Mercer Girls

by Libbie Hawker

  “But the whole town lusts after gold,” Sophronia said. “You can feel the hunger for it pressing in through the walls of this very house. You know your Scriptures, Georgianna: ‘The love of money is the root of all evil.’ I shudder to think what evils may stir in the streets and homes of San Francisco.”

  “It’s not an evil place,” young Josie said. “Really, Sophronia, it’s not.”

  Sophronia sniffed. “God may judge otherwise. Be careful, you girls who go out strolling. Beware of fire from the sky.”

  Silence fell over the room as all the girls turned to stare at Sophronia. There was an unaccustomed twinkle in the pale woman’s eye, and it took Dovey a moment to realize that Sophronia, in her crabbed, chilly way, was making a joke—or trying to make one. It was a rather grim attempt at humor, but all the more amusing for its flatness and grit. Dovey laughed aloud, and Sophronia’s prim, emotionless mask cracked with a hesitant smile.

  “Doom, doom,” Catherine said, throwing one arm around Sophronia’s shoulders. “Our own golden-haired Cassandra!”

  Georgianna joined them. “Come on, girls. This rain is too depressing. If we all get out our sewing kits, I think Jo will teach us how to embroider, and that will cheer us—even Sophronia.”

  Dovey had no sewing kit of her own. She lay on her bed, watching the other women work their stitches and listening to their chatter, but always, through the low, pleasant murmur of their words, she heard the rain drumming on the glass. It pattered and pinged, a constant reminder of what lay outside—what new adventures the city promised, what secrets lay waiting for Dovey’s exploration. She tried to remain still, but her feet kicked restlessly of their own accord, and she shifted this way and that on her mattress, making the bed frame rattle and bump against the wall.

  The song of the rain filled Dovey’s head. Finally she sat up, then stood slowly, surrendering to curiosity’s insistent pull.

  “Where are you going?” Jo looked up from her embroidery as Dovey made her way down the length of the room.

  “Just to the washroom. Don’t fret.”

  But as soon as she was safely in the hall, Dovey hiked her skirt and hurried through the boardinghouse to its front door. The proprietress, a plump, graying woman of half-Spanish descent, was nowhere to be seen; the parlor and cozy little library stood empty.

  Perfect, Dovey thought, taking a heavy shawl from a hook beside the door. I’ll just be gone half an hour, and then I’ll return. No one will miss me, and no one need worry on my account.

  But she hesitated in the dimness of the hall with one hand on the cold brass doorknob. Sophronia’s voice chose that very moment to ring in Dovey’s head. I shudder to think what evils may stir in the streets of San Francisco.

  A chill of foreboding prickled up Dovey’s spine. But she shook her head, resisting it. “Don’t be silly,” she muttered to herself—to Sophronia—and slipped out into the rain.

  Dovey walked for a quarter of an hour at least, descending the steep hill where the boardinghouse perched above rows of bright-colored, peak-roofed homes. She drifted with the clouds, allowing the broad, brick-lined streets of San Francisco to carry her where they would. The road leveled out into a wide avenue running with a dull-brown sluice of rainwater. To either side of the broad brick street, magnificent buildings stretched into the lowering sky. Their facades were smooth, palely new, and cast with a luminous sheen of dampness.

  Here the city’s many new businesses thrived—mercantiles and shoemakers, tailors, butchers, and lawyers. She peered into every window, her heart racing over the goods on rich, abundant display, the colorful signs with their fancy notched-and-scrolled lettering shouting their messages bright and clear through the rain. CALVERT’S CARBOLIC PRICKLY HEAT & BATH SOAP. MURATTI’S HIGH-CLASS CIGARETTES, GOLD-TIPPED FOR LADIES. BEST OF ALL SHOES ARE STANDARD SCREW FASTENED! BURNETT’S COCAINE RINSE—CURES DANDRUFF, MAKES THE HAIR GROW!

  Once Dovey passed a chocolate shop just as a fine lady entered, tapping her umbrella against the green-painted doorframe to shake the raindrops from its lace-trimmed edge. Someone inside the shop was singing—a slow, wistful tune in a language Dovey did not know. The melancholy of the song’s refrain drifted out on a warm current of air, mingling so sweetly with the low, earthy scent of chocolate that her eyes filled with tears even as her mouth watered. A bell on the shop’s door chimed as it closed, shutting away the song and the deep, soothing perfume of chocolate. Dovey, her heart surging with a clamor of emotion—nostalgia, ambition, and joy—walked on.

  The business districts of San Francisco were as full and flush as Lowell ever was before the cotton trade had faltered. As she watched the shoppers coming and going down the sidewalk, the well-dressed women and dapper gentlemen going briskly about, even in the rain, with wrapped packages tucked beneath their arms, Dovey’s chest welled with a great, steadily beating confidence. Vividly, she recalled Orquídea, the pretty young working girl leaning so artfully against the blue corner of the Aspinwall warehouse. She pictured the swing of Orquídea’s rose-pink skirt, envisioned that bawdy flush of pink drifting down the San Francisco sidewalk, dodging and swaying through this flock of wealthy men.

  This city was so new, so alive. And so was Dovey—young and fresh and bursting with an energetic, determined drive. Let Asa Mercer take all the time he likes to find a new ship, she thought with dry satisfaction. Dovey was in no hurry to flit up to Seattle and hand herself over to some log-splitting lout as his bride. As she watched San Francisco thriving around her, she suspected that a girl might make a better way in the world than that. Oh, not as a prostitute. Dovey could see no good reason to turn up her nose at that particular profession, but business was in her blood—she was John Mason’s daughter, after all—and she suspected there were wiser, far easier ways to earn a dollar than to do it on her back.

  San Francisco seemed as good a place as any to set up a bordello—in fact, it seemed the very best place Dovey could imagine. The grand, glittering capital of the frontier empire, San Francisco surely had gold enough to nurture yet another establishment—and men with heavy pockets willing to patronize the place. A place like our boardinghouse, Dovey thought, her cheeks flushing as the sun of her grand idea rose. Comfortable, pretty—not extravagant, but a place that makes a fellow feel welcome, with soft, wide beds and private rooms. A man would pay a cut above to be entertained in a clean, cozy spot. And Dovey, as proprietress, could pocket that cut above—tuck it away for her own use, and with it, make her own way in the world. Make my own way—and answer to no man at all, not even a husband.

  Dovey mused over the plan as she crossed the wide avenue and headed down toward the harbor, her eyes turned thoughtfully down to the slick, wet brick of the street. If I’m to have any hope of starting an establishment, I must befriend some of the local working girls. The docks seemed the wisest place to observe San Francisco’s night flowers in action. Docks ever were their most profitable places of business.

  Dovey found the waterfront easily enough, following the downward slope of the streets and the smell of salt and sea grass through the rain. She was surprised to see the America still in port. Its black hull glistened, rain-washed and cold. From the pier, Dovey could make out the shadowy figures of men working around its smokestacks—repairing the tricky boilers that had plagued its last two voyages, she assumed.

  She stood gazing up through the veils of rain, watching the workers scramble about the paddle wheel, listening to the desultory clanking of their tools against steel.

  That ship carried me a long way from home. I’m on the other side of the continent now. Oh, Mother—will I ever see you again?

  “Now why should a girl as pretty as you look so pensive and sad?”

  Dovey whirled in surprise. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside her on the pier, dressed against the weather in a long dark duster coat. He swept off his bowler hat and offered a courteous bow, exposing thick hair of a sandy-brown color, so tousled that it gave him a beguilingly roguish appearanc
e. He replaced his hat and smiled down at Dovey. His face was somewhat lined, and the chilly weather had brought out a ruddy flush to his features, but his blue eyes shone with a confidence that intrigued Dovey, and his strong jaw and well-trimmed mustache quickened the beat of her heart.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry; I … I was only thinking about that boat there.”

  The man glanced up at its soaring black hull. “The America. Came from Panama a few days ago, so I hear.”

  Dovey nodded eagerly. “Yes. I came with it.”

  “All the way from Panama?” He laughed warmly. His voice was low and rich and seemed to vibrate out from his broad chest with the deep resonance of a church bell. The sound of him made Dovey feel queer and warm and kept her rooted to the spot with fascination as he spoke. “That’s quite a journey. But you’re from Massachusetts, aren’t you? Or else I’ve mistaken your accent.”

  She blinked at him. “Yes, I am—and say, you are, too!” She had grown so used to speaking to her fellow travelers that she hadn’t realized how a Massachusetts accent stood out here in the streets of San Francisco. “Are you from Boston, sir?”

  Instead of answering, he responded with a question of his own, but his smile and demeanor were so charming, his bearing so warm and instantly familiar, that Dovey forgave his lapse in manners.

  “Are you from Boston, pretty miss? Or are you from some other town?”

  “I’m from Lowell,” she said at once, laughing a little, delighted at the prospect of speaking of home once more.

  “Where are my manners?” The man reached into his duster and produced a black umbrella. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist and held it over Dovey’s head. The rain drummed against it cheerily; she smiled up at him in gratitude.

  “Lowell.” His smile was broad and winsome. “And yet you say you sailed here from Panama on this very ship.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir!”

  “How was the voyage?”

  Dovey shook her wet curls. “Simply terrible. Just about all of us fell terribly ill. It’s a wonder the America had enough crew members well enough to sail into port!”

  “All of you fell ill, you say?”

  “All the other women.”

  “A ship full of women, sailing together. How strange!” His eyes shone with warmth as he gazed down at her. The hand that held the umbrella trembled a little, as if he struggled to restrain his admiration. “And yet I am sure none of the other women are as lovely or as charming as you.”

  Dovey laughed. “Me? I must look a perfect mess, all wet through!”

  “No, my darling. Even soaked in rain, you are enchanting as a seraph. I was taken with you at first glance. What strange luck, that we met here on this dock in San Francisco, so far away from home.” His other hand reached for her, then fell back to his side. He gave a deep sigh, as if the strictures of propriety pained him to his very core. He spoke on in that rich, intoxicating voice. “Don’t you think it’s very strange—fated, perhaps, that we should meet this way?”

  Dovey’s cheeks burned. She gazed up at him through lashes that she could not keep from batting. The umbrella shadowed his face, but she could still read the warmth in his eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. Lord, but he’s terribly charming!

  “Two lonely hearts brought together by chance. Fortune smiles on me today! But come—tell me of your voyage from Panama. You say you traveled with other women. Sisters? Aunts?”

  Dovey laughed uncertainly. “No, no—just fellow travelers. We’re all coming from Lowell to the West, you see—”

  One corner of his mouth turned up in a slow smile, and in the umbrella’s gray-black shadow, Dovey could not quite be sure the expression was as warm and doting as it had seemed moments before. She paused.

  “How exciting,” the man said. His voice was still as soothing, as captivating, as ever. “Ah, now I recall some fuss in the Massachusetts papers about some fellow called Mercer.”

  “Yes,” Dovey said. “We’ve all come with Mercer’s expedition. We’re going to—”

  “And is there,” the man said hastily, a hard edge crowding into his low, smooth tones, “a woman with you called Josephine?”

  Dovey bit her lip and said nothing.

  He gave an amiable laugh. “I only ask because I have a cousin—a fine woman who’d expressed some interest in this Mercer expedition. My letter back home has not yet been answered, so I don’t know whether she joined Mercer’s party …”

  He trailed off and cast a hopeful look down at Dovey, brows raised beneath the brim of his bowler hat. His smile was lulling; his proximity and strong, handsome features made her skin prickle with a pleasant kind of heat. She opened her mouth to answer, but a rapid flicker of—something in his eyes halted her. It was there and gone in an instant, and Dovey could not name the emotion that burned so briefly in the stranger’s face. Triumph? Anger? Perhaps it was hatred. Whatever spell passed over him, it pulled a creep of caution up Dovey’s spine.

  “It’s no matter,” the man said at once. “I’d much rather talk about you. I know it’s forward of me to ask, but we have no mutual acquaintance to make introductions. So I must be appallingly direct: May I know your name, Miss?”

  “D-Diana,” she stammered. He was all charm once more, but that momentary revelation of some darker emotion haunted Dovey. Instinct told her she was better keeping some details to herself—at least until she knew more about the handsome stranger. “Diana Smith. I was a mill girl in Lowell. I don’t know much about anybody else in Mercer’s expedition. I’m afraid we all keep very much to ourselves, and that’s all I can tell you, sir.”

  “Never mind the other women. I’m so taken with you, you might as well be the only lady in the world.”

  “You’re very charming, but—”

  “My name is Bradford. And this rain is falling harder than ever. May I escort you home?”

  The thrill of caution redoubled itself and burned in her bones with a cold flame. Dovey stepped away from him, out from under the umbrella. The rain beat against her head and shoulders with sudden force. “I think not, sir. That would hardly be appropriate.”

  “But the rain—”

  “A little rain is nothing to a mill girl. I’ll be quite all right; you needn’t worry.”

  She turned to hurry away, but Bradford caught her by the hand. Dovey whirled on him, wide-eyed, sucking in a breath to tell him off—and he stooped, pressing his lips to her own.

  His kiss was long and melting. Dovey’s initial shock and indignation quickly gave way to fascination, then to trembling desire as his tongue moved deftly against her lips, then, when she opened her mouth to gasp in surprise, entered with gentle confidence. After a moment—or an eternity, for all Dovey could tell—he pulled away, gazing down at her with an expression of great tenderness.

  No man had ever kissed Dovey before. Not in that way. Speechless, she brushed her lips with trembling fingers.

  “I must see you again, Diana,” he whispered.

  “You are very forward,” Dovey managed at last.

  “Please, for the sake of my aching heart, tell me you’ll see me again. Meet me here again, in this very place where I first set eyes on your beauty, tomorrow evening, just before nightfall.”

  “I won’t,” Dovey gasped.

  But she felt her cheeks flush a traitorous shade, and she could tell by Bradford’s slow, satisfied smile that he knew she would meet him after all.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THINK OF THE DEVIL

  As she ran, speeding through the rain toward the crowded sidewalks of the shopping district, Dovey turned now and then to look behind her. Bradford did not follow her up from the docks, but still, Dovey kept moving. She craved desperately for the company of her friends, their good sense and familiar presence, and the peace and seclusion of the boardinghouse’s stout walls. But even as she hurried up the streets of San Francisco, she felt the fire in her middle burn hotter every moment with the memory of Bradford’s kiss. />
  Her legs ached as she pushed up the long, high hill toward the boardinghouse, and the shawl clung to her body, filling her head with the pinched, sour smell of soaking-wet wool. She was out of breath and sick with agitation by the time she reached the boardinghouse steps.

  Dovey stood panting beside the porch, eyeing the slope of the hill behind her. The first purple tinge of dusk cast its shadows across the cobblestones, dulling the bright, cheery colors of the neighborhood’s houses to cautious shades of gray. Evening had arrived; Dovey had strayed through the city far longer than she’d intended.

  She left the shawl dripping on its hook beside the door. In the parlor, she could hear the tense voices of several women raised in a fearful jumble.

  Dovey poked her head around the parlor door. Georgianna was the first to spot her; she leaped up from a tapestry stool beside the fireplace and rushed to embrace her.

  “Dovey! Oh, thank the Lord, you’re all right!”

  The other girls of Mercer’s party, and even the boardinghouse’s plump mistress, crowded around. Each cooed her relief, and each one pulled Dovey into an embrace until she felt like a ball of dough on the kneading board.

  “Yes, yes, I’m in one piece,” she finally said rather crossly. “Is Mr. Mercer here? I suppose he’s really angry with me.”

  “He hasn’t returned yet; he’s still out looking for a ship to Seattle,” Sophronia said.

  Dovey exhaled in relief. “Good. My skin is saved, then.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Sophronia fired back. “You’ve done it this time, Dovey—gave us all the holy terrors. What were you thinking? Mercer ought to send you back to Lowell, and this time I mean it!”

  Jo laid a hand on Sophronia’s arm to still her. “Wait, Sophronia. Something’s happened to her. Look at her face—she’s so pale.”