Saturday's Lady

Eleven

James MacEilan had twenty-four dollars and seventy-two cents to his name after the harvest was over. He'd worked hard, dawn to dusk, six days a week, and had done odd jobs besides, and he hadn't spent a single penny more than he needed to. It was enough for a train ticket, if he rode in the open car, all the way to Denver, and then he'd buy his tools and make his way up the mountainside to Leadville or Breckenridge, where there was silver aplenty, and he'd never worry about money again.

It was dawn when he boarded the train, when he handed over his money and got into the open car, the cool autumn dawn pushing through the air. The train lurched onward, and James settled in, more excited about the Rockies than sad about Omaha.

***** 

Emma was with Mrs. Remigrant, in her beige dress and feathered hat, outside the dressmaker's. The old lady walked more slowly than she used to, and Emma, playing both the gracious niece and the lady's maid, stayed faithfully slow at her side.

There were plenty of people out on the street. It was a warm day in late autumn, the kind where it seemed snow could fall the next day and so you'd better get out while you could. The leaves had fallen off the barren trees and littered the streets, all brown and black now with damp, and winter seemed inevitable. But for now, it was warm.

"A new walking dress," Mrs. Remigrant was saying. "You should get one for winter, in a neat dark blue or maybe purple, and a cape to go with. I cannot believe I've gotten you four dresses for parties and dances but only the one to walk out in-- what must Mr. McDonald think, that you wear the same dress every time you see him? Come along, Emma, before winter really begins, now..."

They had wandered a few blocks down from the quaint area of Denver where the old lady lived. The dressmaker was an old friend, and here on the outskirts of the neighborhood things seemed to be cheaper anyways, and the quality almost better. Emma had suggested the carriage, but Mrs. Remigrant was adamant that they walk, it was a nice day and she wasn't so old, yet, was she?

The two came past the mercantile, where a man with long red hair came exploded out in front of them, a cloth bag in his hand and an angry scowl on his face.

"They cheat me," he was muttering, "this would never have cost so much if I'd bought it anywhere else, the mean b--"

"Pardon me, sir!" began Mrs. Remigrant. "You ought to walk with more care!"

The man looked up in surprise. "Didn't know anyone was there."

His eyes met Emma's, and she went cold. 

"It's alright, Auntie," she said, carefully controlling her flat accent, "there's no harm done. Forgive the man, it wasn't a great error."

She looked at him again. He was frozen for a moment before he snapped out of it with a small jump.

"Very sorry, ma'am," he said, nodding his head. "I'll keep a better watch next time I come out a shop door."

Emma pulled her employer to the side as the man took a step back to let them pass. She took one more look at him, nothing but pure shock in her heart, and tried not to see how he looked at her with a sort of sorrow.

*****

She looked so much like her mother that it made James want to cry.

But surely the young lady walking with her elderly aunt was not his daughter, for the woman was certainly no sister of his. He chalked it up to coincidence. She was a proper lady, hat and all, and he had left his children destitute.

Yes, it was a coincidence. A terrible coincidence, but what more did he deserve?

*****

Emma's green skirt rustled as she moved towards the wall. There were plenty of young ladies there, gossipping, with little glasses of champagne in their hands.