of steaming water and hold the baby's face over it. That particular remedy worked like a charm for my own little Sybil.”

Penelope thanked the man and agreed to try his croup remedy. When he'd gone back to the counter to wrap her purchases, she joined Effie, who was standing by the window examining the strange leather contraption from the wrinkle-resister display.

“What have you got there?” she asked, eyeing the gadget warily. The device was suspiciously similar to one she'd seen in a picture depicting modes of medieval torture.

“It's a Keeley Gravity Defier. You strap it on while you sleep to hold your chin and facial muscles in place. It's supposed to prevent the sagging and wrinkles that come from sleeping with your face pressed against your pillows.” Her brow furrowed as she studied the straps. “I wonder how it's worn?”

Penelope shrugged and picked up one of the ornate jars of wrinkle-resister cream for closer inspection. “I guess you'll have to try it to find out.”

“But there's no mirror in here,” Effie bemoaned. “However will I be able to judge its merits if I can't see how it fits? How can I—” She stopped midstream, her eyes aglow with inspiration. “Of course. How silly of me. I'll try it on you.”

Just looking at the contraption made Penelope claustrophobic. “I'm not so certain that would be a good idea,” she demurred, feeling uncomfortably breathless.

Effie stared up at her, her blue eyes pleading.

Penelope released a sigh of resignation. “All right. But only for a moment.” Knowing that she was probably going to regret this adventure, she removed her bonnet. No sooner had Effie strapped her into the device, than she heard what sounded like a crazed woodpecker tapping at the window.

“Why, if it isn't that good-looking Mr. Tyler!” exclaimed Effie, waving enthusiastically.

Sure enough, Seth stood just outside the window, his lips twisted into an unholy grin as he gaily returned Effie's wave.

Penelope let out a muffled groan. The blasted man really did have the damnedest knack for showing up at the most inopportune moments. Wishing him to hell and herself anywhere else, she clawed at the immobilizing straps of the gravity defier, feeling as idiotic as she knew she must look. To her frustration, she succeeded only in tangling her hair in the buckles.

As Seth paused at the shop door, gallantly tipping his hat to an exiting lady, she gave Effie a furious poke in the back and hissed, “E-pfe! Re-lsth me no-o!” which was the best she could manage with the leather straps clamped around her jaw and cheeks.

But Effie had lost all interest in the gravity-defier experiment and now stood with her mouth ajar, visibly enthralled by the sight of Seth. Letting out a snort of disgust, Penelope transferred her glower to his rapidly approaching form.

Grudgingly she admitted that he was a splendid, if unwelcome, sight. Fashionably dressed as always, his skintight brown riding trousers hugged every muscular inch of his thighs and belly, molding to his groin in a manner that left little doubt as to his masculinity. His jacket, constructed of checkered wool in shades of brown, gold, and rust, emphasized the impressive breadth of his shoulders, while his showy bronze-shot silk vest drew the eye to his broad chest and tapered waist.

Just the sight of him, so perfectly turned out, was enough to make Penelope acutely aware that her red gros grain skirt was worn shiny in places and that there were bald spots in the black fringe trimming her jacket. Tossing him a disgruntled look, she jerked one of the gravity-defier straps free, painfully ripping out a small clump of hair in the process.

The arrogant man was too handsome by half, she decided, gingerly rubbing her abused scalp. By the way the other women in the shop had fallen into an awed silence at his presence, it was obvious that she wasn't the only one of that opinion.

Seemingly oblivious to his stunning effect, Seth lifted Effie's hand to his lips and suavely kissed her palm. “A pleasure to see you again, sweetheart,” he murmured, treating the older woman to the same brand of charm Penelope had seen him use on sixteen-year-old debutantes.

Effie blushed every bit as pink as one of those debutantes. “Mr. Tyler—” she murmured, batting her stubby eyelashes.

“I'd be honored if you would call me Seth,” he interjected, flashing the crooked grin Penelope always found so irresistible. “Unless a young girl like yourself thinks I'm too old to be addressed in such a familiar manner?”