Texas Tall Page 8

  Lottie took note. Having grown up dirt-poor and never wanting to suffer such again, she intended to be rich someday. And when she was, she wanted to convey the same sense of power that Lady Jane did. But in Lottie’s case, she wanted that power to come from her, rather than her surroundings or the giant standing guard at her back.

  Lady Jane came forward, her hand extended. “Miss Weyland, I’m so delighted to see you again.”

  Lottie hesitated, not sure if she was to kiss the hand or shake it. She shook it and was surprised to find a firm grip on such a fragile-looking woman. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Knightly.”

  “I’ve been wanting to know you better. And please do let’s not be so formal. Call me Jane. May I call you Lottie?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent.” Jane motioned to two gold velvet chairs before the marble-framed fireplace. “Please join me. We’ll be warmer by the fire.”

  As they took their seats, Lottie studied the room more closely, taking in the mahogany curio cabinet, the castle painting over the fireplace—Lady Jane’s home, perhaps?—the delicately carved desk, and the thick floral rug beneath her feet. Someday she would have a room like this.

  “I was told Texas was hot,” the Englishwoman said with a smile. “But I’ve never been so cold, except in Scotland, of course. It’s the constant wind, I think. Briggs, would you have Cook send in a tea tray, please? Unless you’d prefer coffee, Lottie?”

  “Tea will be fine, ma’am—Jane.” Lottie kept on her Sunday gloves but removed her bonnet and set it atop the folder containing the proposal on the floor beside her chair.

  As Briggs silently left the room, Jane sat back. “So, what do you think?” She spread her hands in a motion that encompassed the room.

  “It’s quite opulent.” Lottie was surprised by her own words. She never used “quite” and wasn’t even sure she’d used “opulent” right. For some reason, whenever she was around the English people she became very—quite—conscious of the way she talked—spoke. She’d gotten lazy without Grandpa around to correct her grammar all the time. As a someday-rich person, it would be to her advantage to speak correctly.

  Jane smiled, exposing the one flaw in her beauty. Her two front teeth overlapped slightly. Certainly not a big flaw, but enough to make the Englishwoman seem more like regular folks. And since her own teeth were perfectly aligned, it also made Lottie feel less intimidated.

  Jane’s blue gaze took in the room. “I daresay it’s a bit much for Greenbroke. But perhaps our little town won’t always be in back of beyond.”

  Seeing her opening, Lottie pounced. “My thoughts exactly. Which is why I’ve come to see you today.”

  But before she could continue, the door opened and Briggs entered, followed by Bea Davenport, bearing a silver tray loaded with a teapot, china cups and saucers, a tiny creamer and sugar set, and a plate of muffin-looking things. Beneath the starched white apron, Bea wore the same blue and gold colors that Kearsey did—minus the gold braid, and with a mop cap in place of the top hat.

  Lottie had heard that Bea had left the family ranch outside of Greenbroke to hire on as cook’s assistant. It was apparent the poor girl was struggling. The china cups rattled on the wobbly tray, and the sweat of concentration dampened the girl’s brow. As soon as she set the tray atop a footstool between the chairs, Bea straightened with a sigh of relief. Lottie gave her an encouraging smile, and received a shaky grin in return.

  “Thank you, Bea,” Anson Brigs said. “That will be all for now.” He held the door open, closing it softly behind her after Bea left.

  Lottie wished he had left, too. She didn’t want to discuss business with him hovering in the background. But he remained, taking a position behind Lady Jane’s chair, feet braced, hands behind his back, his cold gray gaze fixed on Lottie.

  Once Jane poured the tea and passed around the plate of muffin things, which she called scones, she sat back with a smile. “You were explaining why you’ve come, Lottie?”

  Lottie glanced at Briggs. He stared back, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Pushing her irritation aside, Lottie retrieved the folder she had set at her feet. “There’s been a lot of talk about why you would build this fancy hotel and gaming palace in a backwater town like Greenbroke. I think it’s because you know it presents a fine investment opportunity.”

  When there was no response, Lottie elaborated, repeating Juno’s words about access, labor, and cheap land. “When the growth comes, you and your Social Club will be ready. As will I. And this is how.” Lottie held out the folder.

  As Jane opened it, Briggs stepped closer to look over her shoulder.

  Lottie thought that odd, since he wasn’t included in the offer. But she made no comment. While they read over the proposal she and Griffin had put together, Lottie explained about the consortium and their plan to invest in two ways.

  “First, as we feel Greenbroke and the surrounding areas are well positioned for future growth, our long-term plan is to buy land in anticipation of rising real estate values.” Griffin’s words, not hers. But after repeating them over and over in her room, they felt comfortable on her tongue.

  “Second, and more risky but with greater possible rewards, we plan to invest in the budding oil industry. You may have heard of the wells being drilled throughout Nacogdoches County. So far, they don’t produce much, but even so, anticipation of other finds has pushed up land prices throughout east Texas. And there are other places to invest. Griffin and I are collecting land surveys of the entire state, and we’ve also been in contact with John Carill, a man well-known for his expertise in oil engineering and exploration.”

  Briggs looked up, pinning her with eyes the color of smoke—and about as readable, too. “What does he say?”

  Again, Lottie wondered why the man was inserting himself into the conversation. Was he the brains as well as the brawn behind Lady Jane?

  She deliberately kept her answer vague. “He says areas in Texas are very promising.” She didn’t mention which areas. Until Jane Knightly came on board, Lottie wanted to keep her cards close.

  The Englishwoman closed the folder. “Oil speculation is risky.”

  “It is,” Lottie agreed. “Which is why we aren’t interested in drilling for oil.”

  “Then in what are you investing? Surely not the land itself.”

  “Only what lies beneath it.” Seeing their surprise, Lottie explained. “Rural folks are very protective of their farms and ranches. Not many can be coaxed into selling. But when told they can keep their land and continue to work it as they’ve done for generations, they’re more willing to consider selling or leasing the rights to what might, or might not, lie under the surface.”

  “And once you have a promising lease,” Jane surmised, “you sit on it until oil drillers come calling.”

  Lottie nodded. Juno was right—Jane Knightly was a smart lady. “And as holders of the oil rights, we take a share of production profits.”

  Briggs nodded in understanding. “But without the risk or expense of drilling a well and coming up dry.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what if no one wants to drill on your lease?” he pressed.

  “Then we’ll mark that one a loss and move to another. That’s why we’re researching surveys and consulting with Carill. With enough investors, we should be able to buy oil rights in several promising areas. And we only need one to bring in enough black gold to make us all rich.”

  They discussed it a few minutes longer, then Jane asked if she could keep the folder for a few days.

  “Of course.” Lottie tried to keep elation from her voice. But even as a sense of triumph surged through her veins, nagging questions arose. How did Anson Briggs fit into all this? He seemed overly interested in Jane’s business dealings. Was he protecting her or managing her? And why did Jane need such an ardent watchdog? Shaking off
those troubling thoughts, Lottie put on a smile. “Talk to Griffin at the bank. Write down any questions you might have. We can discuss it all again after you’ve had a chance to think it over.”

  “I will. And thank you, Lottie, for including me in this investment opportunity. It sounds most interesting.”

  Briggs left.

  Lottie gathered her bonnet, then hesitated.

  “Was there something else?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t suppose you need a bookkeeper?” Realizing how unprofessional that sounded, she took a breath and tried again. “What I meant to say is I’m an experienced bookkeeper, and if you find that you need one, I’ll be happy to supply references.” Better. But still weak.

  Jane smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do need a bookkeeper. Briggs was complaining just the other day that he couldn’t watch over me, the hotel guests, the restaurant staff, and the gaming rooms, and still keep up with the accounting. When can you start?”

  “As soon as you need me.”

  “Perfect! A woman who knows her own mind. I knew I would like you. Tomorrow, then. That will free Briggs to bring the club up to snuff.” Jane rose and, linking arms with Lottie, walked her toward the door. “We have an important visitor coming in on Wednesday and we hope to make a good impression. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Royce Palmer?”

  “The politician? Yes, I’ve heard of him. He helped draft the new Texas constitution, and I read he’s supporting Winfield Hancock in the upcoming presidential election. Do you know if he’s coming alone?”

  “I don’t think he is. He specifically asked for two rooms.”

  A few minutes later, Lottie was charging down the boardwalk, her mind spinning. Ty is coming! Ty is coming! At least she hoped he was. And in two days!

  She almost laughed out loud. Another client for her bookkeeping business, possibly another investor in the consortium, and maybe another visit from Ty. Life couldn’t be better.

  Which dress should she wear to her dinner with him? She hoped they would be dining in the fancy blue-and-gold Social Club restaurant. She had never eaten there but had heard it was wonderful. Apparently Lady Jane had brought a French chef all the way from England. If they dined there, she would wear the gold since it would match the décor. But if the weather turned warm again, the green would be cooler. But would it clash with the blue?

  Mr. Brackett looked up from his stack of lists as Lottie came through the door. “How’d it go?” As an investor, he took a keen interest in all the consortium doings.

  “Good, I think.” She stopped at the front counter to give him a brief rundown of her meeting with Jane. “She seemed interested. Plus she’s hiring me to bookkeep.”

  “Soon you’ll be too busy to work here,” he chided.

  “Never!” With a backward wave, Lottie started toward her sleeping quarters in the rear of the store. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll come help you with your lists.”

  “No chance of that.”

  Lottie hesitated. “Why do you say that?”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Best prepare yourself. You’ve got a visitor. A weepy one.” Before she could question him, he made a shooing motion. “Go. I don’t want her coming out here, blubbering and scaring off the customers.”

  Figuring it must be Becky, and wondering what had gotten her in such a state, Lottie hurried toward the back.

  “There you are!” Becky rushed forward as soon as Lottie opened the door. “I’ve been waiting and waiting and—oh Lottie, she’s leaving! What am I going to do?”

  It took a moment to calm Becky down so Lottie could understand what her friend was saying. Apparently, Sally had decided to go to San Francisco after all. And she intended to leave on the Friday eastbound.

  “And she’s taking the baby with her!” With a wail, Becky collapsed, sobbing, into Lottie’s arms.

  If Sally intended to leave so soon, it stood to reason that she would take the baby with her since it wasn’t due to arrive for at least another month. Lottie patted Becky’s shoulder. “Are you certain she plans to leave right away? Traveling this close to the birth could harm both her and the baby.”

  “If she takes that baby away from me—”

  “It’s not your baby, Becky.”

  “It should be!” Pulling away, Becky brushed a hand over her damp cheeks then went to sit on the foot of Lottie’s bed. “She won’t take care of it right. You know she won’t. She won’t even name it!”

  Unsure how to comfort her friend, Lottie sat down beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “She’s not leaving for five days. Maybe we can convince her to—”

  “I could give her something.” Becky sat up, a hopeful look on her tear-streaked face. “Something that would make the baby come before she left. Then once she had it and saw the bother it was, she would leave it with me. Don’t you think that would work?”

  Lottie was too horrified to respond.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? I wouldn’t do anything that could hurt the baby!”

  “But forcing it to come early might do exactly that.”

  Becky looked away, her mouth set. But as Lottie’s words sank in, her defiance crumpled. “I’m going to lose the baby, aren’t I?”

  Lottie remained silent, tears of sympathy clouding her eyes. She’d been afraid this would happen. Becky had been so set on keeping Sally’s baby she hadn’t allowed herself to consider the possibility that Sally would change her mind. Now she was heartbroken. Even though Lottie had never spent time around babies, she felt a sense of loss, too.

  Becky blotted her eyes with the hem of her petticoat. “I just wanted to love it and take care of it.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought I could give it a better chance than Sally could. Now we’ll never even know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

  Hoping to stem a new flood of tears, Lottie said, “I think it’s a girl.”

  “Do you?” Becky gave a wobbly smile. “I’ve thought so, too. I was going to name her Prissy, after my baby sister who died. That’s a nice name, don’t you think?”

  “I do. And I also think someday you’ll give that name to your own daughter.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a son.”

  “Then name it Pisser, instead.”

  Laughing despite the tears, Becky bumped her shoulder against Lottie’s—a gesture that said she was all right now. “You always know how to cheer me up, don’t you?”

  “You’re the sister I never had, Becky. I’d do anything for you.”

  Fearing another emotional outburst—this one from herself—Lottie rose and walked over to the small wardrobe in the corner. “But now I need you to do something for me.” Pulling out her two new dresses, she held them up, one in each hand. “Tell me which would go best with the colors in the restaurant of Lady Jane’s Social Club.”

  Chapter 8

  As early as she dared the next morning, Lottie arrived at the Social Club to begin her duties as bookkeeper.

  Briggs was waiting for her. “Good morning, Miss Weyland. If you will follow me, please.”

  Without waiting for a response, he led her through the lobby and down the hall to the room across from the one where they had met the previous day. Opening the door, he stepped aside so she could enter first.

  The room was Spartan compared to the elegance of Jane’s office. A neat bookcase, a tall oak filing cabinet, a table and chair in one corner, a coal stove in another, and a large desk in the center of the room. Atop both the table and desk were neat stacks of folders and ledgers.

  “Is this your office?” she asked, untying her bonnet.

  “It is. We will share it for now.” Closing the door behind them, he stood in front of it, feet braced, hands behind his back. He nodded toward the table and straight-backed chair in the corner. “That is where you will work, Miss Weyland. In
those folders are invoices, orders placed and received, as well as a payroll list.”

  What? No whiskey boxes of receipts and IOUs to dig through? Juno could take a lesson.

  “For now, your duties will only involve expenditures and receivables relating to the restaurant and hotel. I will continue to handle the gaming aspects of the club.”

  Lottie set her bonnet and gloves on the worktable beside a tray of sharpened pencils and a stack of blank work tablets. She had to give Briggs credit for being thorough. And neat.

  “Until you are familiar with the way we do things here,” he went on, “I will review your work each day. Have you any questions?”

  “What’s that?” She pointed to a slate chalkboard marked in a bold, masculine script.

  “Our scheduling chart. You needn’t concern yourself with that. Anything else, Miss Weyland?”

  Lottie studied him for a moment. “Were you in the military, Mr. Briggs?”

  “British Light Infantry.”

  “An officer?”

  “Aide to Lord Bellingham. Now if you will excuse me, I must be about my duties. I will return later to check on your progress.” With a curt bow, he left the room.

  An odd man, Lottie thought, watching the door close behind him. How did a British soldier end up in America with a proper English lady? Was it simply an extension of his duties? Or something more personal?

  She soon forgot about Anson Briggs and Jane Knightly and lost herself in tallies, entries, credits, and debits. Working with numbers relaxed her, creating a shield around her mind and channeling her thoughts into the simple task of adding, subtracting, and placing numbers in neat lines on a blank page.

  An hour after she had begun, Jane swept in with a tray of tea and biscuits, and wearing a pale lavender morning gown that put Lottie’s expensive gold poplin to shame. “Good morning, Lottie. I hope you don’t mind if I hide in here for a while. Briggs has been a proper tyrant all morning, drilling the staff and inspecting the least little thing. It’s his military background one presumes, but really, this is a social club not a battle campaign. Shall I pour?”