Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  The room looks much like those I’ve spent the morning cleaning, the windows open to let in a warm breeze. Samuel has been reading scriptures: the familiar book lies open on the bedside table.

  “Elizabeth!” he says, standing up. “What are you doing here?”

  Is he displeased to see me? My cheeks warm. I didn’t think beyond a vague desire to see his face again, to hear his voice. “I—I’ve a shift cleaning rooms here. I’m on my way back to the Stevenses’, but I wanted to see you.”

  Samuel’s eyebrows lift, and his lips curl up with amusement. “Ah. You wanted to see me.” He holds his arms out theatrically and does a little pirouette. “Now that you’ve seen me, how do you find me?”

  Is it possible for my face to burn off entirely? “A tease, as always.”

  His voice softens. “Does it distress you? At my house it’s a mark of honor—we only tease those we like. My sisters are very well liked.”

  I can’t help laughing at that, picturing Vilate Ann’s indignant expression. “Are you saying you like me or that you view me as a sister?” The words are out before I can call them back. There’s no way Samuel can answer that question without embarrassing at least one of us.

  Samuel’s eyes flicker from my face to my boots, just visible beneath my skirt, and back up again. “Well, I certainly do not see you as a sister,” he says. As I begin to blush again, he adds, “You’re too short, for one thing.”

  This surprises another laugh out of me.

  “Come, where are you going? Have you eaten?” Samuel says. “I’d like to buy you lunch.”

  “Alice is taking me to lunch,” I say. A sudden pang of disappointment prompts me to add, “Perhaps she’d be willing to let you join us?”

  Samuel nods agreeably, and we head downstairs to find Alice pacing, periodically checking a handsome pocket watch. She looks up as we approach, her face clearing. “There you are!”

  Her gaze darts to Samuel and her expression sharpens. “And suddenly I understand why you were late.”

  “My apologies,” I say, blushing again.

  “Your beau should certainly accompany us to lunch,” Alice says. “I know just the place.”

  “He’s not my—” I break off, flustered.

  Alice leads us outside to where the family carriage waits. Her driver takes us to a swanky new restaurant that serves oysters, which are delivered direct to the restaurant packed in ice from the railcar. Samuel opens the paper menu and his eyebrows twitch. I peer over his shoulder, and my eyes go round at the prices. Perhaps we should not have let Alice pick the place.

  But Alice plucks the menu from our hands when the waiter comes and smiles sunnily at us. “My treat,” she insists, and proceeds to rattle off several different kinds of oysters I’ve never heard of.

  We have oysters raw—served still in their shell and nestled on a bed of rapidly melting ice squares—and fried into little cakes. We squeeze lemon slices over the raw oysters and slip them whole into our mouths. I don’t really like the cold, slippery feel of the thing, but it tastes the way I imagine an ocean might. The fried ones are much more familiar, like the fish cakes I’ve had at home, mixed in buttery crackers. We have scalloped tomatoes and blackberry pie. The tomatoes are delicious, but Mama’s pie is better.

  I’m beginning to understand why Alice loves Denver so. What I do not understand is how she is not as stout as me.

  As we finish eating, Alice turns to Samuel. “Have you ever sat for a painting?”

  “No, ma’am,” Samuel says. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m working on a series of paintings about people in the West. Elizabeth has already agreed to sit for me, but I think I’d like to paint you together.” Alice taps her chin thoughtfully. “I can call it my Mormon marriage.”

  Samuel and I exchange a look.

  Alice intercepts the look. Her eyebrows lift. “Does that make you uncomfortable? You know a painting can be as much a fiction as a work of literature.”

  I think of my pact with Alice. “Please, Samuel? I know you are busy, but it would mean a great deal to me.”

  Samuel shrugs. “I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good!” Alice says. “Then it’s settled.” But she cannot refrain from adding, with a sly look that makes us both pink, “Then again, sometimes even fiction gets at the truth.”

  chapter eighteen

  Monday, July 22, 1878

  Denver, Colorado

  One week until eclipse

  Alice wants to begin our portrait right away, but I remind her Dr. Avery suggested I call on Miss Mitchell this afternoon. I have wanted to meet Miss Mitchell since I was nine years old and first read of her discovering a comet.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Alice says, signaling her driver to stop outside the Trans-Oceana to return Samuel to his room. “Will four o’clock suit you both?”

  Samuel agrees, then presses my hand and waves at Alice before climbing down from the carriage. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, before disappearing into the hotel.

  Alice turns back to me. “Shall I come with you to Dr. Avery’s? Or I can drop you there as easily.”

  Dr. Avery is much less likely to forget having met me with Alice along. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I’d like that. Thank you.”

  At the corner of Champa and Twentieth Street, Alice’s driver lets us down. Dr. Avery’s house is pretty, with two stories and big glass windows and French doors opening onto prim little balconies on the upper floor. Around the house spreads an expanse of green grass with a profusion of flowers in neatly kept beds. I take a deep breath beside the wrought iron fence, then march up the walk to the door and knock, Alice close behind me.

  I hear women’s voices inside, laughing, then a pause as someone gets up and heels click against the floor. Dr. Avery opens the door herself, wearing a loose, ruffled tea gown the color of fresh cream.

  Suddenly, I cannot remember how to talk.

  Dr. Avery smiles at Alice, “Good afternoon, Miss Stevens. And Miss—?”

  She’s already forgotten my name. “Bertelsen,” I say quickly. “We met at the dance on Saturday.”

  Her face clears. “Oh, of course. You were the young lady who hoped to meet Miss Mitchell. Please come in. Miss Mitchell is in the parlor, though I’m afraid not all her party is here. There’s been some terrible mix-up with their luggage. One of the prized telescopes has gone astray, something to do with the rail war between the Kansas Pacific and Denver and Rio Grande railroads.”

  We follow the doctor down a hallway with bright floral paper on the walls, to a large sitting room with flowered chintz sofas and white curtains. Several women of varying ages look up with inquiring eyes as we enter.

  Dr. Avery introduces us around the room. Miss Mitchell’s sister, Phebe Kendall, an artist. (Alice perks up at that.) One of Miss Mitchell’s students, a dark-haired Miss Culbertson, who means to be a doctor, like Dr. Avery. A writer friend of Dr. Avery’s from Colorado Springs—“Mrs. Jackson, the writer,” Dr. Avery says, as if I have heard of her.

  And Miss Maria Mitchell.

  Though it’s July, and hot, even in this airy room, Miss Mitchell wears a black dress with a white shawl about her shoulders. Her hair is gray, verging on white, and her round face is lined with wrinkles. She looks like someone’s grandmother, not one of the most preeminent scientists in North America.

  But what do I think a scientist should look like? A distinguished gentleman, like Mr. Edison? Or Dr. Morton in Rawlins? Surely part of becoming a scientist is being able to imagine myself—or another girl or woman—in that role.

  Miss Culbertson offers me her place on the sofa beside Miss Mitchell, and Alice goes at once to sit beside Mrs. Kendall, the artist. The doctor brings us both tea and a plate of pound cake. I curl my fingers around the cup, absorbing its warmth,
but don’t drink it. I’m warm and uncomfortable enough without the tea’s added heat. Maybe it was a mistake to come. These women with their education and careers and goals exist far outside my orbit.

  The conversation—checked briefly as we entered—picks up with energy.

  From her new perch near the wall, Miss Culbertson says, “But that’s just what Mr. John Draper argues in his book, that as scientific discovery continues to progress, it will grow more and more estranged from organized religion. Ultimately the two are not compatible.”

  Dr. Avery nods thoughtfully. “Certainly I see that in my own life. I was born a Methodist, and today, well, I’m not sure what I would call myself.”

  Miss Mitchell says, “We cannot have science held back by religious tradition. If we are to do this work, we must believe that the natural and spiritual worlds are full of mysteries and wonders and be ready and willing to question socially acceptable truths.” Sunlight makes the muslin curtains behind her head glow like a halo.

  I take a gulp of my tea, and it scalds all the way down. I try not to choke. Is this true? Is Mama right, that my interest in science will ultimately take me away from God? I don’t want to believe it, but surely these women know much more than I do.

  Alice says, quietly, “Religious faith can also be a beautiful thing, informing the work we do, whether that is an experiment, a surgery, or a painting.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Avery says agreeably. To the others, she adds, “Miss Stevens is a very talented painter.” Dr. Avery describes the painting Alice did of her, and Miss Mitchell’s sister leans forward to ask Alice a question about her technique.

  The writer—Mrs. Jackson?—turns toward me and asks, “And where are you from, Miss Bertelsen? Are you also from Denver?” Beneath her gray hair, her eyes are bright with interest. She reminds me of a bird, all eager inquisitiveness. “Or are you a western transplant, like me?”

  “Utah born and bred, ma’am,” I say, “though my mama is British and my far—that is, my father—is Danish.”

  “Utah?” Mrs. Jackson echoes. “Are you Mormon, then? I visited Salt Lake a few years ago, with a dear friend. Such a fascinating city and people. I’ve written all about it, you know, in my newest book, Bits of Travel at Home.”

  I drop my eyes down to my teacup, my body rigid. I never know how folks will react to my being Mormon—if they’ll try to be kind, like the Stevens family, or openly rude, like the woman on the train. I want these women to like me, to respect me, even. And though Mrs. Jackson does not seem disgusted at the idea of Mormons, only interested, I don’t know about the others, except that they don’t think religion is compatible with being a scientist—and I very much want them to see me as a scientist.

  Who am I, outside my family, my faith? I take a deep breath, don’t let myself think of Mama, or God, and say, “My father was a Mormon convert, but he no longer practices the faith.”

  It’s not a lie. But Mrs. Jackson accepts the misdirection with relief, the shape of her shoulders softening. Alice narrows her eyes at me, and I look away, blushing.

  “I met with many polygamists when I was in Utah,” Mrs. Jackson continues to the room at large. “I own I was pleasantly surprised: the women and children are not the malnourished, deformed creatures you might expect on reading the medical reports, but rather frank and bright and hardworking. The men are another matter. I saw their so-called prophet, you know, and a rougher, more sensuous man I have never seen. I did not speak with a single woman who favors polygamy, though of course they cannot say so publicly. And who can blame them? I should not want to share my husband.”

  My stomach coils in on itself like a live snake. I do not like the reflection I catch in her words, as though I am looking in a mirror and someone else is telling me what I see. I don’t see my father in Mrs. Jackson’s words, or Mama, or Aunt Elisa. There is an itching across my skin I cannot get at. But I have only myself to blame: She would not be so blunt if she knew who I am. What I am.

  “Indeed, it seems a degradation to women,” Dr. Avery says.

  I swallow, wondering how to answer—if I should answer. Polygamy is hard and complicated and not something I want for myself. Yet for some, it’s a holy practice. I don’t say anything.

  Unexpectedly, Alice says, “Without full knowledge of their circumstances, I am not sure how we can judge them fairly.”

  There’s a taut beat of silence.

  Miss Culbertson says, “One mustn’t let sentiment interfere with rationality. That would be bad science—one has only to look at the results of scientific studies to see the bad effects of such customs.”

  Then Dr. Avery sighs. “Perhaps. And yet we should be generous in our judgments. God alone knows how often I’ve been judged for my choices, as a childless, single woman who has put career before all else.”

  Miss Mitchell clears her throat and turns to me. “I believe Dr. Avery said you were interested in astronomy, Miss Bertelsen. Are you here for the eclipse, as we are?” Like Dr. Avery’s, her voice is that of an eastern transplant, her words more brisk than mine.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, grateful for the change in topic. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’ve always wanted to.”

  “We’re very hopeful about this eclipse. I took a group of students to see the Iowa eclipse in 1869, and such a splendid string of radiations we saw, streamers extending across the sky like pearl beads.”

  “What do you hope to see this time?” I ask.

  “We are hoping to better establish coordinates for the sun and moon, and to study the corona—and perhaps to catch a glimpse of Vulcan.” Miss Mitchell studies me curiously. “Have you much formal training in astronomy?”

  The others have largely moved on to their own conversations: Miss Culbertson and Dr. Avery talking to Mrs. Jackson, Alice speaking quietly with Mrs. Kendall. Miss Mitchell and I seem cocooned in our own little sphere. I wish I had an actual place in this circle, not the illusory one that our conversation gives me.

  And so when I answer, once again I am not completely truthful. “Some. I don’t have college training, but I’ve studied all I can from books. And I know how to use a telescope.” That is, I’ve handled the telescope Mr. Edison showed us. I don’t tell her that I barely grasp the complicated math required for astronomy, that I have less than two years of formal schooling.

  “How are you at sketching?” Miss Mitchell asks.

  “Fair enough.” I am surely going to hell for lying, but Alice and I made a pact to do what we can to forward one another’s careers (and our own), and I can’t see any other way to get this experience.

  “Elias Colbert, from the Chicago Observatory, is offering a class at the high school Thursday night, for those who wish to learn to sketch the corona during the eclipse. We could use another set of trained hands on Monday, if you’d be interested in helping.”

  Miss Mitchell has handed me a gift I didn’t dare ask for. “Thank you,” I manage. “I should like that very much.” I resolve to ask Alice to take me to the library for more astronomy books, to supplement my deficient knowledge. A city this large must have one.

  There’s a commotion in the hall: the two young women who’ve been at the station looking for the telescope. Miss Mitchell stands as they come in. “Any luck?”

  One, a pretty, freckled girl with brown hair, shakes her head. “Not for lack of trying! And there’s not a spare telescope in the city to beg, borrow, or steal. It would be such a pity to miss even part of the eclipse after coming all this way.”

  Miss Mitchell rises and pats her hand. “Have faith, Miss Abbott. It won’t come to that.”

  Alice catches my eye, making a motion toward the door. This disruption is a good time to take our leave. We stand and thank Dr. Avery for the tea.

  As I pass by her, Miss Mitchell catches at my sleeve. “Come again, Miss Bertelsen, and we’ll se
e if we can put you to work.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  We slip out of the house, and I pause for a moment on the front step, letting the hot sun burn across my cheeks.

  Alice says, “You lied to those women.”

  “I didn’t lie.” Though I may have stretched the truth nearly to breaking point.

  “Then you let them believe a lie.”

  Shame makes my words sharp. “My being Mormon has nothing to do with my potential as a scientist. It would only prejudice them against me, if they knew.”

  “You don’t know that.” Alice steps gracefully down the steps to the walkway.

  I shake my head. I can’t risk it. Not when I’m so close to everything I hoped for.

  “Does being a woman prejudice others against your art?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Alice says reluctantly. “As does my color. But I can’t believe these women are so judgmental as you think. And isn’t science about the pursuit of truth? How can you base that study on a lie?”

  “Who I am has nothing to do with what I study,” I say, nettled. “And I could ask you the same.”

  Alice stops walking. “My art isn’t based on a lie.”

  “But you lie to yourself, about what you want to paint.”

  I know as soon as I’ve said the words that I’ve gone too far.

  Alice’s eyes flash. She whirls away, stalks down the walkway, and throws open the door to the carriage. It bangs shut behind her.

  It would serve me right if Alice drove away this instant and never wanted to speak to me again.

  But Alice is a better person than I am. The door opens again.

  “Are you coming?”

  I hurry toward the carriage, stumbling only a little as I reach the wrought iron gate. Before I get in, I say, “I’m sorry. I had no right to say what I did about your art. But if I can trust you to know what is best for you and your art, can you trust me to know what is best for my study as well?”