“You cannot remain in the Occidental forever,” Mercer told them all, “so I have arranged for respectable families to host each of you. Some families will be happy to welcome two or three of you ladies into their homes, until you’ve found men to your liking and married. The hotel simply won’t do—not for the long term. I want no misunderstandings about the nature or morals of any of you. We’ll allow the city to cultivate no more rumors of the sort Mrs. Garfield holds to.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Josephine muttered. She wished for the privacy and comfort of her host family’s home already. It seemed she could feel the expectations of the whole city bearing down upon her shoulders, and the weight of it made her shudder.
Mercer led the women across the lawn. A great cheer went up from the waiting crowd; Josephine reached out and seized the nearest hand, and was glad it was Sophronia’s. The pale woman looked upon that sea of men with unflappable disdain, and Josephine squeezed her hand, hoping to draw a little of her friend’s composure into her own soul. The group of women reached the edge of the reception crowd; a narrow way cleared through its depths, and Asa Mercer, like Moses parting the Red Sea, led the women onward, to a small, bunting-draped platform that stood waiting beneath the tent. Josephine followed Mercer up the steps on wooden legs. She breathed as deeply as her corset would allow, looking out over wave upon wave of expectant male faces.
“My good men and women of Seattle,” Mercer called, “I thank you all for your support and your unwavering patience in my—in our endeavor to imbue our good, young city with culture and refinement. These courageous women have persevered in the face of many hard trials, and endured much to reach this fair, bountiful land. I have had the privilege of coming to know each of them as a friend. I can attest to their great moral quality, and know that they will bring much in the way of improvement to Seattle.”
From somewhere in the crowd, a man shouted roughly, “Where’s the rest of ’em?”
Mercer flushed. “The fourteen ladies you see before you are the brave souls who have made the journey from Massachusetts to—”
“What,” someone else called, “that’s it?”
The crowd erupted in a clamor. “Fourteen girls! Asa Mercer, you horse’s ass!”
Mercer worried at his bow tie with one hand, paling before the anger of the crowd. Josephine felt a tremor of pity for the man. He was still quite young—not many years older than the students of the university—and the same maternal protectiveness she’d felt for Dovey at the Lowell train depot stirred within her heart. Before she knew just what she was doing, Josephine stepped to the edge of the platform and raised her hands for silence.
The tumult died away, replace by the stillness of surprise. No one was more startled than Josephine herself, but now that she had the crowd’s attention, she felt she had no choice but to attempt a suitable address. It’s the least I can do for Asa Mercer, after tricking the poor man into carting me out of Lowell.
“Please, my friends. Mr. Mercer has been kind and generous to all of us—not only we who have traveled so far in his company, but you, too, the citizens of the town he loves so well. Don’t be so quick to insult him, I implore you. Mr. Mercer worked tirelessly in the eastern states on Seattle’s behalf. He endured the harshest criticism with good grace, and persevered for the sake of you all, when another man would have given in to discouragement and abandoned the work.
“He’s not to be blamed, nor criticized, in the matter of our number. So few were willing to believe that his motives were pure. But we who placed our trust in Mr. Mercer know him to be an admirable man, and ever a friend to Seattle.
“I, for one, am more pleased than I can say to stand before you, here in this promising city.” She turned for a moment to gaze at the university building, and her heart brimmed with hope. “I am pleased to join in your work, to help you all build a city worthy of good, bold-hearted men like our dear Asa Mercer.
“I am sure this city has more men as worthy as Mr. Mercer. And I am proud that I may now call myself a woman of Seattle, too.”
The crowd shouted out one great “Hurrah!” and the tent filled with the sound of applause. Josephine’s cheeks flamed; she had stood before many a classroom, but she had never imagined herself a public speaker.
Mercer edged close and whispered, “My thanks, Miss Carey. What would I have done without you just now? It’s a good thing you convinced me not to leave you behind in Lowell!”
When the applause died away, Mercer, his confidence restored, accepted a vote of thanks from the city, then asked the crowd to vote their thanks to the newly arrived women, too. The plump, scowling specter of Mrs. Garfield still haunted Josephine’s memory, and so, when every person present raised a hand in gratitude, she felt a wave of unexpected relief wash across her mind. Perhaps this ordeal won’t be as trying as I’d feared, she thought. Perhaps the worst is over.
Mercer invited the crowd to mingle with their new citizens, and from somewhere on the lawn, a small brass band struck up a jaunty tune. A long table was laid with nut cups and small porcelain plates topped with slices of cake. A huge crystal bowl held punch, and as she beheld it, Josephine’s throat tingled. She was dry as a stone, and not only from her speech. Now that the need for poise had passed, her body shook with a desperate, nervous energy, and she felt rather light-headed. A sip of something to settle her nerves would be just the thing.
Jo stepped down from the platform, intending to stick close beside Dovey or Sophronia—or any of the other girls. But there were so many men—Seattle seemed a great, heaving pack of rough-jawed fellows, their jackets furred with sawdust, their paw-like hands quick and awkward—and all of them eager to greet her, to congratulate her on her fine speech. In moments, Josephine lost sight of the nearest woman. She bobbed on that thick, pressing sea of men, demurring to their praises, praying that their current carried her closer to the punch bowl.
As she drifted, Jo couldn’t ward away an ironic laugh. Mercer had thought she’d be deemed too old! Why, there was certainly no shortage of men flocking to her now, and not all of them were of an age with her. Perhaps it was only the making-up her friends had given her, the rice powder and carmine lending her a deceptive air of youth. For the first few moments adrift among the men, Josephine was flattered by so much kind attention, so many eager smiles.
The attention, however, quickly overwhelmed her. She could do no more than sidle through the crowd, stepping quickly, turning this way and that to avoid colliding with the broad-shouldered, towering men. They called out greetings to her, praises for her speech on Mr. Mercer’s behalf, and offered their hands to shake, which Josephine, dazed and disoriented, grasped and let go again like a sailor floundering through the flotsam of a shipwreck.
Through some merciful act of God, she finally made her way to the refreshment tables. She reached for a cup of punch to wet her throat, but before she could take one up, a dozen cups were thrust at her, each gripped in the hairy, calloused hand of a would-be suitor.
“Take mine, Miss Carey,” one of them said. “It’s sweeter than the others!”
Another man said, “I’ve never seen hair as lovely as yours. Your great-grandmother must have been Lady Godiva!”
Mercer was wrong—he couldn’t have made do with a hundred women! Oh, I’ll be buried alive by all these rough, impatient fellows!
“You boys give poor Miss Carey some room to breathe. You’ll smother her in a moment.” The voice was a woman’s, melodious and low, speaking just at Josephine’s back. She turned quickly to find a petite, dark-haired woman smiling up at her. She was close to Josephine’s own age, and dressed in the same smart, high-class fashions Jo had seen in San Francisco. The woman offered a cup of punch balanced on a saucer.
“Thank you.” Josephine took it and drank.
“They’re well-meaning, good-tempered louts,” the woman said, casting a broad, charming smile around the crowd of men, “but they’re louts all the same. I’m Mary Terry.”
S
he held out a hand clad in white satin, and Josephine clasped it gratefully.
“It’s all right,” Mary said, “you can smile at the rhyme. I know it’s a rather silly name, but it’s mine to wear proudly. My husband, Charles, and I are to host you. You’re most welcome in our home, I’m sure.”
Mary’s smooth, aristocratic face was framed by two coils of black braid, pinned neatly over each ear. A pair of smart little pin curls lay, neat and obedient, at the peak of her hairline. Her jacket of watered silk was the lustrous, burnt-orange hue of a ripe pumpkin, perfectly matched to her full, pleated skirt, and a brooch of ivory and diamond nestled at her collar. She looked every bit as splendid as the fine ladies of San Francisco.
She must be well-heeled, Josephine thought, her gaze transfixed by the wink of Mary’s brooch. And I look a perfect milkmaid in my old-fashioned linen.
Then she recalled where she had heard the name Terry before. “You live in that fine house with the peaked gables, down near the hotel.”
“I do.” Mary grinned, and Josephine could tell she took pride in her beautiful home, and in her high status, too. But Mary’s warm welcome seemed genuine, and Jo resolved to accept the woman’s kindness with an open heart, and think no more of her own unfashionable appearance. “Our home will be yours until you’ve found your feet in Seattle.”
And found a husband. Jo heard the unspoken words loud and clear, and bit the inside of her cheek to chase away a blush of shame. Everyone expects me to marry—even my hostess. Clifford, you had better relent and grant me a divorce. Otherwise, this whole city might run me out on a rail!
The thought of the Terrys’ home called to Jo insistently—not because it was beautiful, but because some semblance of privacy—of peace and calm—waited for her there. The sooner I’m tucked away under one of those narrow gables, the better.
“When might we—” she began, but one of the well-meaning louts offered his hand to shake, babbling about his prowess as a logger, and Mary gave an indulgent laugh.
“I’ll let you get acquainted with the gentlemen,” she said as she disappeared into the crowd.
Oh, please don’t go, Josephine nearly shouted, or at least take me with you! But after the previous night’s fiasco with Mrs. Garfield, she thought it wiser not to offend the men of Seattle.
There was nothing for it but to remain where she was, rooted to the spot, a pale and rather weak sun around which a bevy of men orbited. They passed her ceaseless compliments—charming, Jo admitted to herself—and slung so many questions her way, about Massachusetts, the journey to Seattle, and even her taste in flowers and ribbons for her hair, that it was all she could do to answer one out of ten. Everything about the men, from their broad, blocky, lumberjack bodies to their patched coats to their wide-eyed, hopeful faces, merged into one, blending in Josephine’s weary head to a single, homogeneous, definitely masculine presence, all of them speaking with the same resonant, baritone voice, all of them smelling of saltwater and sawdust. The exhaustion of her long journey caught up with her; she swayed a little on her feet. Her answers to their queries turned silly and meaningless. If I don’t find a chair soon—or a bed, better yet—I’ll fall over in a faint.
Jo snapped out of her daze at the sound of one man’s shout—wordless and harsh, full of anger, like the bark of a bristling dog. He shoved another man in the chest; they stumbled together, grappling at one another’s shoulders and arms while their mouths twisted and their eyes flashed with fury.
“I asked her first,” one of them snarled, and the other shot back, “Doesn’t matter! You’re too ugly for the lady to love!”
Good Lord—they’re fighting over me!
Josephine edged away from the fight, hoping she might melt into the crowd while the men were distracted by the rumble. But she bumped into another potential suitor, and turned quickly to dodge his hopeful smile. How she wished for Sophronia’s icy stare—that would have cleared a path through the men, and no mistake!
The fighting men shoved and cursed all the harder, and Josephine bit her lip, fearing they might come to blows. She looked around frantically, hoping she might catch Mr. Mercer’s eye and implore him to restore the men to sanity, but she could see nothing but the chests, shoulders, and wide, bull-strong backs of men.
Mercy, Josephine prayed frantically. Get me out of here in one piece, if there is a God in Heaven!
“That’s quite enough, I think.” A tall, thin gentleman with an untidy thatch of black hair stepped smoothly between the grapplers. He laid a calloused hand on each man’s chest and pushed them gently apart. “Come now, Jim … Henry! How often have I seen you two drinking together? What a shame to come to blows. That’s no way to welcome a lady to our town.”
“Buzz off, Bill Jakes,” someone called from the crowd. “The fight was just getting good!”
“Killjoy Bill,” another man chanted. “Count on him to ruin a good time!”
Jim and Henry spat a few more curses at each other, glaring over the barrier of Bill’s shoulder. Then they tugged their coats straight, righted their upset hats, and stalked off into the crowd. The watching men groaned in disappointment. The spell Jo had inadvertently cast over them appeared broken, and the greater number wandered away. She sighed deeply, tingling with relief.
Bill Jakes, as long and lanky as a two-year-old colt, turned to Jo with a lopsided smile. For one moment of resigned despair, she thought he, too, would start in with a flurry of questions, or thrust a slice of cake under her nose and insist she eat it as a favor to him. She braced for a renewed onslaught. But he only tugged at his drooping mustache, then lifted his hat with a cursory “Ma’am,” and turned away.
Impulsively, Josephine reached out and caught the man’s elbow. Bill looked around, startled, with a pleased half smile.
“I … I’m sorry,” Jo said. “I shouldn’t have …”
“Well, that’s all right,” he said. His voice was slow and easy. “I’m Bill Jakes.”
“I heard,” she said, and blushed. “My name is Josephine Carey.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Carey.”
“Jo—you must call me Jo.” She didn’t know why she insisted on the name, but this man—this perfect stranger—made her feel as light and free as she had felt that morning, staring into the mirror at a woman utterly changed.
“Very well. Jo.” His smile creased the corners of his eyes. There was no brutality in him, no darkness—no hint of Clifford at all.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Jakes.”
“If I’m to call you Jo, then you must call me Bill. And I’m real pleased to meet you, too, Miss. Real pleased for certain.” His face colored, and he ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck like a schoolboy tripped up by an awkward sum. “Do you think I … might perhaps maybe … call on you one day?”
Josephine shivered with sweet, glad anticipation. “I’d like that,” she said quickly, before she could recall too thoroughly her vow to Sophronia. “I’ll be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Terry.”
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll be seeing you … Jo.” Bill tipped his hat again, and without another word he made off through the crowd.
As she watched him go—weaving in and out of the knots of men, each one surrounding one of Mercer’s girls—she wondered how ever she would explain her strange predicament to Bill. She had made a solemn promise to remain true to her wedding vows, and back in San Francisco, with her fear of Clifford so close at hand, it had seemed so easy and natural to give her word. But now, as she watched Bill Jakes disappear in the crowd, she wondered morosely just what her promise would cost her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AN AMBITION BORN
Dovey crept to the dormer window and hooked one finger into the lace curtain. Ever so slowly, she pulled the curtain aside—just enough to expose the slimmest crack of cloud-washed sunlight. She peeked through the opening, biting her lip, watching the drama unfold in the walkway of the Harris house below.
Mrs. Harris, bright, hardworking,
and happy in her marriage, accepted a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers from the young man who stood at the foot of her porch steps, hat in hand. Her voice carried faintly up to the dormer window. “I’m sorry; Miss Mason isn’t at home just now. I’ll give her your flowers and tell her you stopped by.”
The young man turned and went away, hanging his head, the very picture of dejection. Dovey breathed a sigh. He was the third suitor Mrs. Harris had turned away that day, and the eleventh of the week. Dovey watched him pass through the front gate and mash his hat resolutely back onto his head. Then he marched off down the hill toward the heart of the city.
When she was certain he was gone, Dovey slipped from the attic bedroom and crept downstairs. Her feet barely raised a squeak from the staircase. In the eight days since she’d arrived in Seattle, she had developed the habit of drifting soundlessly about the Harris home, fearful that if she made any noise on the stair, or caused a floorboard to give the slightest squeak, all the single men of Seattle would hear and come running like dogs to a whistle.
Mrs. Harris was in the kitchen setting out a tidy luncheon on her prized blue willowware plates. Dovey sank into the nearest chair and would have fallen face-first onto the table, fainting away from the sheer exhaustion of all this endless courting—except she didn’t want to spoil Mrs. Harris’s lunch.
“Thank you,” Dovey said weakly.
“For what?” Mrs. Harris set an aspic of chicken and eggs on the table and cut a generous slice for Dovey.
“For fending off another would-be husband.”
Mrs. Harris giggled, belying her dignity. She had long, soft, auburn hair, and wore it pinned up in a halo of braids that, together with her warm-rose complexion, gave her the air of an angel.
“I understand your predicament,” Mrs. Harris said. “It’s a blessing and a curse, to be a young woman in Seattle. Why, I was newly married to John when we moved to the city six years ago, but that didn’t stop a few lonely gentlemen from hoping. There are so many boys, and all of them looking for a good wife—a mother to raise and nurture their children.”
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