Page 12 of Love and Order

CHAPTER 12

Monday, June 23, 1873

The fact that the soiled doves had come to see the medicine show the previous afternoon had caused many of the churchgoing folks to leave, which meant that for a second day, Dr. Chellingworth hadn’t sold much of his Heaven-Sent Miracle Elixir. Thus, he and his entertainers stayed on in Cambria Springs.

The medicine show provided just the diversion Callie needed to keep from overthinking the embarrassment of the previous day’s kiss. She’d never been kissed before, so the unexpectedness startled her. But she’d thought she covered her inexperience well enough. She’d kissed Joe right back. Her heart had pounded, and her head spun in the best ways. It was breathtaking and delightful, and she hadn’t wanted it to end.

Yet he’d run off with nothing more than the news that her brother rode a black horse with white stockings.

Was she so repulsive he’d wanted to avoid her at the evening meal and breakfast as well?

“Stop it.” She frowned. “Keep your wits, Kezia.” She forced her mind back to her drawings.

Callie’s pencil flew over the paper, capturing the medicine show’s singers, a short, heavyset woman with brown hair and an average-height man with dark locks, liberally streaked with white. Voices as clear as crystal, the pair sang several songs—both hymns and popular tunes. As they finished, they waved and disappeared into one of the wagons. In their place, a woman in a long buckskin hunting shirt, belted at the waist, and an ankle-length skirt made her way to the center, a rifle cradled in the crook of her arm.

Shuffling to a fresh page, Callie began to capture the image of the woman, from her bright-red curls falling over her shoulders to her intricately beaded attire and western-styled hat shading her eyes.

“Good afternoon.” The beautiful woman’s British lilt was surprising. “What a nice crowd for a Monday afternoon.” The woman smiled at the audience. “My name is Elisabeth Gates. Elisabeth with an s.”

Callie scribbled her name on the page’s corner and quickly returned to her sketching. Miss Gates spoke about her act of trick shooting and riding and what they could expect from her. As she droned on, Callie squinted and sketched, over and over, capturing the woman’s likeness.

“Could I have a volunteer from the audience?” She squinted at the audience.

“What kinda help?” a man off to Callie’s right hollered.

“Thank you for volunteering, kind sir! What is your name?”

“Now, wait just a minute! I didn’t say—”

The crowd guffawed as she laid aside her rifle and marched toward him. “Come, now. Be a gentleman and help a lady in need.”

“Aww, really?” The hatless man, about thirty, looked uncomfortable when she extended both hands to him.

“Yes, my good man. Really. What is your name?”

“Me and my big mouth.” He stood, stoop-shouldered. “The name’s Charlie.”

The woman’s smile turned teasing, and she patted his cheek. “I promise, you won’t mind it a bit, Charlie.”

Callie shifted to roughing out the pair’s faces and bodies, capturing the moment Miss Gates cupped the stranger’s cheek. She drank in the details of the man’s features—his long, thin face, auburn hair, and jaw darkening with stubble. It was lovely just to draw, trying to capture enough detail to be a guide for adding more features later.

Miss Gates coaxed him forward and explained his job: to stand atop one of their wagons and throw glass balls into the air for her to shoot.

“You ain’t plannin’ to hit me, are ya?” The man shot her an anxious look.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With assistance from some of the other showmen, they both climbed onto two different wagons, and at her call, the man began throwing the balls into the air.

Gunfire split the air, and no matter how fast or how far apart Charlie threw them, Miss Gates never missed, to the delight of her onlookers. After she’d thanked him, the fella headed back to his place, and one of the other showmen replaced him as Miss Gates shot playing cards from his hands and performed other risky feats.

At the end of her shooting sequence, Miss Gates excused herself and disappeared into one of the wagons with her rifle—and emerged again only a moment later, empty-handed. She wore no hat, and her flaming red curls had been tied back with a ribbon. Now, she wore a short-sleeved tunic and a pair of loose-fitting pants, with heavy leather gloves that reached partway up her forearms. As quickly as she stepped out, a beautiful white horse galloped past, and Miss Gates grabbed the saddle horn and vaulted over the horse’s back in a fluid movement. Her feet touched down on the opposite side of the horse, and she vaulted again, returning to where she began, then vaulted a third time, landing astride in the saddle. The crowd hooted in excitement.

Callie gaped and leafed to a fresh page to capture the scene. For several minutes, the woman rode back and forth, standing atop the horse’s back or dangling from the saddle by one leg or other fantastical deeds until finally, she brought her white horse to a sliding stop, leapt down, and took an extravagant bow. As the crowd applauded with catcalls and hooting, the woman motioned to her horse, gave a two-handed wave, and swatted the horse on the rump. As it trotted off to a waiting handler, she disappeared into her wagon.

Following her, the overly tall man she’d seen before the church service yesterday appeared and, also in a proper English accent, introduced himself as Cyril Pennock, the show’s strongman. Attired in close-fitting pants and some sort of specialized footwear, he wore no shirt, showing off his heavily muscled upper body. For several minutes, he amazed the audience with his ability to tear an entire deck of faro cards in half, bend heavy metal bars around his neck, and break chains with his bare hands. Asking for another volunteer, he chose a heavyset man from the crowd and lifted him with one hand, straight over his head. His final feat was to get ten strong fellas from the audience to play tug-of-war with him—ten against one. In an epic battle of strength, the ten men tried to pull Mister Pennock off balance, but after a short while, he gave one strong pull on the rope and brought them all down.

As the strongman waved to the crowd, Dr. Chellingworth reappeared and thanked the audience for their time. Yet again, he made a pitch for his Heaven-Sent Miracle Elixir, able to cure many common diseases, maladies, and conditions, and directed all who were interested to come to the tent behind the line of wagons to see his collection of oddities: an albino man, a dwarf, a giant, a bearded lady, and much more. Ten cents to view them all.

Along with many others, Callie rose and tucked her drawing into her satchel, then folded the quilt she’d brought to sit on. Discreetly, she felt in her pocket for the coins she’d tucked there. Ten cents to see all the oddities Dr. Chellingworth had assembled—and avoid Joe and the embarrassment of yesterday a little while longer.

A pail in one hand and a brush in the other, Joe finished cutting in with the white paint beneath the mercantile’s roofline and dragged the sizable bead of paint downward, careful not to slop any on the tarpaulin-covered boardwalk beneath. Even in the shade of the new store’s wide, covered walkway, it was hot—probably because of the hundred trips up and down the ladder he’d made in painting the exterior walls. He’d made good progress since morning, though his mind wasn’t fully on his work. Instead, it was on the pretty little gal he’d kissed.

Almighty Father, why didn’t You stop me?

He never should’ve gone up to see if she was well.

But he should have. He was her fellow operative, after all.

Where he’d gone awry was closing himself in the room with her.

“It all would’ve been fine, except she threw herself into your arms.” He shook his head at his own whispered words.

How could a woman he should have no feelings for, except for the concern and admiration of a fellow Pinkerton, entice him so? She’d felt good in his arms. Small and dainty, vulnerable. Her form had melded against his so perfectly it had been hard not to enjoy the moment. Holding her, comforting her, had just felt right. But their jobs were such that they both needed to keep level heads, and he already found himself drawn to her. Her skill as a detective. Her determination to prove her brothers wrong. The fact that she was an orphan like him. Not to mention how pretty and defenseless she seemed. His heart and mind had already crossed lines they shouldn’t have. So he’d left the boardinghouse immediately after kissing her and busied himself drumming up some kind of odd job to do this week. He’d not returned in time for the evening meal, nor did he stick around for breakfast.

“You’re an idiot, Joe Trenamen.” He mumbled the words under his breath. “Callie deserves better.” He slapped another brush full of paint onto the wood slats of the wall. “Better than you.”

“Mr. Nesbitt.”

Startled, Joe jerked, sloshing the paint inside the can. Wrapping an arm around the ladder, he turned to find Hattie in her small horse-drawn cart on the street.

“Howdy, Miss Hattie. Hang on a minute.” He smoothed out the dollop of paint he’d slapped up, descended, set the paint and brush aside, and strode out to speak to her. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m running errands, then going to visit a friend. Will you be there for tonight’s meal?”

“I’d planned on it.” Although it would be uncomfortable around Callie, durn it.

“Would you please do me a favor?”

“Hunt up some food?” He’d been asked often enough, and it was always a welcome diversion.

“No, someone else is handling that task. I’ll be staying overnight with my friend. I stopped by the post office, and there was a letter for Miss Jarrett. Would you see she gets it?” She held up the thick envelope, addressed in a neat hand.

“Yes, Miss.” Wiping his hands on a rag, he reached for the mail. “I’ll be heading that way once I finish painting this wall.” He indicated the half-painted wall. It would likely be another hour before he’d be finished, cleaned up for the day, and able to get back to Mrs. Ingram’s place. “I’d be happy to pass it along.”

“Much appreciated.”

His thoughts darted in a different direction. “You won’t be returning to the boardinghouse tonight?”

“I may not be home for a day or two. My friend, Annie Tunstall, is with child and having a difficult time. Her husband’s been called away for a few days and asked me to stay with her until he returns.”

His skin crawled at the thought. “Given the … difficulties we’ve seen around these parts lately, please be careful.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

“Your mother knows where you’ll be?”

“Yes. And Annie’s nine-year-old son will be with us. She’s got decent neighbors on either side. We’ll be watched over, I assure you.”

“Mind if I check in on you myself—that is, if you’re planning to stay more than just overnight?”

“I’d welcome it, Mr. Nesbitt. Thank you.”

“All right, then. Count on it.” Tucking the envelope into his back pocket, he stepped back, and Hattie waved as she drove off.

When he turned toward the storefront again, two young boys hovered over his paint pail, backs to him. Joe hurried in their direction.

“Hey! Get out of that!” he groused, and both boys bolted up and spun, eyes as big as whiskey barrel lids. Frightened, they ran, something long and narrow trailing from one of their pudgy little fists. As the kid raced past, the string—or whatever it was—caught on Joe’s pant leg, trailing a white slash across the blue twill before the kid dropped it in his haste to escape.

Joe watched their retreat, then looked at the paint pail. They’d seemingly not disturbed the pail or brush—both were exactly as he’d left them. But starting from the paint that had dripped from the brush onto the tarpaulin, there were a number of little paint drawings on the canvas—as well as some snaking paint lines. He crossed to the long ropelike thing the one boy dropped and, picking it up carefully, found it was the viny growth of some kind of plant that the boys must have dragged through the paint droplets.

With a sigh, he tossed the vine into the street and set back to work, thankful the boys hadn’t caused any further damage.