They'd Take Tea

The evening was starting to cool. The stench of horse manure still lay heavy on the camp, but a breeze carried a hint of the forest from the surrounding hills. Smelled like autumn was coming. Alma Ellsworth finished making notes in her journal of bank business. Separate from the formal accounts Mr. Star kept, she liked to have a written record of the day's events.

Mr. Arnsworth had looked bleak as he made a small deposit.

Mr. Riley had changed his mind about his deposit, putting down one hundred forty dollars' worth of gold, then changing his deposit to one hundred fifteen.

She didn't know if any of this would be significant. But events would not catch her unawares again if she could help it.

She didn't know if an accounting and review of the particulars of her days would have changed any of the course of events that had made a her life a deadly whirlpool at times, but it might have given her an edge, a notion of what was ahead. Failing that, might notes jotted down have given her a chance to see, looking back, where she had stepped wrong, or when things first started to spiral out of control?

At any rate, her journal gave her a private place to mark each day that she abstained from numbing her feelings with various substances. She would look back next year, she thought, and see a journal full of a years' worth of stars. And so she would grow a visible foundation, even if only visible to her, for being a proper mother to Sofia, and an asset to the camp.

And a little part of her wanted to someday let the journal show to Trixie that she had consciously abstained, and took her clear-headedness seriously. Trixie smiled at her more, now, and she seemed not to be quite so angry in the course of the day. Alma knew Trixie had watched her for signs of going back on the opium after Mr. Ellsworth had been killed, and again when Mrs. Bullock had shyly mentioned that she would need help with teaching the camp's children as her time advanced.

But Alma was finding strength and comfort in little things, daily things. Sofia's blossoming as she healed from losing her second father gave her hope for her own healing. Alma marked notes about Sofia's day and her quiet observations about her ward in a journal kept at home.

With all the ways she documented her days, she was beginning to feel that she was writing more than living. Living, on a personal level, though, had proved a sad and scary activity. "Banker" was satisfactory. "Mother" was rewarding, if sometimes challenging and fraught with anxiety. "Alma"…perhaps "Alma" was better as a scrivener than as a woman out in the world.

"You taking root over there? School's been out for an hour. Why ain't you headed home yet?"

Trixie had amazingly high standards for motherhood at times, Alma thought to herself.

"I was just finishing up, Trixie. Sofia is having dinner with Anne's family this evening, so I'm not in a rush."

Trixie smiled at the thought of quiet Sofia having a best friend, visiting with her family, maybe chasing fireflies or playing with dolls before supper.

"That's nice, Alma. It's nice to see that child coming out of—" she stopped, unsure how to word what she was thinking. "Anyways, I'm glad she's doing little girl things. Glad for your sake, too."

Alma met Trixie's eyes. And aren't we glad she's not being groomed to be bought and sold, for men's debts and appetites? Oh, yes, we surely are.

Trixie put her ledgers away, waiting for Alma to lock up, spin the combination on the bank safe, and secure her hat before the two women left. Alma said a courteous "Good night, Mr. Daily" to the young man who guarded the bank in the evenings. He touched his hat brim, gave her a polite "Evening, Mrs. Ellsworth" and Trixie a friendly "Evening, Trixie". He would stay there until the night watchman for businesses at this end of town took over.

The camp was safer in some ways than it used to be as law and order became more expected. In other ways, the growth of the camp and influx of new people meant that there was more of the unknown. And Alma had not found "the unknown" to be a particular friend to her.

Trixie walked on to her rooms after saying goodnight. Alma sometimes envied Trixie her freedoms. She could leave her hair unbound, and could look to the temperature of the air to decide if she wanted to wear a shawl or not. Although Alma had gone from full to partial mourning some months ago, choosing soft greys, lavenders and the occasional muted purple, she still felt required to wear a hat, and shawl or jacket, and was always tightly laced. Brom's people had certainly expected a high standard of dress and decorum, and their expectations were made known well in advance of her first wedding. Old habits….

After marrying Mr. Ellsworth, she could have gotten away with the more casual attire of a mining manager's wife, she supposed, although she had never been "just" a wife. Her role as mine owner, then banker, kept her locked in a certain image.

And if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she had an increased interest in presenting herself well as soon as Martha Bullock got off the stagecoach three years ago. That part of her life was over, she had thought, and she and Mrs. Bullock had formed a sturdy alliance in matters regarding educating the camp's children. Still, the news of the Sheriff's wife's pregnancy had engendered confusing feelings in Alma's breast. She touched her stomach lightly with her gloved hand as she remembered carrying Seth's baby.

Part of her almost wanted to confide in Mrs. Bullock, ask her if Seth's child made her as sick in the mornings as their child had made Alma. Madness, although she had been sure back then that Mrs. Bullock had figured out the way of things. Still, the woman had a right to enjoy looking forward to having a child again without any encumbrances from the past. Martha must have her own sad demons, too, thinking of another child, fathered by another man.

Alma wondered if the other woman would compare each step of her pregnancy with how her course with William had gone. She thought maybe she wouldn't. Martha Bullock had always had a type of silvery steel about her, pure and strong, practical.

Alma felt she herself was moving towards strength and practicality, but purity was a quality she hadn't associated with herself since she learned of the cupidity and baseness of her father as a young girl. Alma sometimes saw herself in those early chunks of gold ore: hard, cloudy quartz, sharp and cold, with the warm vein of color running through it, only being of value after blasting, after crushing. She smiled at the apt metaphor. Shall I take that all the way to feeling pinched out, or does that stretch into the overly dramatic?

Her way home took her past the Gem Saloon. She could see Mr. Swearengen's shadowy figure on his balcony. As sometimes happened, she got a brief flash of the shock of bullets firing around her, her disbelief, then her terror. He had said, then, that you never get used to it. She wondered, if she asked, would he tell her you never forget being shot at? Or would he reassure her that her memory would fade in time? Either way, she realized she would believe what he said on the subject as if it were gospel.

She sighed as she realized she was putting trust in the man who most probably ordered Brom's death. She had thought such an act would be…unforgivable, that it would put the author ever in the category of men not to be trusted. She was not proud of herself that she really didn't feel much at all about her first widowing. Mr. Swearengen had done more to protect her than Brom ever did, she thought, and then thought again of cold and cloudy quartz.

"Evening, Mrs. Ellsworth", he called down.

"Good evening, Mr. Swearengen. A bit cooler this evening, don't you think?"

He set his teacup down on the baluster. "I think you may be right, Mrs. Ellsworth. Mayhap the sign of an early Fall." He leaned over the railing. "I'll be sending a correspondence over by one of my men later this evening. No cause for alarm."

"Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Swearengen." She nodded and walked on.

Probably her mother would have called her trashy for standing in the thoroughfare conversing with any man. Conversing with a saloon and brothel owner would probably have gotten her disowned by her mother; her father would have been looking for a monetary angle to exploit.

She admitted to herself that she was glad of the advance notice. With only herself and Sofia at home, her first reaction to one of Mr. Swearengen's men on her doorstep would have been alarm and dread until the purpose was announced. And she had considerable experience of how long a second or two could take to pass, when fear was involved.

Sofia was done with supper and waiting for her mother when Alma walked by her friend's house. Her braid was starting to come undone and her cheeks had a healthy flush as she sat on the front steps whispering to Anne, giggling. Alma chatted with Anne's parents for a few minutes; a couple a bit younger than her, the husband plying his cobbler's trade. Plain folk, from one of the Southern states, looking for customers with a bit of coin to spend on trade and repairs.

After arriving home, Alma spent some time talking with Sofia about her day. The sums being calculated in school, the writing exercises. Her hope to climb up to the tree house built on the school " inside" tree. Sofia was most interested in telling Alma about Anne's new puppies, wet-nosed and snuffling greedily after their mother. Alma did a parental "we'll see, dear" with ease, remembering how many times her parents put off a request of hers with that phrase.

"Is there no other way? Will I have to stay with him forever, Daddy?"

"We'll see, Button."

She was no longer sure if this conversation had actually taken place or if it came from her guilty conscience.

Mr. Ellsworth had inherited a faithful dog, although he spent more time at the mine site than at their home. A dog…she wouldn't say "no" tonight. She really meant the "we'll see" she gave to Sofia.

There was a tentative knocking on her front door. Alma took her leave from Sofia, telling her to start getting ready for bed. She could see Johnny's sandy hair and beard through clear parts of the etched window set in the door. Johnny always seemed like the cleanest-handed man of Mr. Swearengen's. He held no reminders or suspicions of violent death. She would have been surprised and sad to learn his ambition was to be a full-fledged road agent.

Or it had been.

"Yes, Mr. Burns, Mr. Swearengen said you might call. Will you come in?" She stood back from the door.

She was almost sure she would issue the same invitation to Mr. Dority.

Almost.

There was Brom. But there was also Mr. Ellsworth.

She probably would.

Johnny Burns felt more conscious than usual of his everyday striped shirt, never all the way clean. Ladies like this always made him uncomfortable. He liked simpler women. He liked the new whore Lena, from Iowa. She could read almost as good as him but never acted like it was anything big.

Johnny now had an "other one" in his mind, as Al had after Trixie took up with the Jew. He tried not to think about the other one. He would never again work on teaching a whore to read.

"Uh, no, Ma'am, 'preciate it, but Al just told me to get this to you, and I was to wait on your response, if you have one. Or, if you don't, well, I guess that's like a response, ain't it? Anyways, here's your communication." He handed Alma a folded note.

Mrs. Ellsworth,

I have acquired a supply of Black Darjeeling tea, fresh from India as of August. I have been assured of its quality by the seller, a British officer who purchased a quantity prior to leaving his posting. May I call on you to give you a portion? I recall we discussed tea at our first meeting, and would like your opinion as to the taste and quality. Please convey your response via Mr. Burns, if you are of a mind to permit me to call.

Regards,

Albert E. Swearengen

She re-folded the note. What a nice, well-written note, she thought. He does have some gentlemanly…well, he writes a decent note.