AN: I should mention the usual disclaimers – I don't own Warehouse 13, have no rights to its characters, etc. Also, thanks to my beta, GiggleBlanket.
Chapter Two
Helena had suggested they go to the Journal's offices and discuss her expectations for the paper there. She would like to meet Warren Bering as well, but Myka shifted her feet and looked away and said that the long train ride had exhausted her father. Besides their living quarters were a mess, overflowing with trunks and boxes. Helen had immediately apologized, annoyed with herself for making such a gaffe. Granted she hadn't expected the Berings to arrive as soon as they did, but that was no excuse for thinking they would be ready for guests, even if one of them was Mr. Bering's employer.
But they couldn't stay here either. Helena had little respect for the conventions that regarded saloons and whorehouses as necessary evils. Oftentimes more business was conducted where men drank and otherwise enjoyed themselves than in oak-paneled boardrooms. Yet she recognized her obligation to remove Myka from the Rusty Spur as soon as possible, and if she had been tempted to forget, she had the disapproving face of Sheriff Lattimer in front of her.
"Sheriff, I believe you'll find some of Leena's sugar cookies in my office." Helena never tired of seeing how quickly the sheriff's expression could change when cookies were mentioned. Replacing the pained look he wore whenever he encountered Helena in the saloon, doubly pained this time because he was accompanied by Myka, was the greedy anticipation of a five-year old child. "Please rest assured that I will take good care of Miss Bering."
Torn between the cookies and his desire to guard Myka's virtue, which Helena wanted to tell him was in no danger of being threatened, the sheriff stared doubtfully at her until Myka smiled her encouragement. "I'll be all right. Thank you so much for your help, Sheriff Lattimer."
After another doubtful look at Helena, the sheriff left Myka's side only to stop a few feet away and ask, "You won't mind if I drop by sometime and check in on you and your father, will you?" Myka shook her head, her cheeks reddening, and Helena resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. It was unprecedented for the sheriff to let anyone slow his progress when food was in sight, but marvel though that was, Helena had no patience for any budding romance between the town's lawman and her new editor's daughter.
Though she could understand his interest. Myka was pretty. Very pretty, Helena acknowledged. Other women might despair over the profusion of curls, Helena suspected that Myka herself might be one of those women, but Helena liked how her hair lifted in the breeze eddying at the Spur's entrance and how occasional strands trailed across Myka's jaw. Myka would tuck the errant hair behind her ear only to have it spring out and feather against her skin. Her hair was a dull brown in the Spur's interior, but Helena knew that it would display flashes of gold and red in the sunlight. Myka probably rued its plainness, wishing, like many brunettes, that it was blond instead. Almost absently, Helena gave her own hair a loving pat. Clearly ill at ease, eyes roaming everywhere but touching on nothing, most especially Helena, Myka would cut a graceful figure were she more relaxed. She was tall but carried herself well, her back straight and her shoulders showing no inclination to slump. Myka's dress was old-fashioned in style, but it couldn't disguise a figure that was slender yet womanly, in Helena's estimation, professional estimation, of course.
Helena suppressed a sigh. Really, the decision had been made for her, there was only one place they could go. "Miss Bering, if you would accompany me home, I believe we might be more comfortable there." Helena didn't like to conduct business in her home. She had spent too many years having to treat her various lodgings as places of business, and now that she had a true home, a two-story brick house that she had purchased shortly upon arriving in Sweetwater and spent a considerable amount of money redesigning to her liking, she wanted to keep the daily concerns that came with running a saloon and a few women of pleasure out of it. Until the Journal's former editor decided to retire to live with his daughter in Iowa, she hadn't had to worry about the paper. While Ralph Sanderson's command of basic grammar and punctuation wasn't all that she could have hoped for, he showed himself to be an adept salesman of advertising space, and when given a choice between a graceful style and a profit, Helena would usually choose the latter. Which made her decision to hire Warren Bering all the more impulsive. But there had been something about his letter of inquiry, his passion for providing his readers with a balanced account of events important to them, his desire to encourage them to express their views – it had stirred Helena's heart and though she wasn't sure how deeply reasoned an article on crop conditions or the minutes of the latest town council meeting needed to be, she had indulged in a bit of unwonted idealism to think that the citizens of Sweetwater might benefit from it.
She raised her parasol as soon as the Spur's doors swung closed behind them. Any vanity she might have had about her appearance had hardened over the years to an unsentimental recognition of which of her features were attractive and which weren't. And the fairness of her skin, particularly in contrast with the darkness of her coloring, had always been a source of compliments. Even now, when she could let her skin turn leathery under the sun if she wished, she continued to protect it; although she hadn't had to rely on the delicacy of her complexion to win her any favors recently, there was no sense in damaging an asset. Sidling a look at Myka, Helena mused that perhaps Miss Bering ought to give some thought to guarding her skin from the sun, even though she had to admit that the scattering of freckles across Myka's cheeks and nose was charming. Holding her parasol higher and closer to Myka, Helena offered, "Would you like to share? It's not much, but it does provide some relief."
Myka's eyes widened, almost in alarm, Helena thought. "Thank you but no, Mrs. Wells. I'm fine."
Helena retracted her parasol, nettled at the rebuff. Proper young women like Miss Bering weren't accustomed to rubbing elbows with saloonkeepers and madams. Having been a proper young woman herself once upon a time, Helena had a fair idea of the thoughts that must be running through Myka's mind. And for the first time in a very long while, Helena felt ashamed, seeing herself from Myka's perspective. Nice brick homes and parasols to protect her skin and clothes made for her and shipped straight from New York (although Myka didn't know that) – how did the saying go? You couldn't make a silk purse from a sow's ear. Helena knew that Myka saw her as no better, and in all probability worse, than the prostitutes who worked for her.
Seeing her home come into view, Helena didn't feel her usual surge of pleasure. This afternoon, in Myka's presence, all she saw was its flaws. Grand for Sweetwater certainly, it would be nondescript in a city, neither large nor distinguished, the lawn brown, and the shade trees spindly, the shadows they cast mottled with sunlight. Reflecting on how she had acquired the home, bought on the cheap from the former president of Sweetwater's bank, who was only two steps ahead of a mob of angry, defrauded customers, she found no humor in it as she ordinarily did. She had taken advantage of someone else's misfortune and, moreover, deprived the town of having the man brought to justice; he had taken her cash and almost literally leapt onto the train leaving for Chicago. Opening the gate to the stone walkway leading to the front door, Helena said brusquely, "This way, if you please, Miss Bering."
Leena was at the top of the stairs to the second floor when Helena and Myka entered the foyer. "Hel – Mrs. Wells," she caught herself. She curiously but discreetly surveyed Myka as she descended.
"This is Miss Bering," Helena said as Leena took her parasol and placed it in a stand. "Her father is the new editor of the Journal." Leena knew everything about the Journal just as she knew most everything there was to know about Helena, but this was the fiction they had decided upon when they arrived in Sweetwater, that Leena was Helena's housekeeper. It answered the question of why a white woman would be traveling in the company of a black woman and, just as importantly, excused the familiarity with which they treated one another, but Helena hated the necessity for the pretense, and she bridled at the submissiveness Leena felt called upon to display on the rare occasions when Helena brought home a guest. Helena looked at Myka, expecting her to be studiously indifferent to Leena's presence, as if she were no more important or worthy of notice than the umbrella stand, or worse, gape-mouthed with astonishment at the sight of a black woman. But Myka was neither. She was regarding Leena with interest, yes, but with no hint of condescension.
Smiling warmly, Myka said, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
Didn't catch it because Helena hadn't thought to mention it. She burned with embarrassment as Leena said quietly, "My name is Leena, Miss Bering."
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Leena."
Turning to Helena, Leena prompted her, "Refreshments in the parlor, Mrs. Wells?" Helena didn't miss the sardonic gleam in her eyes, although nothing could be read from Leena's carefully schooled expression; she was merely the housekeeper awaiting her mistress's order.
"Yes, please." Helena cast an irritated glance at her back as Leena retreated down the hall toward the kitchen. Turning to usher her guest into the parlor, Helena glimpsed Myka crossing the foyer into the library. She followed, noticing how reverently Myka approached the book shelves, touching the volumes lightly, disbelievingly. She began to work one of the books out from the shelf but stopped, spinning around with her hand clapped to her mouth.
"Please forgive me, Mrs. Wells. I had no business coming in here without your permission. But it's so lovely, and you have so many books. . . . " She trailed off, mesmerized.
Helena couldn't help but smile at Myka's obvious delight. "Feel free to borrow as many as you'd like."
Myka stepped closer, grinning so broadly that Helena feared she might be enveloped in a hug. Stiffening in advance of the embrace, Helena waited to be crushed against Myka's faded dress only to watch as she whirled away, coltishly, long limbs appearing to move independently of one another. Myka must have been like this as a girl, all elbows and knees and flying curls, and Helena wondered with a sadness the years hadn't blunted if Christina had shown the same endearing awkwardness, if she had looked as flushed and happy. Myka, with a shy look at Helena, placed a book in the crook of her arm when her attention was drawn to the books on the shelf above her. "Baudelaire in French and Goethe," she glanced at Helena for confirmation that her pronunciation was correct "in German. How many languages do you know, Mrs. Wells?"
"I have a passing acquaintance with several but know only a few well enough to read." Though Helena was grateful to be able to steer her thoughts away from Christina, memories of sitting in her father's library with a succession of tutors, each more pedantic than the last, were hardly more pleasant. How she had wanted to attend school like Charles, but their father had his own ideas of what was the appropriate education for a girl of her status. The bookshelves, the large mahogany desk in front of the windows at the back of the room, the fireplace – it struck Helena that she had created a facsimile of her father's library in a house thousands of miles away. But she was the one who determined what books it held, how far afield her desire for knowledge would take her.
Gesturing at the shelves lining the walls, Myka asked, "Just what other treasures do you have in here?"
"I leave that to you to find out, Miss Bering." Helena kept her eyes from straying to the shelves in the far corner of the room, which held a collection of erotica. While Myka's expression as she stared at the books was not unlike Sheriff Lattimer's when cookies were present, Helena suspected that it would take Myka quite some time before she read her way to the 'naughty pictures' section of the library.
Leena entered then, carrying a tray heavy with plates of finger sandwiches and cookies and a dainty teapot that Helena didn't even know she had. The library wasn't designed to host an afternoon tea, but between the three of them they managed to arrange chairs and side tables so that Helena and Myka were facing each other, although their tea cups and plates were at an awkward reach. Unthinkingly Helena had joined Leena in guiding the chairs across the thick oriental rugs, and Myka hadn't seemed to find it strange that Helena was working with her housekeeper rather than waiting for Leena to complete the rearranging herself. Myka had set her book down and divested the tray of its china, pouring the tea into the cups and using a pair of tongs that Helena had last seen in the sugar bowl to place sandwiches and cookies on individual plates.
'That will be all, Leena' hovered on Helena's lips until she realized how ridiculous that would sound with them both slightly out of breath from pushing the chairs together. This was not the way Helena's mother had organized the afternoon tea; it was always held at the same time in the same room. Sandwiches were cut at precise angles and the tea, always Earl Grey, was served at a certain temperature. Woe betide the poor servant who erred on any of these points. In a voice chill enough to ice over the steaming tea, Mrs. Wells would thank the poor quaking girl for her efforts and then ensure that she was banished to the laundry.
"Would you like something besides tea, Miss Bering?" Leena asked, something impish twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Mrs. Wells always prefers her tea hot, but I have a pitcher of lemon water that works wonders on a day like today."
Helena looked up at Leena from underneath her eyelashes. Prefers her tea hot, as if she made it all day every day for her. Helena couldn't remember the last time Leena had made her tea. Mornings Helena was the one who filled the kettle and warmed it on the stove. "Hot tea is perfect, Leena. Thank you," Myka said sweetly, blowing across the top of her cup.
"Please let me know if there's anything else, Mrs. Wells." Leena only smiled as Helena gave her a meaningful look. Glimpsing the book that Myka had tucked between her and the side of her chair, Leena added, "I'm glad Mrs. Wells has found someone who shares her love of books." Leena's smile didn't waver although Helena's stare had grown murderous in its intensity.
Myka's cheeks became rosy but whether that was because she was blushing yet again or from the heat of the tea, Helena couldn't tell. Gently setting the cup on its saucer, Myka said, "My father and I would appreciate knowing more about your expectations for the Journal. In your letter, you said that you wanted it to serve as a forum for 'lively discussion,' but that can mean different things to different people."
Helena bit appreciatively into one of the sandwiches. It was a plain butter sandwich, but Leena made the best bread and how she managed to keep butter from liquefying into a soup in this heat, let alone still taste nearly as creamy as when it was churned, was nothing short of miraculous. She would have to forgive her for the teasing in front of Myka. Tempted to devour the rest of the sandwich before responding, Helena recalled the example of her mother and politely finished her bite. "All I require is that what the paper publishes is well researched and well reasoned. No one should take exception to that."
"But people do." Myka insisted quietly.
"You're referring to Hartsville, and you want to know if I will support your father if something he writes creates a firestorm."
"Will you?"
"If it's true." Seeing a flash of indignation in Myka's eyes," Helena said, "Which it will be, I'm sure, then yes, of course."
"That's what the Beacon said. But the minute the mine owners began to protest that people would start agitating for better working conditions, the publisher demanded that my father retract the editorial, and when he wouldn't, the paper fired him. Workers were dying in that mine, Mrs. Wells. Basic safety precautions weren't being followed, and when the men complained, they were threatened with the loss of their jobs." Myka had reached for her cup and was holding it so tightly that Helena was afraid it might shatter between her fingers.
"Papers are businesses, Miss Bering, and I have no doubt that the mine owners, if they didn't already own an interest in the paper, certainly brought financial pressure to bear on the Beacon. I'm in no way supporting what they did, but I can appreciate the difficult situation they must have been in." Helena eyed another sandwich but saw that Myka hadn't even finished her cookie. She shouldn't add to her very obvious sins by being a glutton in front of her. "I own 100% of the Journal, Miss Bering, and while I want my paper to make a profit, I am not dependent on its income. Should your father take an unpopular position, I will not crumble."
Myka looked heartened but not completely convinced. She absently traced the rim of her cup with her finger. "It would be difficult, I think, to be a businesswoman when so many of the business owners are men. In my very limited experience, I've found many of them to be impatient when they've had to interact with me rather than my father. They tended to belittle my opinion even though my father would say the exact same thing the next time they met."
Helena understood the point Myka was not-so-subtly making. "Yes, they can be overbearing and arrogant and unwilling to listen. But I've been accused of the same myself." She noted Myka's small smile. "I don't want to give the impression that there aren't powerful business interests in this part of the territory. There are, and they have definite ideas about what is important and how it should be communicated. But I know them well, and they haven't managed to make me knuckle under to them yet." Realizing she was going to sound boastful, she nonetheless couldn't hide the pride in her voice. "I'm a powerful business interest in my own right, Miss Bering, and though I know that you have to take my support on trust, please know that no one can force me to do something I don't want to do."
Myka rose, depositing her uneaten cookie and cup and saucer on the table. "Thank you, Mrs. Wells, for taking the time to talk with me. I'm sure I've taken up enough of your day, and I should see how my father is doing." She placed the book under her arm, and Helena saw enough of it to recognize that Myka had borrowed a copy of Dickens's Hard Times. How appropriate. She followed Myka to the door.
"I intend to visit the Journal once you and your father have settled in, and I'll introduce you to some of the businessmen you'll be. . . working . . with." Butting heads with, more likely, Helena suspected. Oddly enough, however, she looked forward to the complaints that would be coming her way about the new editor of the paper and his undoubtedly "newfangled" ideas. Life in Sweetwater had been dull as of late.
Myka hesitated in the doorway. "Was . . . is your husband from Sweetwater, Mrs. Wells?"
The phrasing had been uncertain but the curiosity in Myka's eyes was unabashed. Helena was struck by how light they were. Green, the soft pale green of spring in bloom. But there was nothing suggestive of gamboling lambs and bunny rabbits about Myka Bering. She was young and no doubt still innocent in the traditional sense but not naïve. She had all but asked Helena if she was really married. In the past Helena had fended off more discreet queries and usually gave no thought to what people made of the absence of a Mr. Wells, but she found herself saying, "There is no Mr. Wells, Miss Bering, nor has there ever been, unless we're speaking of my father or brother."
Myka held her gaze, and this time no blush crept up her cheeks. "Then I'm at a loss for what brought you to Sweetwater, Mrs. Wells, because it seems too small to hold you."
Helena remembered the night three years ago when she had plaintively asked Leena where she was to go and Leena had opened a book of maps and, without looking, plunged her finger toward a great barren stretch of land in the center north of the continent. She wondered what Myka would say if she said 'Leena's finger on a map.' Instead she responded, "The spirit of adventure, I suppose, Miss Bering."
"Adventure," Myka repeated in a murmur. "Embracing change. . . ." She looked away from Helena toward the town, her face lovely in profile. "Good day, Mrs. Wells."
"Good day, Miss Bering." Helena watched as Myka passed through the gate, closing it behind her. She didn't realize that Leena was standing behind her until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"I like her," Leena said.
Helena shrugged, assuming an indifference she didn't feel. "She seems a nice young woman. I hope that Sweetwater will be good to her and her father."
Leena wasn't deceived. "I think she'll be good for you, Helena." But she didn't expand on her comment. Helena remained at the door, hearing faint clinking sounds from the library as Leena put the dishes back on the tray, and continued to look in the direction Myka had taken long after she disappeared from view.