Josephine stepped out from the long, covered hall that sheltered the Illinois’s passenger cabins. Dovey, glad for the distraction from her dark thoughts, waved a greeting, and Josephine stared beyond her, to the lush, green glow on the horizon. A smile of pure awe lit her face, animating her otherwise severe features.
She really is a pretty lady, Dovey thought, and could be prettier, if she’d only allow herself to be. Through the days of Dovey’s recovery, she had puzzled over Jo, who had hardly left her bedside. The older woman’s show of mousy humility seemed contrary to her true nature. Dovey always felt as if Jo wore her studied plainness like a disguise. But what need did she have of any disguising? What secret was Jo keeping—what was she hiding from?
More of Mercer’s girls made their way out into the fresh morning air, and the deck filled with exclamations of joy at the sight of Panama—of blessed, solid, unmoving land. Dovey watched them all, more curious than ever before as to their motives, their stories—the secrets they, too, must keep. Each woman had her own reason for embarking on this mad journey. Surely some among them simply wanted a change—Lowell and the entire war-torn East Coast had become a tiresome, depressing place. But it was such a drastic change—terrible, even—to leave one’s whole life behind and start over anew, to bet on a future that lay shrouded beyond a misty horizon.
Terrible—that was exactly the word for the upheaval Dovey had wrought in her own life. True, she had little choice in the matter, but still the fact of her circumstances gnawed at her. It was most unlikely, she knew, that she would ever see her brothers again—if Bart and Ewing survived the war. And Mother … Would she ever again set eyes on her beloved face, or feel her warm, gentle touch?
Sarah, the pretty, blue-eyed songbird, had begun to sing a hymn of thanksgiving, while a few of the girls, unable to maintain their dignity in the sight of land, swung one another about by the hands, laughing. Dovey watched them from the rail, chewing pensively at her cracked lip. Were some of these women glad to leave their old lives behind—as relieved to be rid of the past as they were to reach this tropic shore? If they had left Massachusetts reluctantly, did they mourn what they’d left behind? What greater hope motivated them to cast off the comfort and familiarity of their old lives? What hope did Seattle hold for them? What longings could the West fulfill that home could not?
Sophronia was the last woman to step out into the morning light. She stood beside Jo, considering the coast of Aspinwall with cool, distant eyes. The collar of Sophronia’s jacket had been delicately stitched with pale-pink thread, an intricate embroidery of vines and flowers. It looked rather old-fashioned, Dovey thought, yet it had a charm all its own. The twisting pattern of the little pink vines was much like the embroidery on Jo’s old lavender dress.
Jo must have embroidered Sophronia’s collar. So those two are friends now?
Dovey felt a surge of envy, and knew at once that it was a foolish reaction. Jo and Sophronia had worked together to nurse Dovey through her illness, and she owed them both a debt of gratitude.
Jo and Sophronia joined Dovey at the rail. Despite the days they had spent in close quarters, with Sophronia helping tend to some of Dovey’s most personal needs, the icy blonde carefully placed herself on Jo’s other side.
Too good to stand near me—is that it?
“You’re looking much better,” Jo said. “I’m glad to see you up out of bed.”
“And just in time to see Aspinwall, too.” Dovey resolved to shake off Sophronia’s chill. She had much to be thankful for today, and she wouldn’t let that self-righteous cat with a ramrod for a spine cast a shadow over her joy. “I still feel awful quivery, but I guess I’ll make it.”
Dovey peered at Sophronia from the corner of her eye, watching that calm, regal profile as Sophronia studied the emerald horizon. Even though the pale woman ignored her most strenuously, Dovey said, “Sophronia, I owe you my thanks. You nursed me through that illness, and I’m grateful to you.”
“We all nursed you,” Sophronia said, as if saving a life were nothing.
“But it was your ministrations that brought me through the worst of it. I was pretty ill, wasn’t I?”
Sophronia shrugged, still watching the horizon. “You were dehydrated from all the vomiting. Another day or two and you might have been in real danger, but seasickness is easy to treat, once you know the knack of it.”
“How did you learn the knack?”
At last Sophronia turned her pale, piercing eyes to Dovey. Pain and regret flashed in their depths, so forceful that Dovey stepped backward. But in another moment, Sophronia’s expression smoothed. “I’ve traveled often by boat, ever since I was a little girl. Have you never been on a ship before, Dovey?”
“I suppose I have,” she said. “When I was very small my parents took me with them on a pleasure trip down the Atlantic coast. But I don’t remember much of it, except that it was cold on the deck of the ship. And I remember the seabirds calling and floating in the air beside the rail. I never got sick—or if I did, it wasn’t so severe.”
Sophronia raised one silver-white brow in her maddening, appraising fashion. “Your parents have some means, then. Your father is a wealthy man?”
Dovey gripped the rail hard and glanced at Jo, seeking some guidance from the older, wiser woman. But Jo turned to her with a gaze as curious, if not as frosty, as Sophronia’s.
“My family does well enough,” Dovey finally said.
Sophronia wordlessly considered Dovey’s mended hem and scuffed boots.
“Did well,” Dovey amended. “His business has suffered from the rebellion—but that’s no surprise. Who in Lowell hasn’t fallen on hard times, with the cotton trade ailing?”
“Your father was a mill owner, then?” Sophronia asked.
Dovey didn’t like her tone—its slick, ferrety persistence. In a great rush of ire, she made up her mind to drop all pretense of hiding and out herself to the whole expedition. Let Sophronia do her worst; they had practically made it to Central America, anyhow, and there was little anyone could do to impinge Dovey now.
She drew herself up and faced Sophronia’s level, judgmental stare. “Yes, my father was a mill owner. John Mason is his name. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—the Lord of Lowell, they used to call him, before every one of his factories closed.”
Sophronia’s eyes widened, and Jo let out a little gasp.
“I’m Doreen Mason—his only daughter. And if the Rebels have their way, I might end up his only living child.”
“My goodness,” Jo muttered. “The Mason family! Oh, but Dovey … if your poor brothers are killed—and I pray they are not—you would inherit a fortune! Whyever did you decide to run off to Seattle?”
“Because I won’t inherit a fortune,” Dovey snapped. “My family is all but destitute now. Mother’s terribly ill and is in Boston under the care of a relative. I left Lowell with the only possessions I still had: the dress on my back and a sack full of a few necessities. And those few necessities weren’t nearly enough.” She wrinkled her nose, recalling with chagrin that Sophronia had donated half her food stores to the effort of nursing Dovey back from the brink of death. “Still and all, I got away not a moment too soon. Jo knows the rest of the story.”
“But I had no idea you were a Mason,” Jo said. “How did you come up with the money for the fare? Two hundred and fifty is steep enough for anyone to manage, but for a family fallen on such difficult times …”
Heat—and a slow worm of anxiety—crept up from Dovey’s middle, flushing her chest and neck, and finally painting her shame bright and undeniable on her cheeks. But she held her head up high, and looked boldly into Sophronia’s eyes as she said, “I sold my mother’s jewels to raise the fare.”
Sophronia gasped. One hand flew to her mouth and trembled ostentatiously. “Oh, your poor mother! I never could have done such a thing. Why, if your mother is as ill as you say—if the Lord takes her—then her jewelry might have been the only memories you had left of her!�
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The same bleak thought had plagued Dovey as she’d tossed and turned in the tight, fierce grip of her own illness. To hear her fears repeated on Sophronia’s sharp tongue only made her angrier—at herself, and no one else. Still, she tossed her curls and said, “I don’t care! I did what needed doing. And I’m sure I’m not the only woman on this voyage who did what needed doing!” She cut a quick glance at Jo, wondering again about that mousy disguise, that veil of mystery. But Jo would not meet Dovey’s eye.
“Don’t be so hard on the girl,” Jo said to Sophronia. “Dovey is right: we’re all here for reasons of our own, and no woman is making this journey as a holiday. We’ve all sacrificed something precious to us. We’ve all faced our share of hard choices. And all of us chose to start anew in the West. We ought to support one another—be sisters and friends. We cannot snipe at one another all the way to Seattle.”
Sophronia folded her arms tightly and arched her brows, a perfect picture of an ice queen. “And what are your reasons for making the journey, Josephine? How are you starting anew in the West?”
“I …” Jo faltered. Dovey noted how her throat tightened for a moment as she swallowed down her sudden anxiety. “I’m a widow,” Jo finally said. “It makes sense, doesn’t it, that I’d want to get out of Lowell? Wouldn’t you, if your husband died and you had no family left in the world?”
Sophronia said nothing but held the older woman’s gaze. Jo’s brow furrowed and she turned away, fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket, and made no further attempt to explain.
Dovey shared a knowing glance with Sophronia. Jo was definitely hiding something. Widow she might be, but there was more to her past than a dead husband. She was fleeing Lowell—trying to leave something far behind.
When the Illinois pulled into port an hour later, Dovey forgot the mystery of Josephine’s past, and even the nagging worry about her mother left her in peace for a few blessed moments. She leaned over the rail of the ship, drinking in the thick air, tasting its spice of lush green land, of the coal smoke of industry and the sharp, the exotic tang of delights yet to be discovered. She had never been so far from home before—and doubted whether any of the Masons had, either. Even Father couldn’t have gone so far in all his life.
Aspinwall spread out from the sleek black flank of the Illinois, a map unrolled under Dovey’s feet, ready to guide her on to new adventures. Cream-white sand carpeted a great, smooth curve of beach that stretched beyond the wharves into a blue, hazy distance. Ahead, where the waterfront gave way to cobblestone and packed-earth streets, curious homes stood among lush, palm-fringed gardens—each house painted in candy-bright shades, each crowned by a flat-topped, red-tile roof. A flock of children scurried down a sidewalk, toting schoolbooks in their arms; Dovey raised a hand to them in greeting, and a few leaped and shouted when they saw her wave.
When Mr. Mercer welcomed the travelers to disembark, Dovey helped Jo carry their shared trunk down the ramp to the cart waiting below. Their boardinghouse was only a few blocks away; the women walked the distance, glad for the chance to stretch their legs and delighted by the fresh air. As they strolled along in the cart’s wake, Dovey peered eagerly at the faces of her fellow travelers, noting which women’s eyes lit up at the novelty of Aspinwall, its warmth and dense, vibrant greenery—and noting, too, whose eyes dimmed with worry at the strangeness of their surroundings.
The Aspinwall boardinghouse was a good deal better than the New York house had been. Its windows were high and breezy, and from their vantage on the second story they could just make out, between the flat, red roofs of the town, the white curve of the beach and the gray-green sea beyond. Dovey claimed a narrow bed with a simple metal frame between Jo’s and Sophronia’s bunks, then returned to the window, gazing out at the ocean.
“Can you believe it, Jo?” Dovey said. “We came all across that great, wide distance.”
“If you squint hard enough, you can see New York,” Jo said drily. “Lord, but I’m glad that leg of our journey’s over. Just one more sea voyage to endure, and we’ll never have to set foot on a ship’s deck again.”
The spring wind rushed over Aspinwall’s tile roofs, and Dovey gave a shiver. She slid the window closed. Another sea voyage lay ahead—she hadn’t considered it until now. The joy of seeing land again, and the vivid colors and carefree bustle of Aspinwall—or Colón, as the locals called it—had driven the memory of her illness from her mind. But now she recalled that desperate sickness with shuddering force—the days of feverish tossing, the weakness, the dreams of Lowell and her family that had drifted with her in and out of sleep.
She tossed her head to shoo away her fears. “We have two days until the train takes us to Panama City,” she said to the room at large. Half the expedition’s girls were tucking away their trunks or splashing water on their faces from the basin beside the door. “Who wants to go out there with me and have a look around Aspinwall?”
“Stay put,” Sophronia warned. “You don’t know your way in this city, nor do you know what dangers might be out there waiting for you.”
Dovey scoffed. “Dangers! This is a town like any other. I’d wager it’s no more dangerous than Lowell.”
“Lowell had plenty of hazards, believe me,” Jo said quietly. “Sophronia’s right, Dovey. It’s better for us all if we stick together. Besides, the mistress of this house will soon be serving dinner. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”
Boardinghouse stew, Dovey thought sourly. The rich, peppery scent of local cooking still lingered around the window. That was what she craved: the new, the unknown, the adventuresome. Beyond the walls of their boardinghouse, the world was opening wide, revealing its hidden delights, like a gift box with its lid tossed aside. She wanted nothing more than to plunge both hands into that box and draw out its contents in one great, overspilling armful—to learn every nuance, every taste and texture of the miraculous new life she had been granted.
“Jo,” she whispered chidingly. But Jo peered out the window with a suspicious air. She seemed torn between the enticing mystery of Aspinwall and Sophronia’s warning about unknown dangers.
But Dovey’s mind was made up. Never again would she have the chance to experience Central America—never in her life. And by God, she was determined to make the most of the one opportunity she had. She took up her loose skirt in both hands—she still had no crinoline to her name, but she was beginning to enjoy the sensation of going without it—and strode toward the long room’s door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Sophronia shrilled. “Catherine, Sarah—stop her!”
Dovey growled as Catherine made a grab for her wrist, and the timid woman shied away, exclaiming, “Oh!” as if Dovey had bitten her.
“Don’t be a fool!” Sophronia marched after Dovey, but before the icy woman could lay one cold hand on Dovey, she sped to the door and slipped through, slamming it hard in Sophronia’s face.
It opened again at once, and Sophronia called, “I’ll tell Mr. Mercer!”
But Dovey was already halfway down the stairs, plowing on toward the boardinghouse’s outer door—and freedom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE GOOD WORK
Dovey wandered the streets of Aspinwall for hours, exploring narrow alleys that jagged crookedly between the high-walled gardens, walking the length of a marketplace where sellers called out their wares in both Spanish and English—and tormenting herself with the intoxicating, heady scents that drifted from bakeries, beer shops, and teahouses. She would have given almost anything for a few pennies in her purse—just enough coin to buy a spiced biscuit or a cup of hot chili soup. It wasn’t so much hunger that gnawed at her—that was a sensation sharp enough, but she had grown used to its presence since leaving New York, while she shared Jo’s meager stores.
It was a deeper pain that afflicted her now—a low, hollow regret that she could not enjoy all the exotic delights that Aspinwall had to offer. After all, in two days’ time she would never see this colo
rful town again—never walk amid its clamor of tongues, nor take in the dizzying swirl of its fiercely bright colors. She reveled in the town’s strange, wild beauty, and the knowledge that this taste of Aspinwall was fleeting made her hours of strolling and staring all the more precious. Her heart ached already with nostalgia for the place, even as she walked along its narrow streets.
Eventually, Dovey’s peregrination brought her back to the waterfront. She found a small, rickety bench outside a blue-painted warehouse and sat, sighing with relief. She now suspected that some of her blisters had not quite healed, and a moment of rest was welcome. The Illinois was still moored at its dock; Dovey watched the crew haul bags of mail up the ship’s ramp, busy as ants on a sandy hill as they made ready for the return trip to New York.
I survived you, she told the Illinois silently. I’m tougher than you—tougher than the sea, and my father, too. She remembered her first journey by boat, when she had been only a little girl clinging to her mother’s hand. She recalled the white backs of the seabirds, their high cries, the long, strong span of their wings as they glided easily on the wind. Dovey stared north, over the endless stretch of the ocean. Her future seemed as wide and boundless as the sea; never in her life had she felt herself so light, so unfettered by duty or care. She could spring up and glide on the wind, just like a bird herself. All she lacked were the wings to spread, the feathers to catch the breeze.
Dovey flung out her arms and closed her eyes, breathing deep the warm, salty air. She heard a musical giggle nearby, and froze, opening her eyes slowly.
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