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.

"Oh, Miss Remigrant," said one-- Emma thought her name was Evans, but she couldn't remember-- "we were just talking about you. All good things," she waved off, as the five other girls giggled. "Is it true you've been walking out with Mr. McDonald?

Emma was offered a glass. She took it, not planning to drink any of it. "It is."

"Congratulations," said a pretty blonde girl of about eighteen Emma had never met. "My sister tried to get his attention for years. He's an excellent catch!"

Emma tried to find any malicious intent, but it seemed the group was only focused on the latest news. "Thank you. I don't believe we've met, Miss--?"

"Reynolds. Maudie Reynolds. How foolish of me!"

"It's perfectly alright," smiled Emma. 

"I danced with him earlier," said the dark-haired girl Emma thought was called Evans, craning her neck to look around, "but I think he was looking for you."

"I've only just arrived a moment ago. My aunt believes we ought to be fashionably late to being fashionably late."

All the girls tittered. "My mother's the same way," remarked one.

"What's he like?" asked Miss Reynolds lowly. "My sister said he was always quite cold."

"No, he's quite the opposite. He talks often about his travels in Europe, it's quite enchanting to hear. He's very kind, once you begin to talk with him."

"I think he just likes you, Miss Remigrant," said Miss Evans with a knowing smile. "Do you hope he'll propose?"

Emma smiled, unsure. "I wouldn't know how to respond. We haven't been seeing each other long, I don't feel I know him very well."

"Best of luck," said Miss Reynolds resolutely. "Oh look, here comes Mr. Liniski!"

Emma turned to see a young man behind her. She smiled her polite smile and went to turn back to her conversation, but he held out his hand. "A dance, Miss Remigrant?"

"I'd be delighted," she said, and put her untouched glass on the nearby table.

He took her hand to lead her to the dance floor. "I don't believe I've seen you since a dinner party more than a year ago," he said.

She gasped. "That's where it was! Forgive me, I couldn't place you at first."

The band struck up a waltz. Mr. Liniski put his hand on her waist. "I've been in the mountains for a long time, running my father's mine. He's gotten older and needs more help than before. How have you been keeping, Miss Remigrant?"

"Well enough," she responded. "My aunt's been keeping me busy."

He spun her. "What do you do to stay busy?"

Clean, she thought, I'm a maid and this is all a farce. "I read often," she said. "My aunt enjoys the Romantic poets and I read them to her often."

"What do you like to read?"

She thought. "Hawthorne," she decided. "I like how he explains all of his symbols. It leaves no room for strange interpretations or argument, only discussion."

He smiled. His face was high above hers-- she hadn't realised he was so tall when they'd sat together at that long-ago dinner. "I did enjoy The House of the Seven Gables. I beg you never to tell anyone else that fact, they'd never take me seriously again."

She giggled uncharacteristically. "What did you enjoy about it, Mr. Liniski?"

He looked up, in thought, as he stepped skillfully around the floor, Emma in his arms. "The idea that hatred, even a hatred that has flowered for two hundred years, can be mended through love."

"How romantic."

"It is indeed. Have you read the book?"

She nodded. "I have. My aunt got bored in the last few pages and made me stop, but I read the ending to myself. I preferred The Scarlet Letter."

Mr. Liniski nodded emphatically. "That was certainly an interesting one. What did you most enjoy about it?"

"The description of guilt," she answered quickly- a bit too quickly, she realised, and spoke more slowly. "Hester's torment, of course, as the marked sinner, but Dimmesdale's racking of his own soul to the point of illness. It was an interesting look at how differently people are judged because of their background, with Hester Prynne as a poor woman and Dimmesdale as an Oxford-educated man." Was she speaking too much? "It showed how people are easy to mislead when it comes to members of their society that they believe ought to be wholly good, such as their minister."

The music ended. "You're very good at speaking about literature," he said with a bow, taking her hand. "Thank you for the dance." He brought her glove politely to his lips.

The music began again, and she started to make her way to the sidelines again, but then there was Duncan in front of her. 

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Miss Remigrant," he said, "I thought you must have gone away on business again."

She laughed and took his hand. "No, my aunt wanted us to be incredibly fashionable."

They began the steps to the dance-- it was a sort of quadrille, much faster than the waltz.

"It's been more than a week since I called," he said. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she replied brightly. "I'm sure you've been busy, as I have."

He did not take the hint to ask her what she'd been doing. "Yes, very busy. There's been plenty of railroad construction to oversee and keep me busy."

He went on and she smiled and nodded her head, but she found for the first time that she did not want to hear him talk about his job.

*chants* EMMA MET HER DAD AGAIN, EMMA MET HER DAD AGAIN

I didn't realise just how well Hawthorne's works would fit, but they just sort of did? I was editing it and realised the themes, and now I feel like that nerd, you know? I've been reading The Scarlet Letter and it's definitely in my top five favorite pieces of classical literature (spoiler, I AM that nerd) and I needed to give Emma something to talk about.

Tell me your thoughts! I really do love to hear them!

(can you believe how much I've posted in the past few days? I literally didn't touch Wattpad for a year and now I'm absolutely flooded with ideas (knock on wood!). There is so much more to come!)