“But what will you do? How will you support yourself?” Josephine bit her lip; perhaps she didn’t want to hear Dovey’s answer after all. “Is it that fellow you met on the street? That man back there, lurking in the darkness? Really, Dovey, a tryst at the docks—it’s hardly a hopeful start to a good marriage.”
Dovey braced one hand on her hip. She indicated the waterfront with a jerk of her head that tossed her curls wildly. “He’s a good enough man, I reckon. And it’s my choice to make, not yours. Not anybody’s choice but mine!”
Josephine’s stomach went hollow and cold. “You’re making a grave mistake, Dovey.”
“You just let me alone to run my own life. I can take care of myself.”
“Dovey, I … I can’t. I can’t just let you alone. After all we’ve been through together—Lowell, and your sickness, and the terrible passage on the America—I can’t let you come to any harm. Don’t you see? I’m your friend, and I’d be failing you if I left you to throw your life away on a stranger. Now be a sensible girl and come with me to Seattle.”
“All the men in Seattle are strangers, too. I like San Francisco, and I intend to stay here.”
“You’re every bit as much a fool as Sophronia thinks you are!” Josephine stepped forward and took Dovey by the hand, but she pulled roughly away.
“Well, well. What have we here?”
Josephine’s breath caught in her throat. She recognized that voice, low and smooth, thick with amusement. Oh yes, she recognized it—with a chill of terror that froze her heart in her chest.
Dovey turned toward the man’s voice eagerly. “Bradford, there you are. I’m sorry I ran, but—”
“His name isn’t Bradford,” Josephine said. Her voice was frail and thin, barely more than a whisper.
She turned slowly—not wanting to see him standing there, but determined, now that her final fate had come, to face it bravely. Even in silhouette, she recognized Clifford’s hulking size and half-hunched shoulders. Her knees shook so hard she swayed, and her eyes prickled with tears.
The slow, cold snake of Clifford’s laughter twisted down the alley toward them. “So I found you at last, you bitch.”
Dovey gasped. “Bradford!”
He glided toward them where they cowered at the alley’s dead end, moving with the same confident grace of any feral predator. Dovey, finally laying claim to sense, realized the man was not who she thought him to be. She breathed a quiet whimper and grabbed Josephine’s arm, clinging so hard that her fingers bit into the flesh.
Perhaps it was the girl’s fear that spurred Josephine on. She did not know where the sudden, solid well of courage came from, but she stepped toward Clifford with her head high, moving fearlessly to meet him.
“Get out of our way, Clifford. Leave us be. I’m none of your business anymore.”
“Oh, you are my business. You are.” He drew so close that she could smell the whiskey on his breath. The old, instinctive fear of him—of his wild, drunken fury—rushed in a tingle along her limbs. But courage won out, and Josephine stood firm.
“Get back,” Dovey said over Josephine’s shoulder. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
“Who am I?” Clifford asked Josephine. The clouds overhead parted for a moment, and a spill of silvery starlight lit his face. He was as handsome as ever—firm-jawed, bright-eyed. And the old, familiar brutality glittered in his eyes. “Tell the girl who I am, Josephine.”
She swallowed hard. So she wouldn’t make it to Seattle with her secret intact. In fact, she wouldn’t make it to Seattle at all. She had ended, after all her efforts, after all her hopes and desperate prayers, back in Clifford’s hands.
“He’s my husband,” Josephine said. Her voice was firm, unshaken.
“Your … husband?” Dovey stammered. “Jo!”
“And you are a thief,” Clifford said. “I’ve come for the money you stole, Josephine. Two hundred and fifty dollars. I’ll have every penny of it back—with interest.”
“Interest?” Josephine snorted. “You’re not a bank, Clifford.”
The taunt only riled him further. Quick as a bolt of lightning, his hand shot out. He caught her by the high, old-fashioned collar of her dress and pulled her tight against his body. She could feel the muscles of his chest and stomach, as hard as hewn stone, pressing against her until she felt as small and bruised, as utterly helpless as a baby bird fallen from the nest. Josephine turned her face away from his reek of whiskey, stifling the scream she knew Clifford wanted to hear.
Dovey obliged with a wild shriek instead. Her high, wordless wail rebounded from the brick walls of the warehouses, mingling with Clifford’s cruel laughter.
“I’ll be bringing my money back home with me,” he promised, his voice hoarse and grating. “My money—and my runaway wife.”
Dovey’s scream cut off abruptly. The girl fell on Clifford like a whirlwind, slapping and kicking, hollering threats and foul curses that would have burned a blush into Josephine’s cheek, had she heard those words under less dire circumstances.
Clifford, still chuckling, knocked Dovey aside with a casual blow. The girl slammed into the nearest brick wall like a rag doll tossed by a child, and nearly fell to the ground. Josephine gritted her teeth, watching as Dovey steadied herself with her palms flat against the brick, gasping and shaken.
A fist full of brutal promise rose over Josephine’s face, and the world was eclipsed by the dark, hate-filled curve of her husband’s smile.
“Let her go!” Dovey shrieked in desperation.
Josephine braced herself for the impact of his fist, but Clifford paused. He eyed Dovey again, his eyes lazy with amusement.
“When I’m done teaching this good-for-nothing bitch a lesson, I’ll give you what you’ve looking for. Oh yes, I know what little toms like you are after. Kissing me last night like a common whore, and out walking the street in the dark—don’t tell me you don’t want it.”
Even in the dimness of the alley, Josephine could see Dovey’s face go pale.
He’ll do it, too. I know he will. He’ll hurt her, unless I can stop him.
Josephine brought her knee up hard, aiming for the fork of Clifford’s legs. But held tight as she was, her blow went awry, thumping against his thigh.
Clifford laughed softly. “That will only earn you another lesson.” He raised his fist again, and Josephine held her breath, waiting for the pain, the burst of stars across her vision.
But in that moment, a figure as pale and forbidding as a ghost stepped from the shadows behind Clifford’s shoulder. A high, fast whistle cut the sound of Clifford’s laughter, and something long, white, and flat arced through the air. There was a tremendous crack that made Dovey gasp and Clifford’s body jerk; a piece of splintered wood flew past Jo’s face, sailing into the depths of the alley.
Clifford bellowed like a whipped bull and released Josephine’s collar. He reeled, clutching his head—then wheezed out one long grunt and collapsed in a heap on the cobbles.
Josephine danced back, pulling at her skewed collar, heaving for breath. She peered at the newcomer—and, when recognition dawned, shook her head in astonishment.
“Sophronia!”
The pale, elegant woman stared back at Josephine with unruffled coolness. Her war club—a piece of paling, now broken at one end—dangled easily from her hand.
Clifford stirred and moaned. Sophronia raised one brow and then the splintered paling. She cracked it down on Clifford’s head, no more concerned than if she’d batted a shuttlecock with a racquet.
Clifford went silent and still.
Dovey leaped away from the brick wall. “Bully,” she shouted. “I’ve never seen anything so sharp! You knocked him right out cold!”
“Hush,” Sophronia told the girl calmly. “You’re coming back to the boardinghouse with us—and from there to Seattle. No more arguments.”
Dovey glanced down at Clifford. His chest stirred with uneven breaths, and Dovey edged away from him. “I will,”
she promised. “I’ll stick with you. What he said, you know … about giving me what he thought I wanted … it gave me a chill.”
“So the life of a fallen woman is not for you after all?” Sophronia said loftily.
“All right.” Josephine stepped around Clifford and headed briskly for the alley’s mouth. Her hands trembled violently as she raised her hem, and her legs felt as solid as bathwater. But she marched on—away from Clifford, away from her fear. “Stop arguing, you two! Let’s get back where we’re safe. Now.”
Dovey and Sophronia caught up to Josephine in a matter of moments. They hurried up dark streets together, arms linked, desperate for the comfort of one another’s proximity. Hardly a moment passed when one of the women didn’t glance back to be sure the monster from the shadows had not revived. When they crossed the broad avenue of the business district, Josephine turned to Sophronia. “You came to help me after all. I thought you never would. You said—”
“I know what I said,” Sophronia interjected smoothly. “But I was wrong. I shouldn’t have let you go out alone—and I shouldn’t have left Dovey to her fate.”
“I’m glad to have a friend like you,” Josephine said.
She cast a glance at the paling Sophronia still clutched in one fist; Sophronia gave the thing a long, assessing look, then hurled it off into the street. “We’re something more than friends, after what we’ve been through—all of us,” she added with a sharp nod at Dovey. “I couldn’t abandon either one of you to that sort of danger. To let either of you come to harm, while I sat back and waited for help—well, that would have been a sin even worse than traipsing around the streets like a night flower.”
They pressed on in silence. The warmth of her friends’ bodies was a shield against the night’s fears, but soon a new chill curled along the base of Josephine’s spine. What must Sophronia think of me now, she thought miserably, now that she knows my secret?
“A sin,” Josephine mused aloud. Her mouth was dry, her eyes stinging with fresh tears. But she had to know what Sophronia thought of her shame—and Dovey, too. “Would it have been as grievous a sin as leaving one’s husband?”
Sophronia did not answer the question. The hill sloped up steeper beneath their feet, and though Josephine’s body warmed with the effort of the climb, her heart felt clumsy and cold. Of course Sophronia thought it a greater sin. How could she not? For there was nothing Sophronia disliked more than a fallen woman—and in a sense, Josephine was just that. She had failed to live up to Sophronia’s lofty ideals—and to the expectations of so many other women and men.
Is it worse to abandon a marriage or to remain with a brutal man? Josephine didn’t know the answer to her own question, and not knowing filled her with a sick quiver of guilt.
Sophronia broke her silence. “Your predicament does present a problem, Josephine. We are meant to be brides. Marriage is our purpose, not only in life, but also—especially—in this business with Mr. Mercer. But you cannot marry a Seattle man if you’re already wed.”
“You might end up a widow, though,” Dovey interjected with obvious glee. “Sophie gave that brute a real crack to the nut.”
“He’ll recover,” Sophronia said. “I’m not so terribly strong that I can break a man’s skull.”
Josephine gave a sharp huff—part sob, part sigh. “I lied to Mr. Mercer so I could come on this expedition,” she confessed. “I feel terrible about deceiving him, and the rest of you, too—but you saw what Clifford is like! You understand why I had to do it … don’t you? It was the only chance I had to get free!”
Dovey took her hand. “I understand. And I won’t tell a soul. Mercer doesn’t need to know about Clifford, or anything else we don’t choose to tell him. Right, Sophronia?”
Josephine clung to Sophronia’s arm, desperate as a child. “Oh, please keep my secret. I had to get away from Lowell—from Clifford! Mercer … Seattle … the expedition was my last hope! Clifford would have killed me sooner or later if I hadn’t fled.”
Sophronia tapped her lips with a meditative air. “But you are living a falsehood, and to lie is a sin. Nor do I approve overmuch of running away from one’s husband.”
“I approve,” Dovey said stoutly. “Especially from a husband like that. And if you tell Mercer Jo’s secret, and get her kicked out of the party, I’ll never let you rest. I’ll haunt you, Sophronia Brandt. I’ll be a plague to you all the rest of your days!”
Sophronia frowned at the girl. “I believe you.”
“You heard what Clifford said,” Josephine pleaded. “You heard him call me his … his wife. So why did you do it? Why did you assault him, if you believed me a fallen woman and a liar?”
Sophronia sniffed, lifting her fine, pointed chin. “I could smell the liquor on him. And I believe immoderation is an even worse sin than leaving one’s husband.”
Josephine goggled at her, but Sophronia’s stern mask suddenly broke in a smile. She pulled Josephine close, holding her about the shoulders as they found the boardinghouse steps in the dark. “I’ll keep your secret,” she promised. “I owe you that much, for the care you showed me while I was ill. But Josephine, you must do what’s right by the Lord. You can’t live with Clifford as a wife—that much is clear. But unless he grants you a divorce, neither can you remarry. You’ll have to find some plausible excuse to give Mr. Mercer—and all the men of Seattle, too. You must remain true to your marriage vows unless Clifford agrees to set you free.”
“I swear it,” Josephine said at once. She had no interest in marriage; the very last thing she desired was another husband to batter and bruise her. All she wanted was an escape—a new beginning. She had that now, and she would do whatever she must to hold on to her freedom.
They returned to the large, shared room at the boardinghouse. It was warm, glowing with lamplight, and sweet with the voices of their friends, all of whom rushed to embrace Dovey and to hail Josephine and Sophronia as heroes.
“Mr. Mercer returned while you were out,” Sarah Gallagher said. “And wouldn’t you know it? He’s found a ship to carry us to Seattle! We leave on the morning tide.”
Josephine sank onto her bed, numb with relief. “Thank God,” she muttered. “We can’t get to Seattle fast enough for my liking.”
Sophronia smiled at the news, but the look she doled out to Josephine was flat with warning. Remain true, unless Clifford agrees to set you free, that cool, pale-blue stare reminded her.
Josephine sagged against her pillow. Seattle was only days away now. All she had to do to get there—and maintain her place in the haven of that vast, green wilderness—was keep her word.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A FINE HELLO
The water was black as pitch, and its low, sinister voice chuckled beneath the planks of the dock. Broken shards of light, cast from the Torrent’s lamps, scattered and slid over the water’s surface, flaring and dimming as the harbor stirred with its small, lazy waves. The darkness was perfectly appalling—according to Mr. Mercer they had reached Seattle at last, but there was no city in sight, only a dense shelf of black swallowing the end of the narrow gray dock. Sophronia could make out no building, no street, and the small, yellow points of light hanging high but distant—houses on a hill, she assumed, their windows still glowing against the night—were the only signs of civilization.
Despite the stillness, the eerie shroud of dark, Sophronia was first down the ramp to the dock below. Her boot heels made a hollow racket as she strode away from the Torrent. The slap and whisper of unseen water below sent a shiver up her spine, but she marched on, determined to be in Seattle at last, to actually stand upon its soil—to put the Torrent behind her forever.
As she pressed on toward the shore, the hard edges and long, low bulk of buildings resolved out of the darkness. A strip of cobbles, ash gray, barely lighter than the night, gave the suggestion of a new-laid road. The dock seemed to roll slightly beneath Sophronia’s feet—a memory of the Torrent’s ceaseless rocking—but she ignored the diso
rienting heave of her own footsteps and concentrated on the shore.
Sophronia reached the dock’s final plank. She opened her mouth to offer up a hasty prayer of gratitude, but instead of praises to the Lord, she let loose a gasp of shock. Her boot sank nearly to the ankle in thick, sucking mud. She snatched up her skirt and petticoats, lifting them as high as she dared, hoping she could clear the muck. Its thick, salty odor rose all around her, together with the sharp bite of fresh sawdust and the deep, cold smell of rain-soaked woodlands.
Sophronia tottered on. The mud resisted, holding obstinately to her boots, then sliding under her feet when she managed to wrench her way free. She could hear the other women behind her, uttering little cries of dismay as they, too, stepped onto land only to find it was barely more solid than the sea.
It doesn’t matter, Sophronia told herself. I’ll walk a mile through knee-deep mud and never complain, if it means I’ll never spend another moment on the Torrent.
She had thought no vessel on all the world’s oceans could be worse than the America. The Torrent had proved her wrong. It was a timber freighter—long, lean, and prone to rolling—and though it might have been perfectly made for the speedy transport of logs, the Torrent was woefully unsuited to the hauling of people, ladies especially. The journey from San Francisco to Seattle had been a misery of jolting waves, of creaking timbers and cramped quarters, and the damp chill inside the Torrent’s few small cabins had made Sophronia long for the homey comforts of the America. But at least, thank God, no one had fallen ill on this voyage; one small but distinct mercy.
Sophronia slid and stumbled across the muddy yard until her boots scraped against the cobbles of the road. She stood huffing against her corset, waiting for her breath to slow while she still held her skirts aloft. She had no idea how far up her legs the thick mud had splattered, and standing there with the vast night stretching all around her, she could not begin to guess when or where she might wash her clothes if they became too soiled. A fine picture I must be, she thought peevishly. It’s a good thing there is no one here to greet us.
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