The Measure of a Lady

by Deeanne Gist

  Maybe he should line the whole thing with wood. But, then, he may as well build a wooden structure and leave off the iron.

  He sighed. He’d had this argument with himself many a time.

  And each time he came to the same conclusion. He was stuck with an iron mansion that he loathed but had invested too much in to tear down.

  A crowd began to form around Michael’s table, and Johnnie slowed to watch.

  ‘‘Walk up, chaps,’’ Michael called. ‘‘Pungle her down and bet what you please. If anyone goes broke, I’ll give him money for a big drink of Parker’s finest Monongahela whiskey.’’

  Men plunked down their bags and play began. The boy had a flair for dealing and a persuasive call.

  Johnnie had encouraged him to return home, but Michael held no regrets about bidding ‘‘toting, scrubbing, and a bossy sister’’ goodbye. He wanted to make his fortune. Just like Johnnie.

  So Johnnie had let him stay. Mainly so he could keep an eye on the boy for Rachel. But he disliked the responsibility of being anyone’s idol. He was not something a young impressionable boy should strive to become.

  The miners stacked up like cards against Michael’s table, exhibiting a degree of conformity that had been forced upon them by the town’s limited offerings. High boots, heavy trousers, flannel shirts, suspenders, and slouch hats made up their uniform as surely as if it had been mandatory issue.

  And the men embraced their anonymity, enhancing it with beards so heavy even relations were unrecognizable. Johnnie studied the look-alike bunch. The anonymity was one of the main currents his business depended on, for with this loss of identity came a loss of inhibition, allowing doctors, lawyers, preachers, bankers, and teachers to stray from the straight and narrow.

  A fierce-looking man with an untrimmed beard and hair that appeared as if it had been cut with a jackknife turned up an eight, placing his winnings of the last few minutes at almost twenty-thousand dollars. His worn, tattered clothing sported patches covered with more patches.

  Michael showed no sign of concern or distress—only casual indifference. Johnnie knew, though, only too well, the tightness that surely had a firm hold on the lad’s innards.

  Walk away, Johnnie silently urged the miner. Pick up your winnings and go home to your wife in Boston or Philadelphia or New Orleans or wherever it is you hail from. It would be best for you and best for the boy here.

  But the man continued to bet, winning a little here, losing much more there. In less than thirty minutes he’d lost it all.

  As promised, Michael sifted out enough gold for the man to purchase a whiskey.

  A great unease swept through Johnnie. The man looked near collapse. It appeared he had not come with a friend or partner, but alone. Johnnie watched him make his way to the bar. Past the other tables, past the piano player, past his Lorenzo Bartolini, which today wore a feathered Indian headdress.

  The man collected his drink, threw it down with a toss of his head, and walked out the door.

  Within seconds the report of a firearm sounded. Johnnie shoved his way through the crowd, threw open the door and there, on his porch, lay the man. Dead. Resting in a pool of his own blood.

  ————

  After weeks of violent rain, the morning dawned without a cloud in the sky. Rachel tied back the curtains, drinking in the canvas of blue propped behind hills of pale green.

  She smiled. Only in California would the hills be brown in the summer and green in the winter.

  Not bothering to collect her bonnet, she opened the door and stood on her porch, basking in the mild temperature and the breathtaking panorama. Even the sight of Telegraph Hill did not dampen her sense of elation that rose with the sun.

  ‘‘Glorious, isn’t it?’’

  Rachel turned to find Mr. Crocker, portfolio and all, stepping up onto her platform.

  ‘‘Indeed it is,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Can you come out and play?’’

  She smiled. ‘‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid the mud is so deep we’d not get very far.’’

  ‘‘Then perhaps I could come in?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  They entered the dining room and he spread out his paintings while she collected some coffee.

  After they combed through the most recent additions to his library of artwork, Crocker put them away and drew forth two brown packages. One large and flat, the other small and rectangular.

  ‘‘For you,’’ he said.

  She didn’t move.

  He untied the twine securing the large package and opened its wrappings to reveal a stack of drawing paper. He then made short work of the small box, which yielded two slender pieces of charcoal.

  ‘‘I’m going to teach you how to make sketches of your insects.’’

  She dared not touch the paper or she’d be lost. ‘‘ ’Twould be an exercise in futility, I’m afraid.’’

  ‘‘I’m a marvelous teacher.’’ The tenor of his voice had dropped to an intimate register.

  She raised her gaze and found his look intense and disquieting. Brown eyes. Same as his hair. Funny, she’d never noticed his eyes before.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘Though your gift is perfectly appropriate, I have decided that as a woman on my own, it is not wise to accept a gift from a man. Any man.’’

  Except for Johnnie, she thought. But he’s different.

  Mr. Crocker swallowed. ‘‘Would you be more apt to take it if you were my betrothed?’’

  The sounds of industry and morning salutations from out in the Plaza reached her ears but not her mind. Only confusion and distress and near panic over his declaration broke through her intellect.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

  ‘‘Rachel?’’ he whispered. ‘‘Would you be my wife?’’

  The sound of her forename rattled like a bell clanger in her head, almost drowning out his proposal. Almost. ‘‘Mr. Crocker, I, um, I don’t know what to say.’’

  He gripped his knees. ‘‘Please, call me Henry. And if you would like some time, that would be—’’

  ‘‘Unnecessary,’’ Johnnie said from the kitchen entryway.

  The two of them jumped guiltily to their feet.

  ‘‘Parker!’’

  ‘‘Johnnie!’’

  He moved into the room, his attention fixed on Rachel.

  Blindly reaching for the table, she found its top and moved to stand behind it. ‘‘I wasn’t expecting you,’’ she said.

  ‘‘So I see.’’

  ‘‘You’ve not been over for coffee in weeks.’’

  ‘‘My mistake.’’

  Henry frowned. ‘‘Miss Van Buren? Have I spoken out of turn? Do you and Parker have an understanding?’’

  She gave her full attention to Mr. Crocker. ‘‘I have not been spoken for, no.’’

  ‘‘Not officially,’’ Johnnie said.

  ‘‘Not at all,’’ she spat back.

  ‘‘Do you love him, Rachel?’’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘‘Parker,’’ Crocker interrupted, ‘‘I must protest.’’

  ‘‘He makes his living in the out-of-doors,’’ she answered.

  ‘‘That’s not what I asked.’’

  ‘‘He’s easy to get along with.’’

  ‘‘So is a pet.’’

  ‘‘He’s respectable.’’

  ‘‘I take that to mean he hasn’t kissed you?’’

  ‘‘Parker!’’ Crocker exclaimed.

  ‘‘He has not.’’

  Tension fell from Johnnie’s shoulders. ‘‘Do you love him?’’

  ‘‘That’s none of your affair.’’

  ‘‘Do you love me?’’ Johnnie stood close now. Just on the other side of the table, looking tousled and tired. She wondered if he’d been ill.

  ‘‘A marriage cannot be based only on feelings,’’ she said. ‘‘Feelings come and go. A marriage must be based on a solid foundation of trust and respect and . . .’’

  ‘‘Love,’’
he supplied. ‘‘You didn’t answer my question.’’

  ‘‘You have come at a most inconvenient time, Johnnie.’’

  ‘‘Answer me.’’

  ‘‘The answer makes no difference.’’

  ‘‘It does to me.’’

  ‘‘It does to me, too,’’ Henry said.

  She sighed. ‘‘I’m so sorry about all this, Mr. Crocker, and terribly embarrassed.’’

  ‘‘No need for any apology,’’ he said. ‘‘I do think, however, that you and Parker have a few things to work out. My offer still stands. But he’s right. No matter how much respect and trust you have in a marriage, you also need love. I would, anyway.’’

  He gathered up his portfolio, and Rachel walked him to the door.

  ‘‘May I stop by tomorrow?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She shut the door quietly behind him before turning to face Johnnie. ‘‘I am very angry with you. You had no right. You are not to come through that back door anymore. Front door only. And if it is locked, then it is because I want some privacy.’’

  ‘‘All right.’’

  She blinked at his easy capitulation.

  ‘‘I came over to see if you wanted to go to the beach.’’

  ‘‘Johnnie. The man was proposing marriage to me. I can’t just tell him I’ll think about it and then go to the beach with you.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘Because. It would be horribly insensitive.’’

  ‘‘Well, then, I’ll go get him and bring him back so you can tell him no. After that will you go to the beach with me?’’

  She rubbed her forehead. ‘‘I’ll do no such thing.’’

  ‘‘But it’s the first clear day we’ve had for over a month. It may be the only one. And I want to spend it on the beach with you.’’

  ‘‘The streets are too muddy. We’d never make it down there.’’

  ‘‘Is that a yes?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘You are being obtuse on purpose.’’

  ‘‘I’m not.’’ He glanced out the window. ‘‘He already knows you aren’t going to marry him.’’

  She propped her hands on her waist. ‘‘And how could that be when I myself haven’t even decided yet?’’

  He pushed in the bench. ‘‘Because if he thought he had a chance he never would have walked out that door and left you alone with me. You love me and he knows it.’’

  He opened the box of charcoal and rubbed a piece of drawing paper between thumb and forefinger. ‘‘What are these?’’

  She snatched them out of his hand and wrapped them back up. ‘‘They are a gift.’’

  Frowning, he put his finger on the cross-section of twine so she could finish the knot. ‘‘You probably shouldn’t have accepted them.’’

  She jerked the twine tight, but he didn’t notice and slipped his finger from the string’s hold. But not before she took in the brownness of his skin. The slight dusting of hair on his knuckles. The prominent veins on his massive hand.

  ‘‘I’ve missed you,’’ he said.

  She looked up. Worry lines marked his forehead and the sides of his eyes. ‘‘Are you well?’’

  ‘‘Just tired,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You quit coming for coffee.’’

  ‘‘So you’ve missed me, too?’’ He hooked a tendril of hair behind her ear.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she admitted softly.

  ‘‘Well then, let’s not waste the day. Go put on some old clothes, and I’ll get us some donkeys.’’

  ‘‘Donkeys?’’

  ‘‘They do much better in this quagmire than the horses.’’

  His eyes were even bluer than this morning’s sky. ‘‘I must speak with Mr. Crocker first.’’

  She expected him to preen or display a show of male satisfaction.

  He did neither.

  ‘‘I’ll send him over,’’ he said.

  ‘‘What if you can’t find him?’’

  ‘‘He’s at my place.’’

  She started. ‘‘How do you know?’’

  ‘‘I watched him out the window when he left.’’

  She turned back to look out the window, but of course, Mr.

  Crocker was nowhere in sight.

  chapter 21

  Rather than going to the main beach, where hundreds upon hundreds of abandoned ships obstructed the view, they rode all the way down Columbus Street to a quiet little cove that had yet to earn a name.

  Upon arriving, the cool breeze roared in Johnnie’s ears, but he welcomed nature’s assault, glad to be away from the town that had bit-by-bit closed in on him.

  He dismounted from his donkey and helped Rachel with hers. He’d been unsure how her burro would react to a sidesaddle, but she’d handled it splendidly.

  Barely had her feet touched the ground when she flew to a nearby rock, peeking underneath it like a raccoon looking for food.

  He secured the animals to a couple of scrub trees, smiling at the work boots peeking out from beneath Rachel’s calico. Her brown dress had seen better days, but it did nothing to diminish her beauty or animation.

  She wore a blue slat bonnet that protected her face from the sun instead of the superfluous ones that she normally catered to.

  A tiny geyser of water spouted up from the sand beside her and she jumped. Moving to her, Johnnie knelt and without a word started digging around the geyser. After a moment, she joined in. In short order a long cigar-shaped tube revealed itself. They kept digging, front paws paddling like dogs after a bone.

  It was slow going with the moist sand wanting to slink back into the burrow they dug, but finally they reached their treasure. Digging more recklessly, they uncovered a large clam, almost a foot in length with a tube clamped tight between its shell.

  ‘‘What on earth?’’ she breathed.

  Johnnie freed it from its muddy home, holding it aloft. ‘‘It sucks water down this tube, siphons out the food, and then spits the water back out.’’

  ‘‘Fascinating.’’ She touched the ridges on its shell. ‘‘Never in my life have I seen a clam this size. I didn’t even know there were such things.’’

  He smiled and put it back in its burrow. They covered it up, careful to leave a bit of its eating cylinder above the surface.

  ‘‘Do the seagulls ever carry off these tubes?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘They do. It’s a delicacy for them, and they frequently snatch them right out of the clam’s mouth with no regard whatsoever to the requirements of its owner.’’

  Much like I snatch gold from the miners, he thought.

  She sat back on her heels. ‘‘Well, I’m vastly relieved. I had begun to think that even the gulls in California smoked cigars.’’

  He laughed at her foolishness and pulled her up. They built a sand castle, collected shells with which to decorate its facade, and finally dug a large moat around its circumference.

  Rolling up his trousers, Johnnie pulled off his boots, yanked off his socks, and splashed into the water. ‘‘Come on. It feels great.’’

  He bent and washed off his hands. He could tell she wanted to come in, but it would require the removal of her boots.

  She stood by the castle vacillating. He said nothing. He’d pushed her into enough sin; he would do so no more. After a bit she crept up to the water’s edge—closer, closer until the tide unexpectedly rushed at her.

  Squealing, she tried to outrun it but could not. It crashed over her skirt, boots and all. She bent over to dip her hands in, but the water receded too quickly.

  He heard her mumble in irritation, then watched in amazement as she stomped right to him, her boots slapping with each step.

  ‘‘You’re ruining your work boots,’’ he said, not bothering to disguise his amusement, ‘‘and I know how fond of them you are.’’

  ‘‘They’ll dry.’’

  ‘‘True. They’ll also be ruined.’’

  They stood calf
deep in the frigid ocean, the water lifting her skirt to its surface and entangling it within his legs.

  ‘‘Did you say no to Crocker?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I did.’’

  When Crocker had left the Parker House, Johnnie had watched Rachel’s place from one of his upstairs windows. Her suitor had eventually come out with the returned gifts and a solemn face.

  When Johnnie procured the donkeys at the livery, he’d heard Crocker had left town for good.

  Waves tumbled one on top of the other, each in a race to reach the shore first. A hungry fish nipped at Johnnie’s ankle.

  ‘‘You gave him his gifts back,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  He let the impact of that sink in, knowing she’d kept his gifts. Had, in fact, treasured them. Cataloged them. And pinned them to a board. He wondered, not for the first time, exactly what it all meant.

  ‘‘He’s left town,’’ Johnnie said.

  ‘‘Yes. He told me that’s what he would do.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  After several moments, she turned and tried to head back but her boots did not follow where she led, and at that very moment a thigh-high wave crashed against them. She gasped and began to topple, arms windmilling.

  He reached for her, but instead of pulling her up, in her panic, she brought him down. They both fell into the shallow water, submerging themselves beneath its icy abode for mere seconds before their salty nemesis released them.

  She rolled to a sitting position, struggling for breath, arms flailing, bonnet collapsed, hair slick against her face, skirt and petticoat churning about her on the water’s surface. ‘‘My boots!’’

  She tried to get her footing, but her skirts thwarted her every attempt. He scrambled to the place they had stood and blindly searched with his hands, but try as he might, he could only come up with one boot.

  The thought of arriving in town barefoot must have given her the impetus she needed to conquer the ocean’s temperature and tow, for she too was cavorting about on all fours.

  ‘‘It’s gone, Rachel,’’ he said. ‘‘You can wear mine.’’