Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama) (7 page)

Bret tapped his finger rapidly on the glass. Of course, Liam was only trying to help him, talk him out of the risky partnership with Lucas and Higgins, before he sunk another dollar into the dry dirt.
Cut your losses and run
.

That’s what an astute Galveston gentleman in these new, white shoes would do. Bret reached into his pocket and pulled out today’s telegram from Beaumont. Only problem was there was nothing and nowhere else left to run to. And Lucas still needed more funds to complete the latest drilling.

If additional investment could not be secured within the next few weeks, the entire oil venture and his life here would collapse, but who could he convince in this proud city of retired cotton barons and cattle men; men like himself who had been taught to only pay for what you can see and touch?

Bret crumpled the telegram and threw it into the gutter. Friday night’s party would be crucial to his future. And Gabrielle was certain to be the most beautiful and alluring lady there, that is, for a more promising man capable of winning such a superior woman. 

Feeling the itch at the back of his throat and pressure in his chest, he turned south on 18th Street and headed straight for Carlyle’s Drug Store to buy a fresh bottle of his cough medicine.

Ichabod Weems sat at his desk in the back office of his dry goods store counting the evening’s till. Hunched over his small stacks of bills and coins, he brushed away the thick flakes of greasy dandruff that kept falling every time he turned his head to look at the stranger sitting in the corner by the linen storage cabinet.

Ichabod slid his sweaty bifocal spectacles back up onto the hook of his nose and squinted at the newcomer.

The strange gentleman sat cloaked in a dark gray Inverness coat, its deep cape draped as a hood, concealing his face.

“Sir, you must be terribly warm in that heavy coat,” Ichabod insisted for the second time since letting the man in through the alley door. “Surely you would feel much more at ease if you removed it and helped yourself to a refreshing drink?” He picked the whiskey bottle up off his desk and offered it to the silent man.

The stranger gripped the end of the armrests with his gloved hands. “I don’t require drink,” he answered faintly. “The night breeze from the Gulf gives me a chill. I’ll be warm soon.”

The cautious voice was unfamiliar to Ichabod but well-paying customers were always welcome any time of night. That’s how he built up a loyal clientele. Ichabod hooked his thumbs under the straps of his denim coveralls and pulled them out an inch. He let them snap back against his sweat stained white cotton shirt. “As you wish, sir.” Ichabod tipped his head. “In both of my businesses the customer is always right.”

The stranger relaxed his grip and placed his hands on his lap. “On the telephone you said that you had found a woman fitting the photograph that I sent you.”

“It took some doing,” replied Ichabod, as he swept the coins into a leather money bag. “Such a stunning beauty and all that long, flowing auburn hair. What was her name again?”

“I never told you.”

Ichabod pulled the strings closed on the money bag. “Ahh . . . that’s right, sir, come to think of it, you didn’t. Didn’t mean to pry, but a man such as myself, who makes a good portion of his livelihood from obtaining specialized services for refined gentlemen, likes to get to know a man’s taste so he may better serve his penchant for the cultivated experiences life has to offer.”

The stranger raised his hand to his mouth and coughed. “We’ll see how tonight goes first, then we’ll talk about . . . what life has to offer.”

“Without a doubt, sir, but—” Ichabod paused, filling his glass to the brim with bootleg whiskey. “I find it somewhat unusual not to be involved with a client on a first-name basis.” He downed a swift gulp of the liquor, then another. “It’s only fitting that gentlemen establish a . . . a certain rapport at the beginning, based on trust, as it were, or one of them might start to think the other had certain designs that weren’t quite—”

“Then for the purposes of our
rapport
, Mr. Weems, you can address me as
sir
, as it were.”

Ichabod nodded and rubbed the white stubble on his jaw. “Of course,
sir.
The gentleman is always right.” Ichabod opened the top drawer of his desk and glanced at his new pearl-handled Smith & Wesson .32. Imposing strangers who preferred to remain nameless required extra scrutiny . . . and money. “After all, I am getting on. So many families have moved away from here over the years since the war. I have trouble remembering all their names.”

As an oil lamp cast its wavering light, the stranger seemed to bear his gaze down on the gnarled stick of the old man in coveralls and spectacles hunched over his desk. “I’ve only recently arrived.”

Ichabod chuckled. “Ah, well, of course.” He closed the drawer. “So many fine gentlemen pass through our splendid city. Some more private than others.”

The stranger reached into a deep pocket of his coat.

At that moment Ichabod regretted closing the top drawer. “That’s a fact,” he said, smiling. “Impossible to remember all of their names and I suppose that’s for the best.”

A folded money clip landed on the desk in front of Ichabod’s glass of whiskey. “You suppose correctly, Mr. Weems, and hopefully this will provide a satisfactory answer to any more idiotic questions from you.”

Relieved, Ichabod removed the brass clip. He thumbed through the fives and tens without looking up. “Goodness, yes, I should say so. Absolutely, sir,” the dry goods merchant answered, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together. He drew himself closer to his desk.

“Now.” The stranger rose from the chair. “Where is this woman you’ve promised?”

Ichabod made two sharp claps with his bony hands. The handle of the door leading to the front of the store creaked and turned. Ichabod cocked his head and sat in silence observing the man’s reaction to the woman walking through the open door.

The white robed whore paraded around the stranger, spinning around on her toes as instructed, and flashing him her most practiced smile of sincere invitation.

“Well, sir?” Ichabod asked with a pleasant smile. “Is she to your liking, sir?”

Not a word came from beneath the dark hood, not a gesture from beneath the heavy coat.

“Perhaps the color of her hair is not the right shade? From only a photograph and your description, it’s impossible to tell. She can dye it though, make it richer, or—”

“No.” The stranger suddenly reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. “The color is ideal. Her features . . . perfect.” He pressed down on Louisa’s shoulders, lowering her to the floor until she rested on her knees in front of him. He stroked her long, glistening hair, seeming to pull her closer toward his knees with each caress of his hand.

Louisa glanced over at Ichabod. He grinned and gave her a slow nod of reassurance. Before the meeting, he had instructed her not to speak. If the money was good, he knew she wouldn’t protest.

“Now.” The stranger lifted a few loose, delicate tendrils of Louisa’s hair and let them fall again on her head. “Please turn your back, Mr. Weems.”

“Excuse me, sir? If you wish privacy I’ll—”

“Just do as I say.” The man stamped his boot down hard on the floor. He assumed a wider stance. “Everything has to be perfect. Can’t you see?”

He yanked Louisa by the hair, pushing her face into the folds of his coat hanging between his legs. “A perfect test. That’s what I paid you for.” He lowered his hooded face. “So shut up both of you and not another word.”

Ichabod folded the money and fastened the brass clip. He spat into his almost filled spittoon and shoved the clip into the pocket of his worn coveralls. He looked across to Louisa kneeling in front of the disturbing stranger and shivered. 

What was it about the man that made him still search for a name and face from somewhere in his long, unfortunate past, a past filled with names and faces he wished he could forget but who refused to allow an old man any peace in his deathbed dreams.

Ichabod downed the last of his whiskey.
Enough foolishness, old man.
All unpleasant suspicions aside, a client’s business was his own. The gentleman had paid a premium and this allowed him more than the usual liberties.

Louisa didn’t raise her gaze off the dirty floor to meet his again.

The stranger unbuttoned his Inverness coat. He stepped back with his hands clenched.

Ichabod shivered again. He turned his chair around to face the wall and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 7

Tuesday, August 28

Gabrielle lay in bed against her down-filled, silk pillows and toyed with the end of her single French braid. From all accounts, Bret had changed since returning to Galveston. He was less cheerful and, though his manner was still considerate at heart, she recognized a growing impulsiveness beneath his brooding composure.

As a charming, confident man he had delighted an innocent young woman with his adventurous promise, but now his temperament appalled her with its pathetic lack of virtue. Gabrielle knew she was as much to blame for her curious feelings as he was, perhaps more, since her childish infatuation with him had not completely disappeared as she had hoped. Unbraiding the ends of her hair she rubbed the ends between her thumb and index finger to calm her nerves.

Infatuation. That’s all it ever was or could have been between them.

After Bret left, she had still been able to rise in the morning and, by all appearances, regain her self-control and good sense much to the relief of her friends and father already maddened by her tempest of vulgar outbursts and crying fits.

Bret’s last words still stormed through her mind. 
“You’re wrong, Gabrielle. It’s not too late for you. You’re worthy of a far better man than me, a man who will give you everything you cherish, desire, and deserve.”
 

In the gloomy months that followed his leaving, those words were the only light of truth he had left behind to help her find her way again. Only by the sheer force of indomitable spirit was she able to pull herself out of that soul-crushing abyss of despair, spurred by the realization that even love is capable of such a cruel betrayal of trust.

Until she heard the dreadful racket Saturday on Market Street, Gabrielle had—after two years—come to consider Bret as having passed into insignificance, waiting to be left behind with the arrogant century that had made him a sad, supercilious man desperately trying to maintain appearances of his family’s paling grandeur.

Their time together had been the careless and naive adventure of her first and only deep romantic love, but even then, under his public exuberance, she had sensed his hidden, private fears. Bret was the past and, if she wanted the new life she desired, her feelings for him would have to stay there entangled within the knotted fiber of their difficult relationship. 

He was lost to her, a captive of his own disturbing moods and intense longing for something that remained a dark secret in his distant heart.

If he behaved as a gentleman, he might still be allowed into the periphery of her social circle, but never within its center. A successful gentleman’s wife-to-be needs to be wooed and won with pride. Anything less would be a mistake, and she could never allow that to happen again.

She brushed back her hair. Today would be perfect for the yellow bolero jacket and dress with the brown satin flowers. Gabrielle dressed quickly and strutted down the stairs to the parlor where she overheard Timothy DeRocha and her father discussing Bret’s drilling activities in Beaumont.

Timothy snapped to attention when Gabrielle entered. She admired his tanned face with its curved nose and brown eyes, but his voice was always servile in the presence of her father.

After exchanging mutual pleasantries, she listened patiently, encouraging each with a smile or a nod. A woman always found her most valuable information by letting men vent their irritation and argue with each other.

Gabrielle’s father scratched his moustache. “It appears Bret never sent word ahead to anyone here or his man, Philip, when he departed England for New York.”

Timothy smiled at her and adjusted his gold tie pin. “I believe he’s bankrupt, spent his entire inheritance abroad and now he has returned to scrounge off the good graces of his old friends and business partners.”

“No. There’s more to it,” Gabrielle insisted, surprised by how quickly she had voiced her private suspicion.

“Surely you don’t believe in his oil drilling scam in Beaumont?” Timothy asked. “I’d have more respect for him if he asked me for money to dig for the pirate treasure of Jean Lafitte.”

Gabrielle’s father frowned. “No, sir. Whatever money Bret had left has surely sunk into those empty holes with the remains of his family’s name.”

Timothy nodded. “That seems to agree with all the reports I’ve heard. The man is desperate. This fancy party of his is nothing but an elaborate attempt to swindle those who have loved and trusted him most.”

Gabrielle bristled. “You sound so certain, Timothy.”

Timothy looked at her as though she were an errant child. “Please, Gabrielle. You of all people should know I’m right.”

She wanted to say something in Bret’s defense but could only press her lips together.

“I made almost one hundred percent profit on my first shipment of cotton,” her father said, turning from the window. “And nearly two hundred percent on my first sale of steers.”

Timothy regarded her father with adoring veneration. “You are an example to us all, Mr. Caldwell. When a man risks everything to start a business and build a better life for his family, he deserves those rewards and more. But nothing is more valuable to a damn Yankee than his stomach, and he should be happy to pay for the privilege of letting us fill it for him. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”

“I would be happy to feed any man north of the Mason-Dixon if he helped me get the vote in return.”

The men stared at each other, then at the floor and shook their heads. Timothy coughed and covered his mouth with his clenched hand. “A gentleman certainly has to stay on his toes around you, Gabrielle. Women’s suffrage? What’s next? Lord, sir, how do you keep up with her?”