Hell Hath No Fury

By Kathleen Fair

A Roll of the Dice….. Two Women, One Scoundrel

 

Hazel Ann Mitchell and Florence Slater would never be friends, but when a roll of the dice brought Henry Bell into town, the two women become rivals.  Hazel Ann wants to be surrounded by love in the town she grew up in, a community where her family has deep roots. Florence, the only child of the wealthiest man in town, wants to preserve her standing in the town and her family name. She also longs to be loved for herself, and not just her money. Henry believes if you aren't getting richer, you are getting poorer.  With no regrets, he cuts corners to get what he wants. 

 

Courtship, marriage, divorce, small town politics, a scandalous court case, and everyone eventually learns Hell Hath No Fury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathleen Fair
• Release date: Oct 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201391539

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Seventeen-year-old Hazel Ann Mitchell stood behind the counter of her father’s general store and repressed her urge to be rude to the females who were using the store as a social club, buying nothing while driving away customers. She plastered a smile on her face as the worst offender wiggled her fingers in a parody of a wave. Florrie Slater bragged about how she would only shop at Mitchell’s store in a dire emergency. After all it was 1903 and shopping at a general story was passé. But almost every day she walked the three blocks to the store. Once inside Florrie pretended to shop, despaired at the lack of quality goods, and gossiped with those young women in town who sought her favor.

Florrie, or Florence as she was now demanding to be called, was the only child of the richest man in town, Alden Slater. The Slaters renamed the town and controlled it through their ownership of the mill. The Mitchell name might be on the front of the store but Alden Slater held the mortgage on the building and could call in the loan at any time.

Everyone in Slaterville accepted that Florrie was her father’s princess, and at twenty-five, she was an aging spinster princess. Anything she wanted, she got. Provoking Florrie resulted in serious consequences. People had lost jobs and even their homes after angering her. No matter how annoying Florrie might be, Hazel would say nothing. Customers avoided the store when Florrie held court, making it impossible for Hazel to ignore Florrie. Last week when Florrie was away, everyone enjoyed shopping during the morning.

Oh, this old thing? Florrie’s shrill voice demanded people pay attention. I bought it last week when Daddy took me down to Pittsburgh on the train. I spent the afternoon at Kaufmann’s Department Store while he went over to Allegheny to the new baseball field to watch the Pirates.  While I wanted to talk fashion and new furnishings for the house, all he wanted to do on the whole train trip back was to talk baseball. He kept praising someone, I think he said the man’s name was Honus Wagner, and said there was talk of having some sort of baseball championship series between the two leagues this fall. Men and their sports.  She sighed, took a deep breath, and started again. This is one of several dresses I purchased. Kaufmann's is a truly luxurious store. I got such personal attention.

A chorus of oohs and ahhs came from the six women ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-eight who, for whatever reason, came to worship Florence. They purchased nothing during this morning ritual but instead scuttled in at other times to do their shopping. After all, Mitchell’s was the only store in the heart of town and trips to Pittsburgh were rare for most Slaterville residents. Even the stores in Sharon, five miles away, were a special trip taken at most twice a month.

Mitchell’s General Store had been a fixture in Slaterville for over fifty years and could satisfy most basic shopping needs. Molasses, sugar, and other baking essentials, and expensive spices were stacked on the shelves behind the counter along with glass jars of penny candy and jams and jellies of various types. The coffee grinder was perched at one end of the long counter next to the barrel of coffee beans. The peanut butter grinder sat at the other end. The wall opposite the long counter stretching from the front to the back of the brick building held fabric and notions, along with pots and pans and other kitchen utensils, soap, and elixirs of various types. Across the back, barrels of flour, dried beans, and dried fruit stood on the floor, along with tables where local produce would be for sale in season.

Today, amid all the merchandise, Florrie twirled slowly, holding her arms out so everyone could see the creamy lace insert detail on the sleeves and the bodice of the moss green dress. It might have been lovely if someone other than Florrie wore it. The large oak tree in the town square had more shape than she did. Even the most expensive corset could not create a feminine form for the lanky Florence. As Grandma Mitchell said, You can dress a scarecrow in a ball gown made of silk and lace, but it is still a scarecrow.

You can’t get this style and workmanship here in Slaterville. Can you imagine poor Miss Dodd doing this quality of work? And even a dressmaker trained in the best fashion house in Paris could not do their best with the fabric and notions available here at Mitchell’s.

One woman standing with Florence gasped, shook her head, and whispered something while pointing toward Hazel.

Oh, Hazel. Florence made her way to the counter. I know you and your father do the best you can, but then again, you must sell to the common people here. If you stocked your store with the goods I desire, well, very few locals could afford them. I come here to encourage others to patronize your business.

And we thank you for your kindness, Miss Florence. Hiding her hands under the counter, Hazel squeezed her left hand with her right, reminding herself to be polite. Is there anything I can get for you today?

I can’t think of anything, my dear. The maids and Cook take care of the shopping. As tempting as it might be to get some of those peppermint humbugs, it is almost time for me to return home for my luncheon. Florrie turned back to her waiting admirers, holding her skirt away from the tables and barrels scattered around the center of the store as if the contents would contaminate her clothing.

Hazel’s eyes narrowed as Florrie and the others wandered around the store, touching this, moving that, buying nothing. A sideways glance at the wall clock gave Hazel hope. It was almost half past eleven. Florrie would start for home soon. The others would follow, although one or two might remain and make purchases. They would pass over their coins and avoid looking directly at Hazel as if embarrassed by their participation in this morning ritual. Within ten minutes of Florrie’s departure, various residents from Slaterville would burst into the store, eager to pick up needed items. Earlier this morning, Farmer Johnson brought in new wheels of his cheese, along with sweet corn, which was just now ripening. Baskets of fresh beans and peas were also on the back table, ready to be prepared for dinner tonight.

Oh, Hazel, before I forget— Hazel stopped rearranging the candy jars and looked over at Florrie. The church picnic is next month, and you know that I, as head of the women’s group, am organizing it. I can count on you and your father to provide a few special raffle items? Perhaps something a little better than what you supplied last year.

Hazel gritted her teeth and then forced a smile. For the church, of course. My great-grandfather founded the Methodist church and was its first preacher. My family has always supported the church and its mission. It is the heart of this town.

Hazel’s smile grew more triumphant. The Slater family might be important in the town now, but when the town was founded, the Slaters were dirt poor farmers. It was only thirty-five years ago, shortly after the Civil War, that the Slaters gained enough money and power to control the town. Who knew a rich vein of coal was under the worthless farm acreage they owned?

A flush of color crossed Florrie’s sallow cheeks. And you will oversee the children’s games, as you and your mother did last year? Or will it be too much for you to handle?

Hazel’s mother had always been in charge of the children during the annual end of August church picnic. For the last three years, Hazel had helped; each year she took on more responsibility as her mother grew weaker. Last year, her mother merely sat in the shade watching. It was her last picnic. Two months later her mother was buried in the graveyard next to Hazel’s great-grandfather. It was her mother’s lingering death that had forced Hazel’s father to borrow money from Mr. Slater.

Yes, I will oversee the children’s games. Before Hazel could say anything else, the sight of a wagon pulling to a stop outside the store captured her attention. She peered through the bay window, not recognizing the horses, the buckboard, or the driver. Florrie and the others also turned and gawked.

The driver secured his horses and leapt from the wagon down to the sidewalk. All eyes inside the store watched as he sauntered up the steps and opened the door. He took two steps into the store, letting the wooden door close behind him. With one hand, he removed his straw hat as he surveyed the room. With the other hand, he removed a toothpick from his mouth.

Ladies. A rich, baritone voice caressed the ears of his listeners.

Hazel put her hands on the counter to prevent herself from falling. The most handsome man she had ever seen had just stepped into her family’s store.

HENRY BELL WALKED INTO the general store of this backwoods town and smiled as he spoke. He bowed and then put his straw hat back on his head as he surveyed the space. No males in sight, just a store full of women—and an especially beautiful, auburn-haired young’un behind the counter. Except for the tall, skinny one, all were very attractive. Maybe there were possibilities here he could exploit.

Before he said anything else, the tall, plain woman walked toward him and pointed the index finger of her left hand at him. What brings you to Slaterville? What are you doing here? Her voice, shrill and downright unpleasant, reminded him of the sound of screeching brakes on a runaway locomotive.

Henry shoved the brim of his hat back so that his hat perched on the back of his head. He considered removing it as a display of politeness. He never expected a warm welcome, but how much truth should he reveal? Very little. He took a quick look at the outstretched hand, saw no wedding ring, and quickly decided calling her Ma’am might be offensive.

Well, Miss, I am looking for a place to call home. I admit I have done some travelling in the past. I have been that rolling stone, but I believe the good Lord directed my footsteps, or rather my wagon, to this fine town.

Henry had used the ‘good Lord directing footsteps’ routine before. It had been impossible to miss the solid stone church not far from the store. Church life was important in places like this. A slight smile flickered on her face. Good, the line was working.

He continued, If I am right, the good Lord will give me a sign and provide me with a job. In the meantime, can any of you tell me where I might stable my team? And is there a good boarding house where I might stay until the Almighty reveals his purpose for bringing me here?

The left hand, with its accusing finger, dropped as the right hand was extended. Let me be the first to welcome you to Slaterville, Mister ah-ah—

Bell. Henry Bell. Thank you, Miss. Thank you for the warm welcome. Who do I have the honor of addressing?

I am Miss Slater. This is my family’s town.

Henry saw the young woman behind the counter roll her eyes, but she remained in place. The other women crowded around him, giving him information and advice on stabling and where he might stay—as well as invitations to join them at the Methodist church. Unless he wanted to travel several miles to the Presbyterian church in Sharon, although that minister was extremely long-winded. He escaped as soon as possible, feeling like a bear caught stealing honey from a tree, being swarmed by hungry bees. This town sure seemed like a source of honey, but he needed to control the bees.

That evening Henry sat on the porch of Mrs. Manning’s boarding house chewing on a toothpick. He wished he had picked up a packet of Mail Pouch tobacco before he had escaped that general store, but Mrs. Manning had already announced she was anti-tobacco and anti-alcohol, so the toothpick would have to do. The room was cheap, and she allowed him to stable his team and leave his wagon in her barn for no extra charge. Given the quality and quantity of food she served for dinner, Henry decided he could put up with this fussy old biddy until he figured out what to do next.

For the moment, no one would think of looking for him here. Where was he again? Ah, yes, Slaterville, Pennsylvania.

FLORENCE SAT AT HER marble-topped, walnut dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror as her maid pulled out her hairpins. Mary dropped the pins into the dish designed to hold them and then placed the rat and pompadour frame in the side drawer. She began brushing out Florence’s hair, counting each stroke under her breath as Florence once again recounted the events of the morning.

He was so handsome, Mary. Florence smiled at her reflection. And tall. I had to look up at him. Most men I meet are my height or shorter. And his shoulders...he has the most amazing blue eyes. Did I tell you about the dark curl that fell over his forehead?

Fifty-five, Mary was in the middle of counting the strokes of the hairbrush. Yes, Miss Florence, you mentioned a handsome man had arrived in town.

He said his name was Henry Bell. Have you ever heard of any people named Bell in the area? I wonder who his people are.

Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine.

I wonder if he will stay here. He said he thought God wanted him to come here. Perhaps I should invite him to join Daddy and me in our pew this Sunday. I wonder where he ended up staying. We gave him several suggestions. Maybe Daddy could give him a job.

Eighty-one. The coachman next door told Cook the newcomer got a room over with Missus Manning and paid cash for a week in advance. Eighty-six.

Florence was silent as Mary finished the hundred strokes. The maid cleaned the brush of stray hairs and put them into the hair holder. Those hairs would eventually be added to the rat used to add volume to Florence’s somewhat thin hair.

Do you want your hair braided as usual, Miss Florence?

"Of course, Mary. By the way, I read something in the most recent issue of Ladies Home Journal about improving your hair—making it more luxurious, thicker, shinier. Perhaps we could try some of their suggestions?"

Certainly, Miss Florence. If you give me the article, I will get the supplies we need.

We will not buy those items at Mitchell’s. Should we go to Pittsburgh to pick them up? Or perhaps I will send you to Sharon or New Castle to buy them.

Whatever you want, Miss Florence. There, I have finished braiding your hair for the night. Is there anything else you need?

Florence stood and faced Mary. That is all. Bring me my tea tomorrow at the usual time. 

Mary headed toward the door but stopped with one hand on the doorknob. You be careful, Miss Florence. You know nothing about the man other than he is good-looking.  Remember what happened with that scoundrel you met down in Pittsburgh who was just after your money. She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Florence picked up the oil lamp on the dressing table and took it over to the nightstand. She stood for a moment in the circle of light it cast on the floor and then climbed into bed and considered the events of the morning and the handsome stranger.

If Henry Bell was staying with Mrs. Manning, it would not take long before the whole town knew his life history. Florence almost mentioned him over dinner tonight to her father but remained silent. Daddy would do anything to make her happy, even employ a newcomer to the town. Yet Mary was correct to warn her. Florence needed to be cautious. She was the last Slater of Slaterville.

Florence turned down the lamp and slipped under the covers. Would her dreams be filled with those dancing, vivid blue eyes and a dark curl that fell over a forehead?

CHAPTER 2

O nce again, a perfect breakfast, Henry Bell said as he folded his gingham napkin and placed it on the dining room table. Are you sure you want to turn down my proposal of marriage? He pushed back his chair, stood, and winked at Mrs. Manning.

Ah, you must have Irish blood in you with all the blarney you spout. The elderly widow blushed and made a noise that in someone fifty years younger might be considered a giggle. I like seeing a young man appreciate his food. Will you be here for supper?

Who could possibly miss one of your wonderful meals? Despite her being a prying, gossipy old woman, she was a respectable cook. Henry had eaten well for the past three days as he gathered useful information.

Mrs. Manning removed his empty plate, which earlier she had heaped with hotcakes, sausage, and several fried eggs Don’t forget tomorrow is Sunday, and I serve dinner after church. If the pastor’s sermon isn’t too long, dinner will be on the table at 1 p.m., she said, returning to the kitchen.

The past two mornings, Henry had offered to help with the washing up. She refused as was expected, and he would not offer again. He never actually wanted to help, but knew this impressed the women who ran boarding houses.

The other men staying here worked down at the mill. They left before Henry made his way to the dining room, which gave him opportunities to ingratiate himself with his new landlady. This was not the worst boarding house he had ever stayed in and for a town such as this, it was as good as it got. The room came with two meals a day; the sheets were changed, according to Mrs. Manning, every two weeks. His room was no bigger than a broom closet, but he was the only occupant. No sharing of space or secrets for Henry. Her attempts to dig into his past amused Henry. He spun her tales he wanted her to believe. Not the truth. Never the truth.

Henry plucked his straw hat from the hat tree in the front hall and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle. He snapped his suspenders, put his hand in his pocket caressing his dice, and left the house. It was time to make some decisions.

He had not planned to come here. Heck, he had never heard of this hick place until he had stumbled into it. His lucky dice had brought him. A month ago, he had fled Harrisburg with his employer’s money, his landlady’s buggy, and an angry father with a shotgun expecting Henry to say I do in front of a parson. Henry abandoned the buggy in Carlisle but kept the money and took the first train out. The train headed west to Pittsburgh. Henry had lost himself in the taverns of that city for several days, bought the team of horses and the wagon, and followed the dice.

Henry had a system. Whenever he came to a crossroads, he rolled the dice. Two, four, and eight signaled that he should go to his left. Toss a three, six, or a nine and he turned to his right. A five or seven meant to continue straight. As for a ten, that meant he should stay awhile, usually in the nearest tavern. If he rolled an eleven or twelve, it meant the dice weren’t speaking to him that day. His last roll of the dice led him down into this valley.

For the past three days, Henry had explored the small town of Slaterville. It was like many other small factory towns. The oxbow of the river surrounded an iron mill complex. A single railway track with a station not much bigger than the room he rented at Mrs. Manning’s connected the town and the mill to larger communities to the north and south. River barges could bring in raw materials and haul away the finished iron.

Cheap housing for workers lined the steep streets leading up from the river to a somewhat flatter area. There, Main Street edged a town park, which was the heart of Slaterville—the general store, several churches of various denominations, the bank, the doctor’s home and office, a school, an undertaker, and a livery stable surrounded the green space. There was a drug store with a marble-topped soda fountain in the rear. Some nearby houses had signs in their windows proclaiming dressmaking, piano lessons, or rooms to rent. Probably homes owned by widows or spinsters who sold their services to eke out a living.

One newly constructed, large, brick building faced the east side of the square and seemed out of place in this small town. The ground floor was empty, but a sign announced that an Opera House was located on the second floor. An Opera House? Here?

Most of the commercial buildings surrounding the square, except for the general store, appeared to be relatively new and made of brick. The bank, of course, had a granite facade. The newspaper office was brick with a cast-iron front. The only wooden structure was the general store, which looked to be the oldest commercial building in town.

The only thing missing in Slaterville was a tavern. He realized many residents were much like his landlady—teetotalers. The town was dry. Henry was sure somewhere or someone had a still. Hell, he had passed enough fields of corn coming here; not all of it could be eaten by people and animals.

In contrast to the housing for mill workers to the west of the town center, the homes to the east were larger and often surrounded by well-tended, ornamental gardens. Here lived the upper middle class and the wealthy—here lived the Slaters.

With the help of Mrs. Manning, Henry identified the Slater home—the biggest, most extravagant house in town. His landlady confided that Mr. Slater had hired an architect from New York. She spoke with a hushed whisper, almost as if Jesus himself had drawn up the plans. Mr. Slater had spared no expense inside or out. All those rooms and just Mr. Slater and his daughter, Florence, in that big ol’ place. Well, there are the servants, but they all have rooms up in the attic. Seven bedrooms and indoor plumbing, fabric for curtains that came from Paris—not Paris, Pennsylvania—Paris, France.

As he investigated the town, Henry strolled by the house several times. He discovered a clear view of it from one