by Jane Steen
“Of course, my dear.” Mrs. Yomkins leaned diagonally across the table and patted my hand. “There are so many widows and spinsters around nowadays—the war, of course. Even now it seems to me that the pool of eligible young men is shrinking daily.”
“So much the luckier you, my angel,” said Mr. Yomkins, sipping his peach brandy.
The table was now laden with charlotte russe, blancmange, and cake, with bowls of nuts and oranges set out at intervals. Dorcas, one of the older servants, was pouring coffee, her eyes rolling at the extravagance when she thought no one was looking. I too was flabbergasted at the expense to which the Calderwoods had gone in their attempt to impress. Where on earth had the fruit come from? I had barely ever eaten oranges except as a Christmas treat.
“I am sure Mr. Yomkins is the favored one,” said Mr. Poulton, with a sideways quirk of his mouth at me. I was glad that he too saw the humor in the situation.
“Any woman,” said Mr. Yomkins, propping himself on one elbow, “is happiest when she gets herself a man. See, here’s my better half fixing to get herself a brand-new dress, and am I complaining? Buy two, my darling. Three,” and he sent a fatuous grimace in his wife’s direction.
It felt to me as if the whole table came alive with the sensation that a stick of dynamite had landed among us with the fuse lit. Mrs. Yomkins maintained her dignity, but I could hear the faint sizzle of an oncoming explosion.
Reiner saw the danger at the same time, and we both jumped into the breach.
“But the Mary Celeste—“
“Some blancmange, Mrs. Yomkins?”
Our words collided and Mrs. Yomkins rolled smoothly over them. “I am glad you are such an expert on the happiness of women, George.”
“I’m an expert on your happiness, Adelberta.” Mr. Yomkins slid down a large spoonful of blancmange, made a face, and took a healthy gulp of peach brandy. He was, I was glad to see, the only one of the Springwood contingent similarly affected. The other ladies and gentlemen remained resolutely sober, most of them having left their wineglasses untouched.
Mrs. Yomkins accepted a slice of charlotte russe and took a few delicate forkfuls of the creamy stuff. Her gaze fixed itself on her husband with the alertness of a mountain cat intent on its prey. From where I sat, I could see that Mr. Poulton was watching her with fascination and something like gleeful anticipation, an equally alert expression in his violet eyes.
“And am I happy, George?”
Mr. Yomkins seemed to give this question careful consideration, holding up his glass and looking through the delicate amber liquid at his wife.
“I would count you,” he said judiciously, “among the happiest women in Kansas. Yes, quite the happiest.”
“Based upon your knowledge of what is going on inside my head and heart at any given moment?”
“Based upon,” Mr. Yomkins looked around him and spread his hands wide, palms upward in an encompassing gesture, “why, based upon your happiness, of course. You seem happy.” He appeared to think that this settled the matter, slapped his hands down on the table, and gestured to Dorcas for more brandy.
“Hmmmm.” Mrs. Yomkins looked around her, catching the eye of the other matrons. Most of them had stopped talking, watching her with expressions of anticipation in their eyes. “And has it occurred to you, Mr. Yomkins, that the semblance of happiness can be manufactured? That in order not to appear scolds or malcontents, we often express ourselves in tones of greater delight than we actually feel?”
The other matrons said nothing, but I detected the faintest of nods and significant looks passing between them.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Mr. Yomkins waggled his finger at his wife. “I would sher—certainly know if you were faking happiness. Other women may pull the wool over their husband’s eyes, but not you. I would know.”
“How would you know?”
“I would simply know.” Mr. Yomkins assumed an air of dignity.
“Ah yes, I forgot. Because you are a man.”
“And what is that supposed to imply, my treasure?”
“Simply that all men assume their wives are perfectly happy and that they would know if they weren’t. And all women, at some time or the other, have expressed greater happiness than they feel in order to preserve the harmony of the domestic establishment.”
“You don’t think I could tell the difference?”
Reiner opened his mouth to say something, but I sent him a quelling look. I most definitely wanted to hear what Mrs. Yomkins would say next.
“You would not have the faintest notion that I was dissembling.”
Mr. Yomkins blew out his cheeks and muttered a vulgar term of derision under his breath. Mrs. Yomkins looked around the table—by now the eyes of all the women, and most of the men, were fixed on her—and, appearing to dismiss the subject, took a large bite of charlotte russe and addressed herself to me.
“Do you not think, Mrs. Lillington, that my husband is the most generous of men? Three dresses indeed. You must present yourself at my house at the earliest opportunity.”
Relieved that Mrs. Yomkins had not forgotten dressmaking in her eagerness to disabuse her husband of his illusions, I nodded with enthusiasm. Three dresses—I could double my month’s earnings. Mr. Yomkins was going to pay dearly for his playfulness, not to mention his overconsumption of liquor.
“Where is your house, Mrs. Yomkins?”
“It is the third house along First Street; of course, our streets are not yet well marked, so I should inform you that my house is ochre yellow. A most thoughtful notion of Mr. Yomkins to have our home painted in such a distinctive hue, so well suited to the color of the dust that blows around us in the summer! And so clever of him to have chosen a home in such a location, in a town that will one day, I am sure, be quite as big as—well, really quite large.”
She smiled, revealing good teeth. “I’m so fortunate to be among those blessed to show the way in making the plains our home. Don’t you think, Mrs. Lillington, that we have the most healthy climate in America? And so spacious! Why, you can walk for miles without seeing another soul.”
“You must be in a state of bliss, Mrs. Yomkins.” Mr. Poulton spoke gravely, but his eyes were dancing.
“I am the happiest of women, Mr. Poulton, I do declare.” Mrs. Yomkins cast her eyes to the ceiling in rapture. “I was so tired of the busyness of society in Saint Louis. The calls one had to make! And the endless shops! The constant round of idleness and chatter! Now I am woken at a most healthy hour by the sweet sounds of progress, the happy song of the workmen, and the gentle soughing of the prairie wind. I feel sorry for those women I left behind, I truly do.”
Mr. Yomkins smoothed his whiskers and gave his wife an approving look. Across the table, Mr. Poulton had steepled his hands so that they hid his mouth. His shoulders vibrated, and his eyes slanted upward almost to slits. Farther down the table, Mr. McGovern’s fiancée shouted out a sudden, explosive, “Ha!” then grinned hugely and covered her mouth with her hand.
Mrs. Shemmeld looked around for Dorcas. “Do serve me some of that charlotte russe,” she said coolly. “It seems to have sweetened Mrs. Yomkins’s temper. Perhaps it will do the same for me.”
I might have broken down myself in a moment. Fortunately, Dr. Calderwood, completely oblivious to the currents of mirth swirling around the table, addressed a remark to the company at large about the Boston fire. News of that tragic event had just reached us and, along with the peculiar case of the Mary Celeste, was a great talking point in our little community. The discussion veered to the dangers of fire, and we were all saved from disgracing ourselves by laughing.
Mr. Poulton applied his napkin to his mouth, wiping away all traces of the smile that still lingered whenever he looked in the direction of Mrs. Yomkins.
“Did you not tell me, Mrs. Lillington, that you hail from Chicago? Were you at all affected by the Great Fire there? I understand that Boston was nothing to the Chicago conflagration.”
“I didn�
�t live in Chicago itself,” I said, feeling a little shy with all eyes upon me. “But our little town housed several families dispossessed of all their goods in the fire.” I hesitated. “And, of course, the Lombardis found themselves in the path of the blaze. It was a mercy they all escaped with their lives.” I hoped I could avoid having to tell the story of the body that was mistakenly buried with Catherine’s name on the grave marker. That would lead to the Poor Farm, and—
But I needn’t have worried. Dr. Calderwood, happy to be the center of attention again, embarked upon a long story about the fate of the denominational office in Chicago, its rebuilding, and the number of souls who had turned back to the church after narrowly escaping a terrible fate in the flames. I peeled an orange, enjoying the fresh tang of the juice, and let his melodramatic account roll over me.
From time to time I encountered a glance from Reiner or Mr. Poulton, but I let my eyelids drop, concentrating on my task. I had learned my lesson about flirting with men at dinner. And besides—a thrill went through me—now I had my first real dressmaking commission, my initial step toward complete independence for myself, Sarah, and Tess. I could not wait to write Martin about this dinner.
I shifted in my chair, looking down the room to the door connecting with the kitchen in the hope that the servants would soon come to begin clearing away the dessert plates. Mrs. Drummond stood there, almost unnoticeable in her dark dress, watching the interplay of conversation around the table with a grim look on her face. I knew she had protested against the serving of liquor. I knew Mrs. Calderwood had told her, in no uncertain terms, that if she made trouble about the alcohol, the trouble would rebound on her. I knew it because Reiner had heard their conversation and relayed it to me.
I gave Mrs. Drummond a look that I hoped expressed fellow feeling, but she returned it coolly. She did, I thought, understand that I was at the table under duress. And yet I had the distinct impression that seeing me in such company had brought back her impression of me as a sinner of the deepest dye.
“You look worried, Mrs. Lillington.” Mr. Poulton spoke to me under cover of Dr. Calderwood’s words. “Do you feel that making dresses for Mrs. Yomkins will be beneath you?”
“Not at all.” I smiled at him, and in return received a smile of such dazzling beauty that I felt quite weak. “I’m delighted about the work.”
“It’s well deserved. That dress is quite the most modish thing I have seen since I left Baltimore, and you look wonderfully elegant in it. You could find no better model for your skills than your own face and figure.”
I felt myself blushing and looked down, happy that Reiner was conversing with his uncle and couldn’t hear us. He would definitely have something to say about that remark. It probably wouldn’t be complimentary to Mr. Poulton, whom he disliked.
“If I were a man of fortune—but there, I’m in danger of saying too much.” Mr. Poulton considered his wineglass, which was two-thirds full. “I have only drunk a few sips of this good vintage for politeness’s sake, but I feel quite dizzy being in your company. I will have to find an opportunity to repeat the experiment, without the liquor next time.”
Mrs. Calderwood had risen, so by the time Mr. Poulton finished his sentence, we were all getting to our feet. I took Reiner’s arm—he had taken me in to dinner—and made a noncommittal reply to his remark that I looked rather warm.
In truth, I was aglow—and it had nothing to do with my untouched glass of wine. Mr. Poulton was dangerously attractive, all the more so because he was so often aloof from me as befitted our different stations in this seminary. Reiner Lehmann’s warm friendliness was pleasant, but I was starting to live for the little attentions I would get from Mr. Poulton from time to time—and the fact worried me.
Part II
1873
10
Accident
“I hope she won’t be too disappointed.” I cast a guilty look at the towering building to our rear, followed by a fearful one at the white expanse before us.
“You can build a snowman with your daughter later.” Mr. Poulton—or Judah, as he had asked me to call him—put a hand under my arm to steer me toward the waiting sleigh. “Are you going to let the whims of a small child direct your life? I only have the sleigh for a few hours.”
I looked up at the conveyance, drawn by a single horse. The animal, which looked as nervous as I felt, showed the whites of its eyes and put its ears back.
“Is that horse quite all right?” I asked.
“Perfectly. It’s a young animal and a little unused to pulling a light cutter like this, but I drove him here from Springwood with no problems. I persuaded Shemmeld to buy a proper speeding sleigh instead of fitting up his buggy with bobs—pretty, isn’t it? Perfect for a pleasure ride. He’ll get his money’s worth in the favors the young sparks will owe him.”
“And all you need are a few young couples,” I murmured as Judah handed me up into the conveyance.
“They’ll come.” He had excellent hearing. He hauled himself up into the sleigh and tucked the thick rug around our knees. I could feel his body close to mine, supple and slender. “The homesteads around here are full of young men and women who came here as children. Now that Springwood’s starting to become a town, they’re looking for some honest entertainment.” He grinned and took the reins, every movement exuding confidence. “We’re leading the way.”
“We’re not a couple.”
I grabbed the side of the sleigh as we moved off. The lightweight conveyance skimmed over the icy snow with incredible smoothness. The sides of the sleigh were low, giving the impression that we were flying over the sheet of sparkling white.
“You’d be better off tucking your arm under mine. You won’t affect my driving if you keep still. Why are you so afraid of the snow?” Judah looked at me from under his long black lashes. “You’re from the Middle West, after all.”
“Yes, but—“ I shoved a hand up under Judah’s elbow, feeling reassured by the hardness of bone and muscle. “My father froze to death in the snow when I was a little child. I used to have bad dreams about being lost and cold and seeing nothing but white all around me.”
“Indeed?” Judah tilted his head and gave me the detached look of a natural philosopher examining a particularly interesting specimen. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
The smooth brow furrowed in evident perplexity. “Afraid? Of course not. It doesn’t make any sense to be afraid.”
“Oh. Is it your faith that makes you say that?”
He frowned again and then gave a short laugh. “My faith? Oh, that—well, I suppose it helps. I just mean that emotion is an expenditure of energy I have little time for. It’s for fools and weaklings.”
I stiffened. “Which am I—a fool or a weakling?”
“You’re a woman.” I felt a tremor of laughter run through him. “And pleasing to look at, especially when you don’t have a child and an imbecile clinging to your skirts. Beauty and sense and talent like yours should have a wider stage.”
“Tess and Sarah are no burden to me.” I went to draw my hand from under Judah’s arm, only to cling tighter with a yelp as the sleigh went over a hummock.
“I saw you had a new letter this morning.” Judah flicked the whip over the horse’s withers, and the animal went faster. The sensation of speed was both alarming and exhilarating, and if it hadn’t been for the snow, I would have been enjoying myself.
“Yes, my friend Mr. Rutherford wrote me.” I spoke more to distract myself than anything else. “He’s worried about the state of the banks. He wanted to reassure me that he’s taken steps to secure my little capital.”
“What does he say about the banks?”
“That there’s trouble coming if the price of silver keeps dropping.”
“Is he a Silverite then?”
“No-o-o.” I held on tight as we embarked on a long, smooth curve. “He doesn’t think increasing the money supply is a good idea, i
f that’s what you mean.”
“That’s pretty much it. More money means more spending—a favorable climate for a merchant such as your friend.”
“He doesn’t think any system is worthwhile if it makes the majority of people less wealthy. And he says that if the banks start to fail, it’s small investors like me who’ll suffer. He says the railroad investors are likely to lose heavily.” I breathed easier as we glided to a halt. My cheeks stung in the cold air. “He’s awfully clever with money, so I’d do well to listen to him.”
“And he has the power over your money, so you have no choice anyway.”
“I don’t need to choose. I trust Mr. Rutherford completely. Are we going back?” I looked longingly toward the speck on the horizon that represented my only point of reference and security in this snowy waste. We had headed west from the seminary, into emptiness. Although there were many farms and homesteads scattered around to the south and east, where Springwood lay, the open plains stretched endlessly to the west as if we were on the edge of civilization. I knew about California beyond the great Rocky Mountains and all the mining towns and miles of railroad track that were growing up to the west, but when faced with the great emptiness of the land before me, it was hard to believe they existed. I shivered.
“We’re not going any farther, are we? The seminary’s almost out of sight.”
“Precisely, and I’m observing the proprieties, Nell. It wouldn’t be proper to drive you so far that they could no longer see us. Do you think our little excursion is unobserved?”
“I know it isn’t. Everything I do here is observed and judged.”
It also disconcerted me that Judah knew I’d had a letter that morning, but I supposed it wasn’t surprising. To think I’d imagined I’d be less noticeable on the frontier. Sometimes I longed for the anonymity of a large city like Chicago. And its absence of wilderness. There, Martin had told me, they shoveled the snow into large piles like the nuisance it was. Here, it dominated the landscape like a great white beast.
